It was not the way of The Shadow to await the acts of criminals. Before the murderer struck again, the master mind would find some method of thwarting the killer’s purpose. Already, in New York, The Shadow had placed a trusted agent on an important task.
By to-morrow night, if The Shadow’s calculations were correct, a link would be gained between evil doers in Manhattan and the daring slayer who had brought death to Hartford.
The Shadow’s course was directed to New York. There he might find the answer that he sought.
CHAPTER VIII
IN THE UNDERWORLD
IN Hartford, crime had struck. In New York, crime was brewing. Twenty-four hours after the bold murders had occurred in the capital of Connecticut, Cliff Marsland could scent the impending signs of contemplated crime within the confines of Manhattan.
Cliff Marsland held an enviable reputation in the underworld of New York. He had done time in the big house, otherwise known as Sing Sing. Since his discharge from prison, he had been prosperous, without molestation by the police. That classed him as an ace in the bad lands. Whenever Cliff Marsland appeared in the underworld, he carried a bank roll that would choke a giraffe.
With no gang affiliations, Cliff rated as a free lance among gunmen, and never suffered observation from the authorities. He was in a class by himself. His reliability was an axiom; but his activities were unknown.
Men of the underworld did not realize that Cliff Marsland had gone to prison for a crime that he did not commit; that he had taken the rap to keep stigma from the brother of the girl whom he loved.
Only The Shadow knew that fact; because of it, The Shadow had enlisted Marsland in his service. Cliff was a trump card in The Shadow’s hand. The Shadow was using him now.
When Cliff returned to the realm of the underworld, after a period of absence, he immediately frequented the places where gangsters of consequence could be found.
They welcomed him and talked with him. His poker face encouraged information. Cliff Marsland could learn plenty on short notice. He was doing so at present.
CLIFF was at the Palace Havana, a night club where flashy mobsmen appeared with their molls. He was working under orders from The Shadow, looking for contacts that would bring him in touch with secret crime of great proportions.
One by one, Cliff had chatted with old acquaintances. Here, in a secluded corner, away from the crowded dance floor, he was hearing news from a shrewd-faced gunman known as “Skeeter” Wolfe.
“Sittin’ pretty, eh, Cliff?” Skeeter was saying. “Well, things ain’t so bad with me, boy. Not so bad!”
“You know me, Skeeter,” responded Cliff. “I’m always in on the mazuma; but I never pass up a good lay. I take the gravy while it’s hot — and I keep it.”
“Big stuff, Cliff?”
Cliff Marsland shrugged his powerful shoulders. A slight smile appeared upon his firm, straight lips.
“It’s the way I handle things, Skeeter,” he said sagely. “I figure that if a big shot wants four men to do a job, he’ll listen to reason when he finds one who will do the work of four.
“It’s better for him; it’s more dough for the fellow that does the heavy work. That’s how I make out. One keeps mum where four don’t. Get me?”
“I keep mum, Cliff.”
“Sure you do, Skeeter. You’re working on something now. Keep it to yourself. You’re getting paid for it.”
“How do you know?” queried Skeeter, in astonishment.
“Skeeter,” laughed Cliff, “if the guy you’re working for wants another rod on his pay roll, tell him to see me. Tell him I not only keep mum; but I don’t give a tip-off.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t show that I’m sitting pretty. You wouldn’t know it if you saw me when I was pulling something big. But I can tell by looking at you that you’re on a lay.”
“You’ve doped it right, Cliff.”
There was admiration in Skeeter’s tone. The gangster seemed to be asking for advice; and Cliff furnished it.
“You come here when you’re flush, don’t you?” quizzed Cliff. “You stay away when things are going slow? Am I right? Well, that’s a give-away. I’m the opposite. When I’m sitting pretty, I lay low. When things aren’t so good, I blossom out.”
“Say, Cliff, that’s a good racket. Ain’t things so hot with you right now?”
“I’ve got jack,” responded Cliff, in a noncommittal tone. “But I wouldn’t mind digging up some more. I’m ripe for it right now. That’s why I said to tell your boss that he can get me if he needs me.”
“I’m tellin’ him, Cliff, tonight. You’re a great guy. So is the bird I’m workin’ for. I don’t mind lettin’ you know who he is. Bumps Jaffrey.”
Cliff nodded as though the matter did not interest him. Skeeter Wolfe accepted this as cause for further palaver. Comment on Cliff’s part might have stopped Skeeter’s flow of guarded information; but since Cliff did not appear particularly impressed, Skeeter was anxious to cut a figure.
“It ain’t no ordinary job,” he said. “It’s somethin’ big, Cliff. Bart Shallock is in on it. He’s a slick guy. I don’t even know what it’s all about, but when Bart Shallock hooks up with Bumps Jaffrey, it means somethin’ is doin’.”
Cliff Marsland repressed a smile. He was learning what he wanted to know.
“BUMPS” JAFFREY was a gang leader of repute — one who assembled capable gorillas, and threw them into mercenary service for big shots who required aid. Bart Shallock was a smooth confidence man who consorted with jewel smugglers, blackmailers, and workers of international caliber.
For two nights, Cliff had been thinking about Bart Shallock, along with others. This information was of the type he wanted to gain.
When Bart Shallock required the services of a gang leader, it meant that big matters were at stake. It indicated strong-arm tactics and probable murder as a necessary requisite to a smooth and crafty plan. Here was the very lead that Cliff needed, and he wanted to know no more from Skeeter Wolfe.
“Keep mum, Skeeter,” warned Cliff. “Don’t bother to speak to Bumps Jaffrey. I know him. I’ll run into him, and let him know I’m looking for a hook-up. What you know means something while you know it. Don’t let other people in on it.”
“Sure thing, Cliff,” agreed Skeeter. “You’re right. Don’t think I’d spill the chatter to everybody, though. You’re about the only guy I’d talk to.”
Uppermost in Cliff’s mind was the desire to encounter Bumps Jaffrey; but he gave Skeeter no inkling that the matter was of great importance. Instead, Cliff feigned indifference, and made no effort to break away from Skeeter’s company.
It was not long before Skeeter tired of the atmosphere at the Palace Havana, and grunted a good night as he left the place. Cliff waited.
Unless Bumps Jaffrey were coming here, the logical place to find him would be at Brindle’s restaurant on Broadway. Cliff left the night club, and started for the eating house. He reached his destination, and entered the popular restaurant.
BRINDLE’S was a paradoxical place. It attracted persons of many classes: theatrical stars, hotel dwellers, chance passers, and gunmen. The place was completely devoid of gawking sightseers.
Radio celebrities passed unnoticed; well-known politicians were unrecognized. So it was with gangsters. Few, except their companions, knew their identity.
Cliff Marsland, when he entered, might well have been a football coach from some mid-Western college. His athletic build gave him that appearance, and his chance arrival marked him as one who had stopped in Brindle’s for the first time.
But Cliff was alert as he made his way to the rear of the cafe. There were open tables in the center, but on either side were boxlike booths that regular customers preferred.