“Right,” growled Slug.
Foon Koo was nodding. He had listened intently to all that Tyrell had said. He spoke for himself.
“Foon Koo ready,” announced the dwarfish Chinaman. “He likee jobee. You watchee him do it. Keepee stuff here when they bring. Me savvy.”
“As soon as the relics are here,” reminded Tyrell, addressing Foon Koo, “set the trap. If any birds fly into this nest, we’ll pluck their feathers. Come on down. You chaps never had a look at the cellar since Foon Koo finished rigging it.”
FOON KOO led the way as the four men descended. Catlike, the Chinaman seemed able to see in the dark. On the ground floor, they reached a flight of stone steps. At last, they stopped before a solid wall.
“Turn on the inside light,” ordered Tyrell.
Foon Koo pressed a switch. The men found themselves staring through a broad, low pane of glass that was set in the wall. Inside, they observed a lighted cell, with a traplike opening in the ceiling. The floor of the cell was heavily padded.
“What’s the idea?” questioned Pug.
“Traps all through the house,” explained Tyrell. “Only Foon Koo knows where they are. They all end in chutes that will send a person sliding into this cellar.
“The glass is bullet proof. The door is down here” — he clicked a bar in the darkness beneath the window — “and there are loopholes on each side of the window. If any one lands in this trap, we can look him over; then let him out or finish him, as we prefer.”
“You mean we’ve been walkin’ over them traps?”
“Certainly. But Foon Koo did not have them working after he received your signal. That’s why we have the button under the door knob. Come along, men. It’s time to get started. You two assemble the mob. Open the traps when we leave, Foon Koo. Then head for Grolier’s house on Madison Avenue.”
ONE hour later, Harry Vincent received a telephone call in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. It was from Mark Tyrell, ordering him to come at once to the Esplanade. Harry put in a prompt report call to Burbank. He simply stated that he was going out and added that he would supply further information later.
In compliance to a request that Tyrell had made, Harry hastily donned evening clothes. He descended to the lobby and walked to the street. Before he could hail a taxi, a man stepped forward. It was Tyrell, also wearing full dress.
“Come along, Vincent,” ordered the shrewd crook, urging Harry away from the hotel entrance. “You and I have some work to do. I came over here to save you the trouble of going to the Esplanade.”
A cab was approaching. Tyrell called to the driver. The cab stopped and the two men entered. Harry’s only choice was to go with Tyrell. He knew that crime was in the wind; the proof came when Tyrell whispered, in the darkness of the cab:
“Are you armed?”
“Yes,” responded Harry.
“Good,” said Tyrell.
Harry’s companion gave the driver an address on Madison Avenue. Harry’s last chance to get word through to The Shadow was ended. He knew that he must accompany Mark Tyrell and be prepared for what might occur.
WHILE Harry was with Mark Tyrell, another agent of The Shadow was also becoming a part to impending plans. In the back room of an underworld dive, Cliff Marsland was listening to instructions given by Slug Bracken. The mobleader had assembled his crew. Half of the men were to remain with him; the rest were to meet Pug Halfin.
Hand in coat pocket, Cliff was busy with the stump of a lead pencil. He was writing brief information upon the top sheet of a little pad. As Slug gave the order to move, Cliff arose with the mobsmen and shuffled out through the door.
As they passed through a room where hoodlums were making merry, Cliff tore off the top sheet of the pad and quickly wadded it. Unnoticed by his companions, he flipped the paper pellet beneath a table where a young man was slouched, apparently half asleep.
As the mobsters passed, this individual plopped his foot upon the wadded paper. When the crew had left, he stooped and gathered in Cliff’s note. Lighting a cigarette, he sauntered from the dive.
This man was Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic. He was an occasional visitor to dives of the sort where Slug Bracken had assembled his mob. Out in the street, Clyde strolled a short distance; then quickened his steps in the direction of an avenue where an elevated structure loomed overhead.
Entering a second-rate drug store, Clyde Burke found a dilapidated telephone booth. Inside this pigeon-hole, he unfolded the wadded note and called a number. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Burke calling,” responded Clyde.
“Report,” ordered Burbank.
“Marsland going with mob,” reported Clyde. “Two parties to be formed. Ready to enter home of Westbury Grolier, on Madison Avenue. Robbery intended.”
“Report received,” came Burbank’s response.
Where Harry Vincent had been forestalled, Cliff Marsland had succeeded. Through Clyde Burke, he had relayed word to Burbank. Information concerning the coming crime would soon reach The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIV
CROOK VERSUS SHADOW
WESTBURY GROLIER’S home on Madison Avenue suited the description that Mark Tyrell had given it. Built of white marble, it loomed like a silent mausoleum from a quiet corner. The center of the building had the appearance of a mansion; the wings were blank-walled extensions.
Passages ran by the inner side and the rear of the edifice. A low wall surrounded the entire structure. Gates at front, sides and back were barriers; but they were not formidable. All were equipped with latches on the inside; these could be handled by any one who might scale the wall.
While crooks were on their way to Grolier’s mansion, a stealthy, sneaking figure made its appearance on Madison Avenue. Foon Koo, the spider-legged Chinaman, was coming in advance of Tyrell and his comrades. The yellow-faced underling chose the alleyway behind the house. He scrambled over the wall like a jack rabbit and plumped inside the grounds.
Foon Koo slunk to the rear of the inner wing. His beady eyes studied the wall that he was to scale. Blocks of marble had been set to form an ornamental corner; every alternate block offered a slight projection. This suited Foon Koo. The Chinaman began the ascent. His limber figure reached the roof, thirty feet above.
Shortly after Foon Koo had ducked from sight beyond the parapet of the roof, two men came strolling along Madison Avenue. Their coats were open; the white fronts of dress shirts showed in the light of the street lamps. Mark Tyrell and Harry Vincent had arrived.
The strollers walked beyond Grolier’s grounds. As they returned, a touring car pulled up on the other side of the avenue and parked at a vacant space. A few minutes later, a sedan arrived; then came another car of the same description. Lights out, these vehicles looked like any of the other automobiles that were parked at intervals along this section of the thoroughfare.
A policeman, patrolling his beat, eyed the two men in evening dress as he went past. The officer observed that one — Tyrell — was lighting a cigarette. Chatting, the pair started for the corner. The bluecoat continued on his way. These men were by no means suspicious characters.
Foon Koo — the strollers — the men in the cars — these were not all who had arrived in the vicinity of Grolier’s home. Another visitor had also made his appearance; but he had come with almost invisible silence. Harry and Tyrell, as they glanced along the passage in back of the grounds, failed to see the black-garbed shape that was ascending the low wall.