“Not an ex-prisoner?”
“Of course not. I told him that. He said he’d find some bird who wouldn’t even know what the big house was; an’ he said the guy would have the goods.”
“Did he succeed?”
“You bet. He’s bringin’ his pal aroun’ here to-night. I thought it was them comin’ when you showed up. Stick aroun’, Tyrell. You’ve got time to take a squint at ‘em.”
“I can wait a few minutes,” decided Tyrell, glancing at a heavy watch that he drew from his pocket. “Marsland sounded like the man I wanted, except for his penitentiary record. If this other chap is of the same caliber—”
Tyrell paused. Quick raps were sounding at the door. Pug stepped over and opened the portal. Two men entered. One was Cliff Marsland; the other, Harry Vincent.
Mark Tyrell, ever observant, picked Cliff from Pug’s former description of the man. Pug had said that Cliff was a gorilla who looked like a gentleman. The statement fitted Cliff’s firm, chiseled face; his set, determined expression gave him an appearance that savored of knowledge in the underworld. At the same time, he had the bearing of an educated man. His quiet ease of entry marked him as a person who could pass inspection in any group.
HARRY VINCENT, as Tyrell examined him, was a fellow who lacked the hardness of Cliff Marsland. He seemed to have some of his companion’s determination; at the same time, his gentility predominated.
“Hello, Pug,” greeted Cliff. “Meet Vincent — Harry Vincent — friend of mine. Chap I told you about.”
“This is Mr. Tyrell,” returned Pug, introducing the man in evening clothes. “He’s been waitin’ to meet you fellows.”
Tyrell shook hands with the newcomers. A pleased smile appeared beneath his short clipped mustache. He turned to Pug Halfin and nodded.
“He’s wise?” questioned Pug, nudging a thumb toward Harry, while speaking to Cliff.
“Yes,” responded Cliff. “You can count on him. My recommendation stands good.”
“Talk to Tyrell,” declared Pug.
Harry and Cliff turned toward the man in evening clothes. Tyrell had finished his cigarette. He was drawing his case from his pocket for the second time. Suavely, he addressed both men as one.
“I can use you chaps,” he asserted. “I need a man to work with me. I had you in mind, Marsland; but frankly, we both might run a risk because of your unfortunate record. However, you have produced Vincent. He is the type of man that I require.”
Tyrell turned to Harry and studied him closely. Harry met his gaze squarely. He was ready for any question that Tyrell might ask. One came.
“You’re a New Yorker?” questioned Tyrell.
“Only for the past few years,” returned Harry. “Michigan is my home state.”
“Ever mixed in any rackets?”
Harry shook his head.
“But you wouldn’t mind getting in the game?” quizzed Tyrell.
“I’m ready for anything,” announced Harry, coldly. “Jobs are scarce and I wouldn’t mind some easy money. Cliff Marsland is an old friend of mine. He’s helped me out with cash when I’ve needed it. I want to pay him back; and any work that is good enough for Cliff is good enough for me.”
“Can you handle a revolver?”
“I was runner-up in the Michigan small arms championship when I was home last summer. I prefer a .45 when I shoot.”
“Good. Well, Vincent, I don’t expect you’ll have to use a gun, unless” — Tyrell paused thoughtfully — “unless a certain emergency arises. Despite your preference, you will have to carry a revolver of smaller caliber under the dress-suit that you will be wearing.
“I won’t need you to-night. It is too late and it is just as well that you wait for another occasion. Keep in touch with Pug here. He will tell you when you are needed.”
“Where do I come in?” questioned Cliff. “You said you had work for both of us.”
“Keep in touch with Pug also,” ordered Tyrell. “Maybe you will stay with him; perhaps you will join Slug Bracken’s outfit. I can’t use you to-night, either.”
“You make the terms Pug” — Tyrell turned to the hard-faced mobleader — “because I shall be late if I remain here longer. Good night, gentlemen.”
Tyrell shook hands with his new minions and turned toward the door. Pug inserted a suggestion as Tyrell was stepping into the hallway.
“Keep them glad rags covered,” he said. “Like they was when you came in here. Some of those mugs downstairs wouldn’t never get through talkin’ if they spotted a soup an’ fish aroun’ this dump.”
Smilingly, Mark Tyrell tightened his scarf around his neck. He buttoned his overcoat and closed the door behind him. He walked down the stairs and passed quietly through the lobby. On the street, he waited for a few minutes; then was lucky enough to spot a passing taxi.
TYRELL ordered the driver to take him to Times Square. He planned to change cabs there; then go to keep his appointment with Doris Munson. But it was not the anticipation of the meeting with the society girl that made the shrewd schemer smile.
Tyrell’s plans were already outlined for to-night. Doris Munson was merely a minor factor. Tyrell was looking ahead to new episodes in the career of crime that he was beginning. He had needed an aid like Harry Vincent. He had gained the man that he required. Cliff Marsland, too, would fill in handily.
Pug Halfin had done good work, so Tyrell thought. For weeks, the mobleader had stalled about trying to get the type of henchmen that Tyrell needed; at last, Pug had come through. Even though Cliff and Harry might price their services high, they would be worth it.
So Tyrell supposed. In fact, he was positive that both of these men would play an important part in the events of the future. His assumption was a true one; but Tyrell did not suspect the real story that lay beneath the surface.
The schemer did not know that after to-night’s crime, all his moves would be reported from the inside. Not for an instant did he suspect that his two new henchmen were agents of his archenemy — The Shadow!
CHAPTER VI
THE FIRST CRIME
IT was half past nine. Guests were assembled in the spacious living room of Sebastian Dutton’s uptown home. Glasses were clinking as liveried servants passed among the throng. Men in evening clothes were talking with ladies garbed in decollete gowns. The party, despite Mark Tyrell’s contrary belief, was proving a convivial one.
Tyrell had arrived; with him was an attractive blonde gowned in turquoise blue. This was Doris Munson, former debutante, a girl of twenty. Most of the other women were older, for Sebastian Dutton had invited persons of his own age to the soiree. The men who glanced in Doris Munson’s direction immediately classed her as the most attractive lady present.
Sebastian Dutton, a pleasant-faced man of fifty, was standing in a corner with his wife beside him. Mrs. Dutton was a smiling, bejeweled dowager who beamed and nodded at everything her husband said.
“So you are displaying the Sicilian tapestry?” a gray-haired man was inquiring. “Well, that alone is well worth this visit, Dutton.”
“It should be, Bexler,” returned Dutton. “I’ll warrant that you have nothing like it in your collection.”
“Granted,” returned Bexler.
“Nor you, Brockthorpe,” added Dutton, turning to a tall, heavy-browed individual who stood close by. “Not even your celebrated golden screens can match my tapestry.”
“That is a matter of opinion, Dutton,” returned Brockthorpe, in a rumbling voice. “My Chinese screens are unique. The two of them form a perfect pair. As for Bexler, the Persian throne that he possesses is a treasure unmatched in all the world. If he does not choose to boast of it, I am ready to do so for him.”