Ideas were dawning upon Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent was beginning to piece facts that had never occurred to him before; so deeply was Harry engrossed that he did not realize that eyes were watching him.
Prexy had played his part. Returning to the Roof Cafe, the wise proprietor had taken a look about the open garden. He had spotted Harry instantly — a stranger who was taking more than passing notice of the high-storied Hotel Framton.
Prexy waited, cautious as a cat spying an unsuspecting prey. He saw Harry turn about and glance around the roof. Harry was looking for Clyde. His action gave Prexy an opportunity. The cafe proprietor sauntered forward to Harry’s table.
“Good evening, sir,” remarked Prexy, in a tone of friendly greeting. “Are you expecting someone?”
“I thought a friend of mine might be up here.” Harry spoke casually, not knowing that Prexy had observed his previous action. “A friend who comes here occasionally. But I don’t see him around.”
“Not one of the newspaper men?”
Prexy’s question was artful. It gave Harry the impression that the Roof Cafe must be a rendezvous for journalists. An explanation of Clyde Burke’s recent presence. Harry fell for the bait.
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “this chap is with one of the newspapers. The Classic, I believe. His name is Burke.”
Prexy chuckled. He leaned close to the table.
“It’s just a private party,” he whispered. “Friends of mine, you know — newspaper men whom I invited to my own apartment. If you know Burke, it’s all right. You can come and join them.” The invitation was smoothly worded. Harry saw no reason to decline it. Prexy’s manner, his attitude, were indications that all was well. Harry gained the sudden impression that Clyde must have learned something from a fellow reporter.
That would explain why Clyde had come to the Hotel Moselle so shortly before sailing. To see someone, perhaps, who could give him a tip regarding Rook Hollister. Under the circumstances, Clyde might be anxious to pass the word along.
HARRY’S quick thoughts brought him to prompt acceptance of Prexy’s suggestion. Rising from his table, Harry accompanied the proprietor into the corridor. Prexy led the way into the little passage and unlocked the door at the side.
With a gesture, he invited Harry to ascend the stairs first. Still unsuspecting, Harry started up. He heard the door close; he looked back to see Prexy following.
“Two flights up,” stated Prexy, smoothly. “The party is in the penthouse. That is where my apartment is located.”
They passed the landing. As they neared the top floor, Harry caught the buzz of voices from beyond a door that stood a trifle ajar. For the first time, he gained suspicion. He stopped short; then experienced a jolt.
Prexy was closer behind than Harry had realized. As Harry paused on the threshold, the cafe proprietor snapped a hand from his pocket. With a low snarl, Prexy jabbed the muzzle of a small revolver squarely into the middle of Harry’s back.
“Keep moving!” growled Prexy.
Harry delivered a sharp grunt. He became rigid; then stepped forward in mechanical fashion. He was tightening for a sudden swing, ready to deliver a surprise attack that might catch his captor off guard.
Despite Prexy’s gun, Harry had a hunch that he could get out of the jam. He was ready to try it, with only Prexy to conquer. But Harry’s grunt had been beard beyond the door. Just as The Shadow’s agent galvanized for action, the door swung open.
Bart Koplin appeared, gun in hand. The private dick caught a word from Prexy. Harry subsided. He could not fight two men when both had weapons. He allowed himself to be shoved into the living room.
Straight in front of Harry was Clyde Burke, slumped in a chair, hands bound behind him. Facing Clyde was a man in a dressing gown, who swung about as Harry stared. A gasp of new recognition came from Harry’s lips as he realized that this was Rook Hollister, in the flesh.
“What’s up, Prexy?” snapped Rook. “Who’s this guy?”
“A pal of Burke’s,” informed the cafe proprietor. “I saw him rubbering down on the roof. Invited him up.”
“Shove him in that chair.”
Prexy forced Harry to the seat that Rook indicated. Bart produced a length of stout cord and jolted Harry forward while he bound the young man’s wrists. The private dick frisked Harry for a gun but found none. Stationed away from the danger zones, Harry had been carrying no weapon.
“A pal of yours, eh?” Harry heard Rook rasping at Clyde. “Well, it’s lucky we nabbed him. I was just beginning to fall for that stall of yours.
“Acted like you were surprised to see me, didn’t you, Burke? Like you never suspected that Manthell and I were doubles. Say — I was just beginning to believe that you weren’t anything more than a goofy reporter. But now I know different. Who is this guy we just nabbed?”
“Never saw him before,” returned Clyde, stolidly.
Rook turned to Prexy. The cafe proprietor delivered an evil leer.
“He was asking for Burke,” informed Prexy. “Mentioned him by name, Rook.”
“That so?” Rook glowered at Harry.
“Well, sap, if Burke won’t tell who you are, maybe you will. What’s your name, mug?”
“David Loman,” returned Harry. “David E. Loman. The E” — he smiled wanly — “is for Egbert. I’m a life insurance agent. That’s how I met Burke.”
“I remember this fellow,” put in Clyde, catching the cue. “I’d forgotten you, Loman. You were the chap who sold a policy to the managing editor down at the Classic. He introduced you to me.”
“That’s right,” acknowledged Harry. “I saw you coming in this hotel, Burke. Thought maybe you’d be on the roof; and I came up to look for you. Wanted to sell you that policy we were talking about.”
“See what he’s got on him,” growled Rook.
BART searched Harry. He dug an assortment of articles from the young man’s pocket. Cigarettes, a lighter that failed to work when Bart snapped it; money in a wallet, a watch, but no papers of identification.
Harry was wise enough not to carry cards with him. He had a great variety of them back in his room at the Framton. Cards with different names; for often, in The Shadow’s service, Harry was called upon to assume a fake identity.
At present, Harry was not even provided with his automobile licenses. He was not using his car in New York; he had put away his regular wallet, with its proper assortment of identifying cards. A good precaution, that was serving him well in this crisis.
The only object of consequence that Bart discovered was a small, leather-covered insurance manual issued by a mid-western company. Tucked in it were folded applications for life insurance. Harry frequently carried this as a subterfuge. It gave him an excuse for introducing himself in various places.
Harry had come only partly prepared for emergency. Had he known he was taking a risky step, he would have brought faked identifications. As it was, he had made the best of a bad start. He had chosen the name Loman at random. But his mention of insurance had been based on the manual in his pocket.
“Looks like a phony to me, Rook,” snorted Bart.
“It is a phony,” interjected Prexy. “I haven’t told you the whole works yet. Do you know how I spotted this bird? I’ll tell you — he was looking over at the Hotel Framton, like he was trying to pick out Buzz Dongarth’s room.”
“He was, eh?” snarled Rook. “Well, that fixes him! We’ve got you labeled, Loman. And you, too, Burke. You’re coming clean, both of you. What do you know about The Shadow?”
Harry shot a worried look at Clyde.