Nevertheless, Tyrell’s ultimatum still stood. The schemer was confident that The Shadow could not balk his well-laid plans. In spite of The Shadow’s warning, Mark Tyrell was determined to launch his contemplated crimes.
CHAPTER V
THE SCHEMER PREPARES
WEEKS had passed since Mark Tyrell’s meeting with The Shadow. During that interval, the schemer had seen no further sign of his mysterious antagonist. No advertisement had appeared in the New York Classic. While Tyrell waited for his schemes to ripen, The Shadow, apparently, was waiting also.
Pug Halfin, alias Bates, had checked out of the Paragon Hotel the morning after the meeting. The tough-faced mobleader had dived to the cover of the underworld. Mark Tyrell, choosing the opposite course, had stepped into high society.
On this particular night, the suave promoter was donning evening clothes in the dressing room of a sumptuous apartment. Tyrell was residing at the Esplanade, newest and most fashionable of Manhattan’s exclusive apartment hotels. A smug, shrewd-faced valet was waiting on his master.
“What time is it, Wellington?” questioned Tyrell.
“Precisely eight o’clock, sir,” returned the valet.
“Call Miss Munson’s apartment,” ordered Tyrell. “I shall be ready to speak to her by the time you have obtained the number.”
Wellington departed. Tyrell surveyed his reflection in a full-length mirror. He smiled; then went into the living room and took the telephone from Wellington. The valet had already obtained the number.
Seated by a window that commanded a glittering view of Central Park, Tyrell spoke in smooth response to the tone of a girl’s voice that came over the wire.
“Hello, Doris,” was his greeting. “Will you be ready in an hour?… Good. I shall be there… we can reach Dutton’s by half past nine…
“Yes, it will probably be a rather stodgy evening… Yes, old Dutton will show the tapestry, I suppose… It’s his prize possession… However, we may meet some interesting people…
“Thank you for the compliment, Doris… It’s quite flattering to know that you regard me as the most interesting person whom you have ever met… No, no. There are other chaps quite as likeable as I am… Perhaps I’ll introduce you to some of them to-night… You’ll be pleasant? Good… I like to see people admire you, Doris.”
Tyrell hung up the receiver. His suave smile was at its best as he turned to Wellington. The valet returned a smug grin when he observed his master’s expression.
“Bring my coat,” ordered Tyrell, “and the derby. I’ve got to be going.”
Wellington produced an overcoat; also a scarf. Tyrell donned the coat and bundled the scarf about his neck so that his white tie and upright collar were no longer visible. He put on the derby and looked in a mirror. His fashionable appearance had been completely modified.
“All right, Wellington,” remarked Tyrell. “You’re sure that nobody has been snooping around this apartment; but I’m taking no chances to-night. I’ve been traveling in high places, behaving myself nicely. I don’t want to spoil it on the first night that I have to do business.
“I’m going down into the lobby. Put on your hat and coat. Follow me in five minutes. You know the taxi trick; we’ve worked it before. It goes again to-night.”
Wellington nodded his understanding.
MARK TYRELL strolled from the apartment. Five minutes later, he appeared on the sidewalk outside the pretentious lobby of the Esplanade. He hailed a cab and entered. The taxi pulled away. Half a minute later, Wellington, strolling from the lobby, hailed a second cab and followed.
Tyrell’s cab took an eastbound street. Wellington’s followed a block behind. Seeing that no other vehicles were moving along between his cab and Tyrell’s, the valet ordered his driver to stop. Alighting, Wellington paid his fare. He walked along until he reached an avenue. Looking back, he waited until the street was temporarily deserted. He walked one block south and stopped by a cigar store. Tyrell came out to meet him.
“Nobody following, sir,” informed Wellington.
“Good,” decided Tyrell. “Go back to the Esplanade. I’m going alone.”
He hailed another taxi and entered it. Wellington grinned smugly as he saw his master ride away. This trick of a second cab watching the first was one that allowed a sure check-up on any trailers.
FIFTEEN minutes after he had entered the new cab, Mark Tyrell alighted on a side street near The Bowery. He dismissed the taxi and walked to the busy thoroughfare that stretched beneath the structure of the elevated line. Jostling through an indiscriminate crowd, Tyrell entered a doorway beneath a sign that read: Morocco Hotel.
This place was even more disreputable than the Paragon Hotel in which Tyrell had met The Shadow. It was not much better than some of the twenty-five cent flop houses found in this district. Hard-faced rowdies were parked in the wooden chairs of the lobby. No one, however, paid any attention to Tyrell as he headed for a flight of dingy, cracked stairs.
This was due to Tyrell’s foresight in covering up his formal attire. Dress suits might be appropriate in the lobby of the Esplanade; they were not common, however, in the Morocco. Overcoat and derby rendered Tyrell sufficiently inconspicuous.
The visitor ascended two flights. He stopped at a door and rapped in quick, rat-tat fashion. The floor swung inward; Tyrell met the challenging gaze of Pug Halfin. The gangleader stepped aside to let him enter.
“All set, Pug?” questioned Tyrell.
“Sure,” returned the gangleader. “I’ve got two men planted as servants at Dutton’s. Chopper Hoban and Muff Motter. They’ve been layin’ low an’ they ain’t no dumb guys, neither. Dutton took on extra help for this swell party he’s throwin’ an’ they grabbed the jobs.”
“They’ll do,” decided Tyrell. “The outside is all arranged. Slug Bracken and his crew will be ready there.”
Pug Halfin grinned in pleased fashion. Tyrell, however, became thoughtful. His shrewd countenance clouded as he opened his coat and drew his cigarette case from a pocket of his white vest.
“All is well to-night, Pug,” declared Tyrell. “Two men on the inside — as servants — will be sufficient. We can use the same ones — or others if necessary — when we pull the next job. But we’ve got to have some one who can play a better part. We’ll need a phony guest at some of these coming affairs; and none of those mugs of yours can fill the bill. Slug’s outfit has the same limitations. Can’t you dig up the type of man I need? I put the proposition to you long ago.”
“I told you I had the man you wanted,” broke in Pug. “You know I’ve been keepin’ him on tap. Cliff Marsland—”
“You told me about him,” interposed Tyrell, quietly. “You said he was a mobster who looked like a gentleman. But you added that he has served a term in Sing Sing. That eliminates him.”
“Maybe it does,” admitted Pug, “but it don’t mean that he can’t be used—”
“For one of Slug’s mob—”
“I don’t mean that,” Pug spoke triumphantly. “I’ve been usin’ him already.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you. I figured it like this. Marsland looks like a silk hatter. As soon as I let the word slip aroun’ that I was lookin’ for a bird that didn’t have an ugly pan, he shows up. Then you said that he was out because he’d been in the big house.
“But when I couldn’t locate no other bozo like him, I doped it out that maybe he’d be able to locate some guy himself. He don’t stick around the joints all the time, Marsland doesn’t. So I told him what I wanted — a bird that could handle a rod an’ had guts — an’ he said he’d get the guy.”