But Cliff knew this terrain. More than that, he was versed in the ways of the underworld. His pace slackened as he neared the block he wanted. Cliff lounged along as he passed Sobo’s corner hock shop.
He paused to roll a cigarette as he passed beneath a lamp light. Cliff was playing a part of a chance passer; but he kept his face turned downward. He lighted the fag as he moved along; as he flicked the burnt match to the gutter, Cliff stared shrewdly through the darkness.
Houses here were dilapidated structures. There were alleyways and openings between them. All looked alike as Cliff approached; then one — across the street — displayed the distinctive difference that he wanted.
The front of the house was black. But there were dull lights shining from gloomy windows at the sides. A chance observer would scarcely have noted those rays; for they were barely visible from the opening of a narrow alleyway. To Cliff, they were a signal; the same beacon that had drawn Duff Corley.
The lights in the windows were green. Heavily shaded, they gave no idea regarding the interior of the house. There was something ominous in that fact. The dweller in the house had lights showing; but the lights revealed nothing. Open, yet secret. That was the impression that Cliff gained.
In idling fashion, Cliff crossed the street. He chucked his cigarette as he reached the curb. Pausing in his slouching gait, Cliff swung into the alleyway beside the house. Above him, more than head high, he could see the glow from the dim green lights.
Then Cliff stopped short. Crouching against the moldy brick wall, he dug hand in pocket and drew an automatic. Tensely, he waited, unwilling to make another move. Somewhere ahead, deep in the darkness of the alleyway, some unseen enemy had made a false move.
A slight footstep — just enough to reach Cliff’s ears. That had been the warning. Instinctively, Cliff knew that his approach had been spotted. Danger was impending by the house with the green lights.
CHAPTER III. THE SECOND DISK
CLIFF MARSLAND had encountered many dangers in the service of The Shadow. He was not the man to fear new threats. Nevertheless, Cliff had learned that discretion could be a good ninety per cent of valor.
This was a time to be discreet. With Cliff, it was not simply the risk of an encounter in the dark. He had come to this house with the definite purpose of serving The Shadow. Whatever might occur, it would be his part to strive for the continuance of that duty.
Cliff Marsland knew what The Shadow wanted. Like Joe Cardona, The Shadow had learned of sinister movements in the underworld. Some big shot had been gathering cohorts. Slowly, secretly, but with positive results.
Duff Corley had suddenly become the link. Joe Cardona had been lucky enough to spot him. The Shadow wanted to profit by the discovery. He had decided to keep close on Duff’s trail. Cliff had been appointed to the task.
Why?
Because he had been close to the ground. Cliff recognized that fact. He had known it the moment that Burbank had given the instructions. If The Shadow had been close at hand, he would have taken up the trail in Cliff’s stead.
Where was The Shadow?
On his way here, Cliff supposed. Instructions from Burbank had been to trail Duff until further orders.
New orders would probably come from The Shadow in person. Hence Cliff, for the time, was acting in The Shadow’s place. He tried to picture matters as The Shadow would see them.
First: Duff Corley was certainly inside that house. The scrawny crook had shambled away with a good head start. He had probably entered by the front door. Some countersign — perhaps the same one that he had exchanged with the big mobsman at Red Mike’s — so Cliff pictured it.
Then why was some one lurking in this alleyway?
Cliff caught the answer as he waited. It was obvious. The man in the dark was a watcher, posted to make sure that no one was on Duff’s trail. The alleyway was an ambush. Cliff, like a dub, had walked into it.
He had probably been heard. Just as he had later heard the movement of the lurking guard. Cliff’s teeth gritted grimly. He knew that he should have waited across the street. That was too late now. He was in the mess.
Silence from the alleyway. Cliff sensed that his enemy was waiting for him to make a move. Cliff listened; he heard nothing, yet he fancied that his foe might be moving forward. More than that, Cliff began to consider a new menace — the entrance of the alley.
Had some one been posted outside? Perhaps. If so, Cliff might have been spotted back at the middle of the block. Others could be closing in. The spot was a bad one. Cliff resolved upon stealthy measures. He crouched low and began to edge toward the front of the house.
The plan was working. Each time he paused, Cliff heard no sound from the rear of the alley. Little by little, he was gaining the front corner. Six feet more — five feet — then came the unexpected.
CLIFF’S right heel kicked against a half brick that had been laid on the ledge of a cellar window. The object clattered to the cracked cement of the alleyway. Its click seemed magnified in the darkness. Cliff dropped. He was wise.
Tongues of flame stabbed the darkness; with them, the fierce bark of a revolver. The flashes came from the deep end of the alley. Leaden slugs nicked chunks from the brick wall a foot above Cliff’s head.
Swinging across the alleyway, Cliff returned the fire with the automatic. His target was the blackness from which the spurts had come; the region wherein the echoes of the shots still quivered.
New bursts replied; and Cliff delivered in like fashion. His enemy was on the move. So was Cliff. Pot shots failed in the dark; but the whine and spatter of bullets meant business. Cliff reached the sidewalk.
He had not forgotten the chance of enemies in the street. Safe beyond the front of the house, Cliff went hurtling for the opposite side of the narrow thoroughfare, where a blackened house front offered temporary security. He gained his goal; wheeling, he crouched by darkened steps and faced back toward the house with the green lights. He expected his enemy to appear. The man evidently preferred the security of the alleyway.
A shrill whistle cleaved the night. It was a block away; past Sobo’s pawn shop. An answer came from the opposite direction. Gazing quickly along the street; one way, then the other, Cliff saw figures approaching on the run.
Cardona’s men. The shots had drawn them. Cliff was in a tight spot. Thinking quickly, he remembered the man across the way. The fellow had an alleyway through which he could escape. Would he take a look at the street before he took to flight?
Cliff decided to find out. Regardless of the approaching detectives, he arose from his hiding spot and opened fire at the alleyway. The result was spontaneous. A gun flashed from the entrance. A bullet zimmed past Cliff’s head. The fellow was there; he had aimed back at Cliff’s gun flash.
Cliff fired again, shifting as he did.
A fork of flame responded; a bullet whanged the steps that Cliff had left. Instantly, Cliff fired again. He found his target this trip. A cry — the clatter of a gun on the sidewalk — then the sounds were drowned by new whistles.
Cliff turned. Police were heading down from the direction of Sobo’s. Half a dozen of them, in a squad. A quick look in the opposite direction showed that other officers had stopped at the corner. The purpose was plain. Crooks would flee from the raiding gang; straight into the ones who waited.
Cliff held his ground, ready to fling his gun before the police arrived. He could surrender and feign the part of a chance passer who had been trapped. But until the last moment, Cliff intended to remain on duty, watching the house with the green lights.