“Put some men in here,” ordered Bart.
Bumps picked out two gangsters, and told them to keep guard on the steps. The men dropped out of sight into convenient spaces at each side. They were firmly entrenched, and Bumps gave a grunt of approval.
Cliff Marsland appreciated the effectiveness of the position. Any one approaching the side of the house could be immediately covered by these gangsters.
BART SHALLOCK descended the steps and tried the door. It opened at his touch. He clicked his flashlight, and moved it momentarily as a sign for the others to join him. Bumps urged the mobsmen down the steps.
Cliff, still near the head of the gang, found himself in a short corridor that led from the main portion of the house into the wing. There was a room directly across the hall, and another to the left. Both doors were closed; the room at the left was apparently the one which was lighted.
“Come on.”
Bart was whispering. The mobsters crossed the hall, and Bart opened the opposite door to usher them into a dark room. When all were there, he closed the door behind him.
“Put two men at the door we just came through,” he told Bumps.
The gang leader picked out two mobsters. Cliff hoped that he would be one of the chosen pair. He was disappointed. Bart walked over, and gave the men whispered instructions.
Taking temporary command, Bart Shallock then posted the remaining men about the center of the room; flickering his light, he showed a door at the rear.
“That leads to the back room,” explained Shallock, in a voice just loud enough for all to hear. “There’s going to be some people in there later tonight. Bumps and I will be watching. You men at the hall door be ready to cut off any guy that tries to get away. The rest of you be ready to bust into the back room when Bumps and I give the call.”
As a last action, Bart Shallock went back into the hall, and opened the outer door. They could hear him speaking to the gangsters who were posted outside.
“Keep watch,” were his orders. “Nobody gets in here, see? And when trouble cuts loose inside, nobody gets out. Understand?”
A gangster’s growl came in the affirmative. Then came a cautious voice. “There’s a car comin’ up through the driveway—”
“Sh-h!” Shallock’s warning was a quick one. “Time to be ready.”
The confidence man closed the outer door, and hurried across the hall. He closed the door of the room until just a tiny crack remained open, so that the waiting gangsters could peer through. He joined Bumps Jaffrey at the door to the rear room. Here, also, Bart opened the door just a trifle.
This time, Cliff Marsland, slipping closer in the darkness, could hear what Bart Shallock said to the gang leader.
“We’re all set, Bumps,” was the confidence man’s statement. “This is the way Crix told me to fix it. He knows what’s coming off here tonight. He’ll get in through the front — like he did out at Bosworth’s, I guess. Anyhow, I’ll know when he gives the tip-off. The guy that owns this place isn’t home yet — maybe that’s him coming in by car. Anyhow, we’ll be set when we’re needed.”
“Even if we have to bump off The Shadow,” said Bumps grimly.
“Don’t worry about The Shadow,” commented Shallock. “Leave it to Crix.”
Crix!
The name flashed through Cliff Marsland’s mind. He had been on the lookout for an underworld character with an unusual name; later, Burbank had instructed him to listen constantly for word of a man named Crix.
Crix!
The man must be a supercrook. The one whom The Shadow wished to thwart.
More than ever, Cliff Marsland wanted to make his report. It was too late now. He could not possibly get away from here.
Crix was behind this job tonight. Crix plotted crime and death. Crix had a mob of a dozen men in readiness.
Death!
It might threaten Cliff himself tonight. But whatever might come, The Shadow’s agent was in readiness. He was sure that he could not count on The Shadow now. He had failed to relay news of this expedition to his mysterious chief.
But when the crisis came, Cliff would fight to the end. He would do his utmost to frustrate the evil work of Crix, even though he would have to turn his guns upon the dozen men who formed Bumps Jaffrey’s gang.
To reveal himself as the enemy of this evil crew would surely be a fatal step; yet Cliff planned that very action, in the service of The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVIII
FARADAY’S VISITOR
FOOTSTEPS sounded along the hall that led by the door where a pair of watching mobsmen lay. A man in evening dress walked by, followed by two servants. He opened the door of the rear room, and entered the lighted chamber.
Roberts Faraday, the millionaire, had just returned from New York City. The uniformed men who accompanied him were his house man and his chauffeur.
Seating himself at a huge desk in the middle of the lighted room, Roberts Faraday looked at his servants.
The millionaire was a man of about forty years. Firm-faced and businesslike in appearance, he showed power and dominance in every expression. His smooth-shaven countenance was marked by the sternness of his eyes. Roberts Faraday was unquestionably a man of forceful character.
“Crayle” — Faraday was addressing the butler — “I am expecting a visitor shortly. His name is Victor Venturi. When he arrives, show him in here. Then you can leave. Boggs” — Faraday was referring to the chauffeur — “will wait for you and drive you back to the city. I shall remain here tonight.”
“Very good, sir,” said the house man.
“You have been here all evening?” questioned Faraday sharply.
“Yes, sir,” responded Crayle. “I–I was dozing, sir, up in the front hall. Waiting for you, sir—”
“That’s enough. You may go. You, too, Boggs.”
Roberts Faraday arose after the two had left. He strolled back and forth across the room. He did not chance to glance toward the door that led to the next room. Hence he did not see that it was ajar. Once, in his pacing, Faraday turned and looked toward the rear wall of the room. Set in that wall was the steel door of a large vault — the most formidable type of strong room that modern ingenuity had yet devised.
There was something in Faraday’s step that indicated repressed nervousness. The millionaire glanced at his watch, and noted that the hour was nearly midnight. He went back to his chair, extracted a cigarette from a case, and lighted it. Smoking seemed to ease his impatience.
When he had finished his cigarette, the millionaire opened a desk drawer and drew out a sheaf of documents. He went through them one by one. He gave particular notice to a cablegram that was on top of the pile. The name at the bottom of the message was that of Aristide Ponjeau.
Minutes ticked by. Faraday, smoking another cigarette, watched the clock while he waited. The hands reached twelve. The clock chimed the hour. Long, tense seconds passed; then, as if in answer to the millionaire’s expectations, a distant ring came from another portion of the house. Some one had rung the front doorbell.
TIME seemed long before the inevitable result occurred. Footsteps echoed from the hall. Crayle, the house man, appeared and advanced across the room. He stopped short, and made the announcement that Faraday awaited.
“Mr. Victor Venturi, sir.”
“Show him in here, Crayle.”
“He is not alone, sir.”
“No? Who is with him?”
“His attendant, sir — an Italian gentleman. Mr. Venturi explained that he is always accompanied by his man.”
“That will be all right, Crayle,” said Faraday, in a thoughtful tone. “Bring them both here. I shall be waiting.”
Crayle’s footfalls echoed into the distance of the long hall. A few minutes later, mingled pacings could be heard. Victor Venturi, sallow and nervous-faced, entered, with Angelo at his heels. Crayle was behind the two. He stopped at the door.