The bottle eluded the man’s clutch. It toppled and rolled from the table. As it broke on the stone floor, a hoarse, distorted scream came from the lips of the wild-eyed man. The waiter approached and grabbed the fellow by the neck.
“Outside, bummer,” he ordered. “We don’t want no hop-heads here. Get goin’.”
The mobsters caught a glimpse of a drawn face with sharp-pointed features. Dull eyes peering from each side of a beaked nose stared at the waiter. The man staggered through the door and slouched off into the night as the waiter slammed the barrier behind him.
Boisterous laughter followed.
Had any of those mobsters trailed the departing man, however, their mirth would have changed to awe. Half a block away from the Blue Crow, the shambling dope changed his gait. His figure straightened as he paused at the entrance of an alleyway.
Beneath the fringe of a street-lamp’s glow, his distorted face changed. His hawklike visage took on a stern expression. His dull eyes seemed to brighten until they glowed with the intensity of fire.
As the visitor who had left the Blue Crow turned to merge with darkness, a sardonic laugh came from his firm, unyielding lips. That burst of repressed merriment was a sign of identity. The pretended hop-head was The Shadow!
Into the underworld, The Shadow had come to listen for information that concerned The Cobra. He had chosen the Blue Crow as a listening post. There he had gained a clew.
Duff Berker, fang of The Cobra, had left too early to hear the utterances of Ears Findler. Crawler Gorgan, undercover man for the police, had also departed before the proper moment. But The Shadow had remained. He had learned facts that only Ears Findler could have gained.
“King” Zobell feared The Cobra. That was sufficient. It gave The Shadow the inkling that he required. He could foresee The Cobra’s next stroke.
The eerie laugh trailed in the distance as The Shadow, still guised as a chance prowler, moved rapidly through the dark.
CHAPTER XIV
CLIFF PLAYS HIS PART
ONE hour after The Shadow’s departure from the Blue Crow, Cliff Marsland entered an obscure cigar store and found a telephone booth in a deserted corner. The night was yet young. Cliff, despite the fact that he had learned nothing in the underworld, was putting in a routine call.
Cliff dialed a number. He heard the ringing over the wire. Then came a click; after that, a quiet voice:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Marsland,” replied Cliff. “No report.”
“Instructions.” Burbank’s tone was solemn. Cliff listened to the words that followed.
Orders from The Shadow!
As Cliff heard them come in Burbank’s quiet tones, he stared in amazement. In all his career as an agent of The Shadow, he had never received instructions such as these.
As Burbank continued, Cliff’s eyes brightened. He began to see the purpose behind it. His head was nodding instinctively. His jaw was set as Burbank concluded.
“Instructions received,” affirmed Cliff.
Walking from the cigar store, Cliff thrust his hand in his trousers pocket and brought forth a roll of bills. He had a good supply of cash with him tonight — sufficient to command respect at the Nugget Club, where only those with bank-rolls were received.
With his other hand, Cliff reached to his hip, where he had an automatic in readiness. Shoving the bank-roll back in his pocket, he strolled along to a busy street on the fringe of the badlands. There he hailed a passing cab. The driver blinked as Cliff gave an address.
The cab pulled up beside an old garage. Cliff entered. A watcher eyed him. Cliff paid no attention to the fellow. He strolled to the rear of the garage and reached a door. He pressed a push-button. A buzz sounded; the door opened to show a flight of stairs.
Cliff went up. He reached a door where a little peephole opened. An eye surveyed him. The door opened. Cliff entered to meet a stocky, sharp-eyed fellow in tuxedo.
“You’re Cliff Marsland,” stated this man. “Been here before.”
“Right,” declared Cliff.
“Go on in,” ordered the watcher.
CLIFF grinned as he entered a swanky, well-carpeted room with luxurious furnishings and hanging curtains. Despite the precautions here, this place could be easily entered if one used craft.
The Shadow, for instance, would have no trouble eluding the watcher in the garage and picking the locks on the two inner doors. Cliff’s smile denoted anticipation.
Voices were coming from an archway on the right. Cliff entered to find a dozen men assembled along a long mahogany bar. Some were attired in tuxedos; others in street clothes.
Two men who recognized Cliff waved a greeting. Cliff responded. He strolled to the far end of the bar and took his position there.
The Nugget Club was a gambling joint frequented only by mobsters of class. No ordinary gorilla could wander into these preserves. The passport was money. Cliff could see the barkeeper eying him. As Cliff pulled his bank-roll from his pocket, the man turned away, satisfied.
Slot machines were in operation at the end of the room. Silver dollars were in play. Cliff smiled to himself at the thought of these wise crooks trying to beat a game as crooked as their own.
While he stood at the end of the bar, Cliff took in the layout of the room. There was a door at the further end; that door was seldom used. It could be reached from the big room, close by the spot where Cliff had entered the door with the peephole.
After a brief study of the door, Cliff turned is attention to three men who were standing near the center of the bar. One was “Duster” Corbin, bodyguard and right bower of King Zobell, the big-shot racketeer. Despite the low growls of the conversation, Cliff could make out what it was about.
The two men to whom Duster was talking were applicants for the job that Duster wanted filled. King Zobell needed a new bodyguard. Duster was demanding qualifications. He was getting boastful replies.
“Say” — one of the men raised his voice — “who do you think it was that put away Crazy Louie? I was the guy that did it.”
“Crazy Louie?” The other applicant snorted. “Say — he was bugs. Listen, Duster. If you’re looking for a guy that’s worth a grand a week, you’d better talk to me. I’m worth twice that dough, easy — but because it’s you, I’ll listen.”
“Ease up,” ordered Duster. He was a stocky, heavy-browed fellow whose scowl was a warning. “I’m not figuring on what you’ve done. What I’m after is a guy that’s not scared of anybody. Get me? That includes all.”
“You mean The Shadow?” quizzed one of the applicants. “Say — that guy would be my ticket. Show him to me and I’ll—”
“Phooey,” interposed the other job-seeker. “The Shadow is a has-been. Nobody worries about him anymore. You mean The Cobra, don’t you, Duster?”
“I mean anybody,” asserted Duster, with a growl. “I want a guy that’s got nerve — like I’ve got. I passed a job to Diamond Rigler and I’ve got another job just like it — for the right guy—”
DUSTER’S voice broke off. With it came a lull throughout the room. To the ears of the dozen men assembled there came a chilling sound that broke with sinister foreboding.
It was a weird utterance long feared in the underworld; one that had been derided of late. But as that token of sardonic mirth manifested itself, Duster Corbin, along with the two behind him, dropped away from the bar in sudden terror.
The laugh of The Shadow!
Fierce mockery, delivered with a sneering whisper, it rose to a shuddering crescendo. All eyes turned toward the spot from which the laugh had come. That was the door at the end of the long barroom. With involuntary haste, these big fellows of the underworld raised their arms.