A laugh whispered gloomily through the room. The Shadow had found the clew he wanted. Working on the report received from Burbank — the contact man’s account of the last call from Cliff Marsland — The Shadow had made a discovery.
Cliff, in his call had stated that Diamond Rigler had called The Cobra from downstairs. That was why The Shadow had come to investigate. To an ordinary sleuth, the card on this telephone would have cleared the instrument from suspicion. To The Shadow it denoted that this must be the telephone that Diamond Rigler had used for his call.
Further, The Shadow had quickly detected that the phone, to serve The Cobra, must actually be out of order so far as the public was concerned. Eying the instrument, The Shadow had noted finger marks upon the mouthpiece. They had given him the clew to the operation of the instrument.
THE SHADOW made no attempt to use the telephone. That would have warned The Cobra. The light went out; a laugh again sounded, this time in darkness. The Shadow had solved the riddle of The Cobra’s fangs!
Throughout the decadent district which represented the badlands of Manhattan, there were other telephones like this one. When such instruments went out of order, they were seldom replaced. Every pay phone marked “out of order” was a potential report station for The Cobra’s agents!
The Shadow glided from the apartment building. He reappeared, near the side door of an old garage, on the very fringe of the underworld. Entering the door, The Shadow found a telephone in an obscure corner. He put in a call for Burbank. His instructions came in whispered tones.
Sometime later, a young man appeared strolling along a side street of the Tenderloin. He walked into a cigar store and purchased a pack of cigarettes. As he strolled out, he spied a telephone in a corner and noted that it bore no “out of order” placard. The young man continued on his rounds.
This quietly dressed, clean-cut young chap was no stranger to the badlands. He had been here before at The Shadow’s bidding. He knew the district well. The young man was Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow.
In another quarter, another keen-eyed young man was making rounds of his own. Like Harry Vincent, he knew the underworld. Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic, was a frequent visitor to gangland’s dives. He, too, was an agent of The Shadow.
With the aid of his two agents, The Shadow was checking up on the location of potential calling stations. Following his first clew, he was tracing The Cobra’s operatives to learn the workings of those secret helpers whom The Cobra termed his fangs.
IN a gloomy room where only a single lamp was glowing, a man was seated facing a small switchboard. In response to a glimmering bulb, he pushed in a plug. This man had earphones and mouthpiece attached to his head. He spoke in a quiet tone:
“Burbank speaking.”
A reply came through the earphones. Burbank spoke again:
“Report from Burke. Gangster identified as Gringo Volks made a call from Cobra booth one block west of the Blue Crow. He received no reply. Burke tracked him. Gringo is at the Blue Crow.”
Fifteen minutes later, a black-garbed form moved silently along the street where the Blue Crow was located. Stealthily, The Shadow lowered himself into a small pit outside a grimy window. His keen eyes peered through the dirty pane to survey the scene within.
Gangsters were assembled, talking in low, confiding tones. The Shadow recognized faces that he had seen before. Among them was the one The Shadow sought. Gringo Volks, formerly chief henchman of Deek Hundell, was seated at a table with some others.
Gringo was the one who had spilled word of The Cobra on the night when Deek Hundell had died. This was tribute to The Cobra’s craft. It proved how The Cobra had learned of the meeting which Deek had called. Gringo, Deek’s most trusted henchman, a minion of The Cobra. Thus had The Shadow learned from Clyde Burke’s report.
Seated apart from other mobsters was a visitor who had been in the Blue Crow when The Shadow had come there in the guise of a sweatered dope addict.
This was Crawler Gorgan.
The Shadow knew the pale-faced undercover man for who he was — an agent of the police. He watched Crawler rise and slouch from the dive. This was sufficient proof that no conversation of importance was going on within.
Crawler reached the street and shambled along past the spot where The Shadow lurked. The undercover man had no suspicion of the black-garbed watcher’s presence. The Shadow paid no attention to Crawler’s departure. His keen eyes, still close to the smudgy window, were fast on the thug called Gringo Volks.
The hard-faced mobster seemed restless. He pushed back his chair and took the path to the door. Coming from the Blue Crow, he, too, went by the spot where The Shadow was in readiness. This time, The Shadow emerged from his hiding place.
Gringo had no idea that he was being followed. He did not glance behind him; had he done so, he would have failed to see the form the followed him. When The Shadow stalked prey through the underworld, his stealth was superhuman.
Not even a swish of the black cloak betrayed his presence. Like Gringo’s own shadow, he followed silently until the gangster came to a disreputable dwelling which appeared to be unoccupied. Gringo opened a basement door and entered. He failed to close the door behind him.
THIS was the spot where Clyde Burke had watched — one block west of the Blue Crow. A pile of barrels, near the opened door, showed where Clyde must have stationed himself. The Shadow avoided this hiding place. Stealthily, he moved to the door and listened — less than a dozen feet from Gringo.
The gangster was fumbling with the mouthpiece of a telephone. A buzzing sound was audible. There was no further response. Gringo grunted impatiently and turned toward the door. The Shadow moved back into darkness. Once again, Gringo had called The Cobra with no reply.
This time, however, Gringo did not move back to the street. Instead, he lighted a cigarette and stood smoking it in the shelter of the basement. When he had reduced the cigarette to a tiny butt, he flicked the lighted end out into the street and went back to the telephone.
Again, the twisting of the mouthpiece. This time the reply came. A hissing sound from the receiver was plain to The Shadow’s ears. Gringo spoke in low tone:
“Fang Two.”
Clicking of the receiver. Then came Gringo’s further conversation:
“I get you… Yeah… That’s tomorrow night… Outside the Black Ship… You’re putting me in charge… Nine o’clock… I’ll take care of the mob…”
The call ended. Gringo stalked from the basement. He passed The Shadow in the darkness. His footsteps clicked on the sidewalk as he headed back toward his favorite hangout, the Blue Crow.
A whispered laugh sounded softly after Gringo’s footsteps had faded. The tall figure of The Shadow glided mysteriously from a spot beside the door. Gringo Volks had finally reached The Cobra. From his chief he had gained definite information.
Tomorrow night. That was Wednesday night. The Cobra was planning some action with the aid of fangs whom he had used before. From a hidden lair, the unknown chief had issued an important order.
The laugh of The Shadow! Soft, but weird, it seemed to echo from the walls past which The Shadow moved with gliding pace. Whatever The Cobra’s scheme might be, The Shadow would be concerned in its result.
Much was to be done before tomorrow night. Yet The Shadow’s tone of mirth betokened confidence. For by watching through the window of the Blue Crow; by trailing Gringo Volks and observing the man’s actions, The Shadow had gained another clew!
CHAPTER XX