“Down Sixth Avenue. The fellow that hired this car said a cab would pass us on the avenue. I’m to follow the cab that blows its horn.”
Weston turned toward Markham. The detective sergeant nodded. He and Logan hurried away. Weston motioned Cardona into the sedan. The car started.
“Clever,” mused Weston. “This driver knows nothing. Paid to take us down Sixth Avenue. Hm-m. Wait until the cab appears. We may find out something then.”
The sedan had reached Sixth. It was rolling beneath the superstructure of the elevated. Past Thirty-fourth Street, a cab swung by on the left. The taxi driver blew his horn; then slowed speed. Weston leaned to the rear window of the sedan and drew a flashlight from his pocket. He flicked the light twice.
A black sedan swept past the gray. Cardona grinned. In the black car were Markham, Logan and other detectives. Weston and Cardona watched the police sedan overtake the cab and order it to the curb.
“Pull up in back of the taxi,” ordered Weston. The driver of the gray car complied.
Markham was quizzing the cab driver when Weston alighted on the sidewalk. The detective sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
“He don’t know anything, commissioner,” said Markham.
The cab driver looked startled. The word “commissioner” had given him the identity of this big man with the pointed mustache. Fearing arrest, the taxi driver became voluble.
“I haven’t been doin’ nothin’, commissioner,” he said, “A bloke give me a ten spot an’ told me to stick here on Sixth Avenue until I seen a gray sedan. I was to go by an’ blow my horn.”
“Where were you to told to lead us?” demanded Weston.
“Down Fourth Avenue, commissioner,” responded the cab driver. “Another cab is supposed to be waitin’ down there. When he blows his horn, that means for me to quit.”
WESTON turned to Markham. He motioned to the detective sergeant and drew him aside. He called Cardona into the conference.
“A clever game,” asserted the commissioner. “There may be one cab after another. These chaps know nothing about The Cobra. Here is our plan.
“Follow us, Markham, until we reach our destination. Keep in the offing. Form a cordon and be ready for a whistle. If it looks safe, Cardona and I shall go ahead alone. Do not approach unless you see my light; if we get out of sight, wait for the whistle.”
“Yes, sir,” affirmed Markham.
“Go ahead,” said Weston, as he approached the cab driver. “We are following.”
The cab headed for Fourth Avenue. The gray sedan, with Weston and Cardona as occupants, took up the trail.
On Fourth Avenue, near Fourteenth Street, another cab rolled by and honked. The first cab pulled to the curb. The driver of the gray sedan took up the trail of the second cab.
This vehicle headed eastward. The driver seemed to be following a charted course as he turned from street to avenue. Suddenly another cab passed. Its horn blew. The second cab pulled to the curb; the third took up the lead.
The course led to a dingy district. They had reached the fringe of the badlands when the cab came to a stop. The sedan rolled up behind it. Weston bounded to the curb and spoke to the taxi driver.
“Is this where you were supposed to lead us?” he questioned. “How did you know where to stop?”
“I didn’t know until just now,” returned the cab driver. “I was told to come along this street until I saw a cab parked the wrong way, with only one light on. There it is.”
“Quiz the other driver,” ordered Weston, to Cardona.
Joe hurried ahead. He flashed his badge as he reached the cab. The driver growled.
“I figured it,” he said. “Parked the wrong way, I knew somebody would land on me. I thought it would be a copper though. I didn’t know the dicks were on traffic duty.”
“Forget it,” rejoined Cardona. “What I want to know is how you came to be here.”
“Don’t think I’m cuckoo,” said the driver. “A guy gave me ten bucks to pull up here and park with only one light. He said if anybody asked me any questions, to tell them to go in that house over there.”
The driver pointed to a dilapidated building on the other side of the street. Its windows were unlighted.
“What then?” questioned the sleuth.
“I’m through,” returned the cabman. “That’s all I’m supposed to do.”
Cardona went back to where Weston was standing. He told the commissioner what he had learned. Weston shrugged his shoulders.
“These men know nothing,” he again affirmed. “Check on their cab cards and order them to report to headquarters in the morning.”
While Cardona was doing this, Weston returned to the gray sedan and told the driver that he could go back to the Tenth Avenue garage. The driver protested:
“I was hired to wait here, sir,” he said, “I guess they figured you would be going back. I’m to take you wherever you want to go.”
“Wait here, then.”
THE cabs were pulling away. Weston beckoned to Cardona. The commissioner and the detective crossed the street. They ascended the steps of the dilapidated building.
“Ring the bell,” ordered the commissioner. “We’re going in here. We can summon Markham and his men if we need them. There’s a second police car with them; they’ll surround the place after we enter.”
The bell button failed to push. Cardona struck a match and examined it. He whistled softly.
“Say, commissioner!” he exclaimed. “I ought to have known this place. That bell’s out of order, but there’s a name card over it. Eliaphas Growdy.”
“Eliaphas Growdy?”
“Yes, Old Growdy. This is where he lives. Worth a million dollars, they say. Owns a lot of real estate down in this district. Has his office in his home — lives here like a recluse.”
“Try the door.”
Cardona obeyed. The door was locked. Cardona produced a flashlight and examined the fastenings. He turned to the commissioner.
“I can open this,” declared Cardona. “It’s an old lock — I always carry a bunch of keys.”
“Do it.”
Cardona turned locksmith. He drew a ring of keys from his pocket and worked on the lock. He was successful. The door opened inward on rusty hinges, to show a darkened hallway.
“Leave the door open,” ordered the commissioner. “Come inside, Cardona. We’ll wait here for five minutes, to let the cordon form. Then we’ll investigate the place.”
The commissioner drew back his cuff to show the dial of his wristwatch. It showed the time as exactly ten o’clock.
“Five minutes,” repeated Weston.
Standing in the darkened hallway, the police commissioner and the star detective tarried before keeping the appointment that The Cobra had arranged.
CHAPTER IX
THE SHADOW ENTERS
WHILE Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona were following The Cobra’s lead to the dilapidated abode of Old Growdy, Cliff Marsland was on the job at the Black Ship.
The Shadow’s agent had picked a hot tip. When Heater Darkin and his crew forged forth on crime, the underworld invariably found much to talk about. Buzzing rumors usually preceded Heater’s expeditions; and it was one of these that had caused Cliff to report to The Shadow.
Heater Darkin, himself, avoided the Back Ship, but the notorious dive was a rendezvous for his henchmen. Cliff Marsland, seated near the side door, had spotted four gangsters whom he knew were with Heater Darkin. Nevertheless, as ten o’clock approached, the men remained idle.
This perplexed Cliff. It began to worry him. This quartet of mobsters represented less than half of Heater Darkin’s contingent. None of the others had appeared. Cliff wondered where they could be; and he decided to find out.
There was something in Cliff Marsland’s bearing that marked him apart from the crowd seen in the Black Ship. Cliff was as firm-jawed as any gangster; but there was an intelligence in his expression that placed him out of the gorilla class.