“When you are ready to leave, prepare a note to that effect. Give it to the guard. I shall do the rest. All of the men in the privileged shop are finishing their terms of sentence. Your departure will cause no comment.”
The warden reached out and pressed a buzzer. A secretary appeared. The warden gave him orders. The machinery was moving. While they waited, the warden chatted with Farrow regarding matters with which both were familiar; the myriad details that concerned the operation of a huge penitentiary.
Half an hour after his arrival, Slade Farrow left the warden’s office. One hour after that departure, he was guised as a prisoner, gaining his introduction to the privileged shop of which Diamond Bert Farwell was an inmate.
The Shadow’s plan had worked. Within twenty-four hours after crime had developed in Manhattan. The Shadow had placed a competent observer in the spot that counted most.
Diamond Bert Farwell, playing good behavior in hope of prompt release, was side by side with Slade Farrow, making the acquaintance of the very man whom The Shadow had deputed to seek the source of current crime.
CHAPTER VII. FARROW REPORTS
WEEKS had passed since Slade Farrow’s self-gained incarceration. During that period, crime had lulled in Manhattan. Not one new clue had been gained since the episode of the Chinese disks. Duff Corley’s death had ended the trail.
Joe Cardona had delivered new reports to Commissioner Barth. These involved investigations held in Chinatown; questionings of suspects brought to headquarters; statements gained from stool pigeons of all types. The total result was nil.
All this made Barth feel triumphant. The commissioner felt that crime had been dealt a heavy blow when Spider Mertz and his mobsters had been slain. But Joe Cardona knew that crime had gained a triumph.
The murder of Duff Corley had been the accomplishment of what crooks sought.
The Shadow, meanwhile, was waiting. He had chosen the course that he had intended to follow. The clank of prison portals to announce Slade Farrow’s entrance was a master stroke that The Shadow did not intend to spoil.
Facts had told The Shadow that a hidden organization existed. Duff Corley had been one of the final recruits. Perhaps others had been gained since; but to seek any carriers of the Chinese disks might mean the obstruction of Slade Farrow’s work.
The Shadow knew that he could rely upon the fake prisoner. He also knew that skulking crooks — members of the hidden band — would stay away from crime until the big shot gave the word. The big shot, to The Shadow’s knowledge, was Diamond Bert.
The Shadow had definite proof to back this belief. Not one word had come from Slade Farrow. That meant results were under way. Farrow was not the man to follow a blind trail. Had he learned nothing concerning Diamond Bert, Farrow would have terminated his stay at the big house. As it was, the sociologist seemed quite content to remain there.
Day after day; still no word from Farrow. Then, on a morning just three weeks after the sociologist had made his trip up the river, the change arrived. It came when Farrow, himself, entered an office high up in the Badger Building, near Times Square.
The door of the office bore a simple inscription upon its glass panel. The wording said:
RUTLEDGE MANN
INVESTMENTS
Inside, Farrow found himself in the outer room of a small suite. He saw a stenographer seated at a desk.
He tendered his card and asked for an interview with Mr. Mann. The stenographer went into the inner office.
WHEN she returned, she left the door open and nodded to Farrow. The sociologist entered; the girl closed the door as she went back to the outer office. Farrow paused in mild surprise as he saw a placid, chubby-faced man seated at a desk near the window.
“You are Rutledge Mann?” inquired the sociologist, as he sat down. “I thought—”
“I understand,” interposed Mann, with a smile. “You had expected to find some one else here. A person whom we both know by reputation.”
Farrow nodded. He knew that Mann meant The Shadow.
“That person,” resumed Mann, “is awaiting word from you. I, like yourself, am simply his agent. You received a letter some weeks ago, requesting you to perform a specialized service. The letter also stated that you should report to me when your mission was accomplished. Am I correct?”
Again, Farrow nodded.
“I presume,” said Mann, “that you have a report of your findings. You may give me that report, either verbally or in writing. I assure you that it will reach the person for whom it is intended.”
“Here it is,” responded Farrow, drawing some folded sheets from his pocket. “I prepared a written statement while coming down to New York by train. But I would like also to give you a brief outline of my experiences. Merely to check on the details.”
“Very well.”
Farrow edged closer to the desk. This office offered excellent seclusion. From the window, the sociologist could see the sky line of Manhattan, a strange contrast to the towered monotone of the walls that had enclosed him during the past three weeks.
“Diamond Bert is the big shot,” asserted Farrow, in a confidential tone. “I gained evidence of that two days after I entered the pen. His work-bench was next to mine. I spotted him writing secret messages.
“What he did with them was a mystery at first. Finally, I gained the solution. Large boxes came into that shop. They were filled with raw goods; and they passed inspection when the materials were taken out. One day, however, I noted Diamond Bert lingering in the shop.
“Watching from a corner, I saw him reach into one of the boxes. He must have found a secret hiding place. A compartment cut in the lower frame of the heavy box. He fumbled there for several minutes. Then he brought out a bird.”
“A bird?” inquired Mann, in mild surprise.
“Yes,” replied Farrow, “a carrier pigeon. There was a barred window just above the box. The opening was large enough for Farwell to thrust the bird through and send it on its way. Thus I learned how Diamond Bert was communicating with his agents.”
“Did the same scene occur again?” questioned Mann.
“Yes,” answered Farrow. “I shall come to that. I said nothing to Farwell. I did not want him to know what I had observed. I wanted to learn how the members of his band communicated with him. I did not think that they would commit the folly of sending messages with the carriers.”
“Why not?”
“Because the pigeons might have been sent to any one. Messages would have caused trouble had guards found the birds. I watched Diamond Bert. Like the rest of us, he was allowed a certain reading time. New York newspapers were supplied. Some times crime news had been clipped from them.
“Diamond Bert liked to read the want ads. He made a joke of it, saying that he would soon be looking for another job. But I saw a different reason. I decided that questions concerning members of Farwell’s outfit could be passed on to him through the ads.”
Mann looked perplexed.
“Simple enough,” explained Farrow. “Suppose an ad appeared under ‘occupations wanted.’ Code words could tell that some agent had performed a certain task. They could indicate that new members were needed for the band. More than that, they could be answers to questions put by Diamond Bert when he sent messages out by carriers.
“He could give orders. With them, he could state what forms of ads would tell him if his instructions had been accomplished. I decided quickly enough that Diamond Bert was managing everything on a plan that limited many of the answers to ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”