From the corner of his eye, Cliff spotted two men in a booth talking over their coffee and sandwiches. One of these was Bump Jaffrey. Cliff did not recognize the other.
Raising his eyebrows as a sign of recognition, Cliff stopped by the booth, and nodded to Bumps. The gang leader motioned to him to sit down. He introduced Cliff to his companion, who proved to be an acquaintance not concerned with the underworld. Cliff gave an order, and was still eating when the others finished. The odd man left, and Cliff was alone with Bumps.
“How’re things going?” questioned Bumps.
“So-so,” responded Cliff, indifferently. “Just came back to the big burg. Glad to be here again.”
“What’re you doing now?”
“Nothing. I don’t fool with small stuff, Bumps.”
“I know that, Cliff. Maybe you try to hit too big, though.”
“Not me, Bumps. I like jobs that are different. Anybody can hire dumb gorillas. I take work that needs brains. I want my share, but I’m not exorbitant.”
The final word pleased Bumps Jaffrey. Cliff Marsland had the appearance and manner of a gentleman; but his strong face and powerful physique fitted in with the required standards that the gang leader desired.
“I may need you later on, Cliff,” suggested Bumps, in a casual tone. “Where will you be keeping yourself?”
Cliff shrugged his shoulders; then, in a noncommittal tone, he responded that he was frequently at the Palace Havana, and also at Brindle’s.
“I’ll see you later, Cliff,” nodded Bumps, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got a few gats working for me right now. I may need a real good one soon. Remember, I’m keeping you in mind.”
Cliff saw what Bumps was trying to conceal. It was a sure bet that Bumps already had some work under way — a substantiation of what Skeeter had said tonight.
The fact, as Cliff sized it, was probably that Bumps had too many gangsters rather than too few. It would be good policy to meet Bumps right along. Gang depletions were by no means uncommon in New York. Cliff figured himself next in line when a vacancy might come.
That, however, did not solve tonight’s problem. Bumps Jaffrey was going somewhere. Despite his feigned manner of leisurely departure, it was probable that he had an important appointment.
Could it be with Bart Shallock? Cliff decided that it might be.
THERE were two reasons why Cliff now faced an emergency. His forte was strong-arm work, not ability in following a trail. Furthermore, he could not afford to run the risk of incurring suspicion if he intended to deal with Bumps Jaffrey later on. Nevertheless, Cliff was determined to follow the gang leader.
When Bumps Jaffrey had sauntered from Brindle’s, Cliff restrained himself for a few minutes; then took up the trail in hope that he might have luck. Fortune smiled. On Broadway, Cliff saw Bumps hailing a taxicab at the corner below. Hurriedly, Cliff entered another cab, and ordered the driver to follow the one ahead. The taximan obeyed.
Bumps was headed for a location on the East Side. Cliff, cautioning his own driver with a low growl, kept well in the rear. When he saw the front cab pull up at the curb, he ordered his own man to stop.
On the sidewalk, Cliff saw Bumps enter an alleyway.
Walking past the entrance to the alley, Cliff saw that it formed a street with no outlet. He kept on and reached a corner cigar store. There, he went into a telephone booth, and called a number. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
The tones of that voice eased Cliff’s anxious mind. Burbank was a man whom he had never seen. An invisible agent of The Shadow, this quiet-voiced individual was constantly on duty as contact man between The Shadow and his active agents.
Cliff Marsland, like Harry Vincent, made emergency reports through Burbank. Each agent knew the particular phone number where Burbank was located. Calls always brought an immediate response. Messages were promptly relayed to The Shadow.
Tonight, as Cliff tensely explained the situation, he received word from Burbank to put in another call within fifteen minutes.
Cliff gave the location of the alley where he had last seen Bumps Jaffrey. After he hung up the receiver, he loitered about the store until the allotted time had ended.
His second call to Burbank brought another prompt response. This time Cliff Marsland received instructions.
“Off duty,” were Burbank’s words. “Report to-morrow morning to our man.”
“Our man” meant R. Mann — Rutledge Mann, whose investment office was a place where The Shadow’s agents went to gain instructions, and to deliver their reports.
Cliff Marsland smiled to himself as he rode northward in a taxicab, bound for the Palace Havana. A few more hours at the night club might be useful; but in the back of his head, Cliff felt an assurance that he had accomplished his real work tonight.
Crime was brewing in the underworld. Bumps Jaffrey had assembled a mob. Tonight, Bumps Jaffrey was conferring with some one. What might be happening at the conference was something that Cliff Marsland could not conjecture. But he felt confident that it would not remain a secret.
For Cliff had tipped off The Shadow. Even now, the mysterious personage of darkness might well be on his way to look in upon the affairs of Bumps Jaffrey!
CHAPTER IX
THE MEETING
THE alley which Bumps Jaffrey had entered was a dismal thoroughfare that gained its dim light from the grimy windows of old houses at the sides.
It was into one of these buildings that Bumps had gone; and now, half an hour after he had left Brindle’s restaurant, the gang leader was seated at a table in the corner of a large, dingy room.
The place was a speakeasy known to its patrons as Duke’s. This was in deference to the proprietor, a big, wide-faced fellow whose grinning mouth displayed a glittering array of gold teeth, and who had gained the sobriquet of “Duke.”
Away from the usual haunts of gangsters, Duke’s place was frequented only by those mobsmen who were well known to the proprietor. Hence the speakeasy was not familiar to Cliff Marsland, and it also afforded an excellent spot for Bumps Jaffrey to meet a friend unobserved.
Duke, the proprietor, was a cagey individual. He knew the manner in which mobsmen were wont to frequent a place in ever increasing numbers, until it became nothing more than a hangout for gangs, and forced the proprietor to obey the dictates of outsiders.
This was a condition that Duke did not want, because his speakeasy was doing business as neutral territory. Hence, Duke was very tactful in his methods. He had gained the services of a handful of indiscriminate rowdies who imbibed free drinks, and were always ready to eject any undesirables.
If unwanted mobsters entered Duke’s place, the strong-arm squad handled them tactfully, especially if they knew the visitors to be tough. It was easy enough to approach a gangster, and to suggest going to a place where drinks were better.
But when an unknown stranger came in, he was merely ordered to scram; and if he failed to do so, a swift bounce invariably followed.
Bumps Jaffrey, hard-faced and shrewd of eye, liked Duke’s place, because of the protection it afforded; and tonight, he had chosen it as a spot for a rendezvous. Imbibing a drink, he watched the door of the speakeasy, and his eye lighted as he saw a newcomer enter.
This man had none of the marks of the underworld. He was above medium height, well dressed, sallow in complexion. His face was intelligent and placid. He bore himself like a gentleman. There was quiet ease in his manner, and he rendered himself quite inconspicuous as he took a table.
After one drink, the stranger quietly arose and walked through a door at the rear of the room. Only two persons saw him go in that direction. One was Bumps Jaffrey; the other was Duke, the proprietor.