It was possible — The Shadow knew — that Dopey Delvin might be the tool of some bigger crook. Often, in the past, the deeds of small-fry had been indications of bigger hands behind the game.
Like The Creeper, The Shadow had moved. Once again, he had gained valuable results. He owned a copy of the Latin code; could he acquire the ebony casket and its hidden scroll, he would have the secret of Bigelow Doyd’s hidden wealth. As representative of right, The Shadow could gain the heritage for those to whom it belonged.
The Shadow’s net was out for Dopey Delvin, the killer who in all probability still held the missing casket.
Heading for his sanctum, The Shadow would await word from his agents. Once Dopey was spotted, success would be at hand. Luck had tricked The Shadow in the case of Myram; he was ready to offset chance, so far as Dopey was concerned.
Once again, however, The Shadow was due for complications. This time, more than luck was conspiring against him. For already The Creeper, hidden master of crime, was moving anew. Before this night was ended, The Shadow would have full-knowledge of The Creeper’s existence. A simple game was destined to develop into a formidable fray.
Master of right and master of crime: The Shadow and The Creeper. Soon those giants of hidden craft would be matching wits in fierce, unyielding strife!
CHAPTER IX. AIDS OF EVIL
WHILE The Shadow was engaged at Clavelock’s, a group of men were holding conference in Rick Parrin’s private office. Carning and five other listeners were intent as they heard the words of the fake sales promoter. Elbow on his glass-topped desk, Rick was handing out cold details.
“It’s the biggest job yet,” he announced. “A clean-up, if we spring it! That’s why I’ve yanked all of you in from the road. You’re all there but Gus and Eddie; they’ll be in to-morrow. The Creeper may need the lot of us before he’s through.”
Rick paused. Carning leaned forward to interject a comment.
“Clavelock’s gone out of town, Rick,” he volunteered. “I called him to-day — to ask if he’d need me again — and he said that he was going away. Now would be the time to nail one of those lists that he’s got in his safe.”
“Don’t worry about that,” chuckled Rick. “The Creeper’s got one of those lists already — or a copy of it, anyway. He told me that when he called up this evening, when I asked him about it.”
“You mean he sent somebody into Clavelock’s? While the old guy was there?”
“I guess that was his stunt. Clavelock doesn’t sit up all night, does he? I’ve told you that we’re just one part of The Creeper’s outfit. We’re salesmen.” Rick chuckled. “Salesmen who learn plenty; and who can pull strong-arm stuff, if needed. When you fellows go on the road, you look for chances that offer easy dough. But you’re supposed to be ready for the heavy work, if you’re needed.
“Well, that’s the situation right now. The Creeper doesn’t need any new opportunities. He landed one that may mean millions. It’s been tough, though, and it may get tougher. The police are looking for a fellow who bumped off a dub named Myram. We want to find the murderer ahead of the cops — that is, The Creeper does.
“He’s put men on the job, trying to guess who the murderer is. There’s no telling what may happen later. That’s why we’re being held in reserve. All right; that’s the finish for to-night. It’s after nine o’clock, so we’ll all go out together. I’ll tell the watchmen that you are all my salesmen. Late conference up here.”
The fake salesmen followed Rick from the office. They formed an assorted group; some keen and active, others more leisurely, like Carning. All, however, had been impressed by Rick’s words. His reference to other squadrons under The Creeper’s command had given them something to think about.
IN fact, while these henchmen of The Creeper were departing from their conference, another council was getting under way. This meeting was taking place in a large, three-room suite of an apartment hotel, the Parkview.
A hard-jawed, dark-faced man was the central figure; he was glowering from beneath bushy eyebrows that were topped by a bulging forehead. Many persons knew that countenance; this man was Zimmer Funson, a well-known figure among race-track bookmakers.
Zimmer was seated in a big chair, eyeing half a dozen flashily dressed loungers who stood about the room. Some were holding half-emptied glasses; others were helping themselves to sandwiches and other food that stood upon a buffet table. All, however, seemed uneasy as they listened to Zimmer’s tirade.
“Palookas, all of you!” sneered the dark-faced man. “Pass you a big job, you fall flat. Sure — you’re good around a race track, picking suckers with bank rolls and lining them up for trimmings. You’ve done a lot of that in the past. But what does that make you? Nothing but a crew of touts!”
“Don’t go too heavy on us, Zimmer,” protested a tall listener, whose lips showed a wry twist. “How about the other day, when Wally and I pulled that slick job you wanted? Keeping that fellow Batesly out at the track when he was supposed to be back at Clavelock’s?”
“Sure,” agreed a stocky man by the buffet table, evidently Wally. “Steve’s right, Zimmer. He and I had Batesly playing the ponies until he was goofy. Then we gave him a bum plug for a finish. He played the old nag on the nose and it ran fifth. Remember that, Steve?”
Wally paused to jab a teaspoon into a huge jar of caviar. He spread himself a sandwich and stared at Zimmer.
“I don’t see where you’ve got a squawk coming, boss,” added Wally. “We do what you tell us to. That’s enough, isn’t it? After all, I’m not making any fortune working for you. Nobody has seen me driving a big twin-six.”
“You’re stuffing yourself with fish eggs, aren’t you?” growled Zimmer, as Wally devoured a huge mouthful of caviar. “You have it soft, Wally, just like the rest of the bunch. You would be broke, if you weren’t working for me. Listen — all of you; you heard that crack Wally just made about not driving a twin-six. Well, I’ll tell you something.
“Find the fellow who bumped off Myram and you’ll all be riding in limousines with chauffeurs. That’s what The Creeper told me. Do you know what it will mean if we find that bird ahead of the cops? About five million bucks, or upward — maybe as high as ten million!”
FACES became eager. Conversation buzzed. Wally, chewing mechanically, looked dazed as he stared at Steve. The latter was staring at Zimmer, hardly believing the words that he had heard.
“Some cheap small-fry murdered Myram,” declared Zimmer. “Just the kind of a sneaky worker that you fellows ought to get a line on, around the pool rooms and the gambling joints on the East Side. Yet the lot of you have breezed in here to bum, all reporting nothing. That’s why I’m sore.”
Steve nodded to the others. They came to life; glasses were laid aside as the touts decided to fare forth on a new search.
Just as Steve reached the door, some one rapped on the other side. Steve opened the door to admit a sleek, black-haired fellow whose gold teeth glistened as he delivered a wide grin toward Zimmer.
“Hello, Hal,” greeted Steve. “We’re just breaking up — going out again—”
Hal brushed Steve aside. The tall fellow closed the door and watched the new arrival stride up to Zimmer Funson, who had risen from his chair.
“I got it, Zimmer!” announced Hal. “A line on the guy who bumped Myram! Landed it straight from a guy named Buck Sangree. He slipped me the inside news. Get a load of this, Zimmer.”
Hal paused triumphantly, while the others gathered around. With another grin, the gold-toothed tout delivered his story.