When he arrived on the street, he entered a cab and ordered the driver to take him to a fashionable hotel near Central Park. That address was where Reggie Spaylor lived.
Aids of The Creeper had played their part. The stage was set for coming crime, waiting only for Slugger Haskew to dress and travel to the tenement where Dopey Delvin, present possessor of the ebony casket, was in hiding.
Rick Parrin and his force of fake salesmen; Zimmer Funson, the bookie with his coterie of touts; Reggie Spaylor, silent partner in the gymnasium where boxers and wrestlers were on hand to serve as thugs — such were the lieutenants of The Creeper. A supercrook who dealt in smooth, camouflaged crime, that hidden menace had made his plans to gain the ebony casket and its precious contents.
But The Creeper did not depend entirely upon his three lieutenants, who— unknown to each other — were ever ready to pick out henchmen who would serve their evil chief. To-night, The Creeper himself intended to be present at the scene of crime, ready to grasp the telltale scroll the moment that Slugger Haskew had gained it.
CHAPTER X. FOES IN THE DARK
AGENTS of The Shadow were on patrol. Cliff and Hawkeye, circuiting the block that housed the Mukden Cafe, were keeping up the search for Dopey; while Moe, posted near the Bowery, was the lookout at the front. The taxi driver had watched half a dozen persons who had at first struck him as suspicious; but he had decided that none could be Dopey.
The tenement building, five doors below the Chinese restaurant, was under Moe’s surveillance. To the lookout, however, that decrepit structure was simply one of a dozen that needed watching.
Several people entered or left it while Moe was watching. One was a limping peddler; another, a flannel-shirted laborer. Besides these, Moe had observed a hunched fellow who looked like a cripple; an organ grinder with a monkey; and finally an over-size newsboy, with a bagful of newspapers under his arm.
Faces had been too distant to observe. Moe had studied the gaits of these people, instead. He saw none who moved with the shuffling pace that Hawkeye had said was typical of Dopey Delvin.
Around the corner, Hawkeye had passed a battered lunch wagon. He was beyond it when he heard the door slide open; turning to look over his shoulder, the little spotter spied a slinking form that dodged into view. He watched the man shamble across the street and head for an alleyway. A street lamp showed a pasty face.
Dopey Delvin’s. Promptly, Hawkeye took up the trail. He followed into the alley. Dopey turned into the rear of the tenement house. Close behind, Hawkeye heard him shuffling up the back stairs. Still following, the spotter caught the gleam from a gas jet as some one lighted it. A door closed; a bolt creaked rustily.
Hawkeye reached the threshold of the closed door, just at the top of the stairs on the second floor. This was the room where Dopey had gone.
Darkened stairs led upward. An unlighted corridor formed a passage to the front. Hawkeye followed it, reached other stairs where one glimmering gas jet furnished illumination. He descended and went out by the front door. Peering toward the Bowery, Hawkeye saw Moe’s cab; then spied Cliff near the corner.
Moving quickly, Hawkeye met Cliff at a secluded spot. He whispered the news of his discovery. Cliff started off to call Burbank, while Hawkeye rounded the block and continued until he reached the alley.
Sliding into darkness, he chose a spot from which he could watch the lighted window that showed on the second floor. Dopey had drawn a tattered blind; Hawkeye could note nothing but the gleam of the gas light.
Ten minutes passed. Hawkeye edged back as he heard some one coming into the alley. Some big fellow, Hawkeye judged, from the sound of the man’s cumbersome footsteps.
The arrival paused near the rear of the tenement house; then entered. Hawkeye listened; he could hear footsteps on the rear stairs.
About to follow, Hawkeye was restrained by a whisper that came from several feet away. Some one else had arrived in the alley; just too late to spy the big man who had entered the building. It was The Shadow; despite the darkness, he had sensed Hawkeye’s presence.
In response to The Shadow’s sinister whisper, Hawkeye gave a quick report. He heard a slight swish in the gloom. The Shadow was entering the tenement house.
ON the second floor, Slugger Haskew was standing outside Dopey’s door. He had cautiously tried the knob, only to find that the door was bolted. Slugger was deciding the best way to deal with the barrier.
He required only a few seconds to make his choice. Backing against the far wall, the big bruiser drove forward in the darkness.
The flimsy door gave way like cardboard. Slugger’s powerful shoulder ripped bolt from door frame; the hinges held and the door swung inward. Slugger floundered half across the room; he drew up to find himself face to face with Dopey. The pasty-faced crook had popped up from a rickety couch in the corner.
Dopey’s hand shot to his pocket. Before he could pull his revolver, Slugger swung a hard punch up from the floor. His big fist caught Dopey’s chin. The pasty-faced crook jolted upward; then flopped on his back, out cold.
Slugger swung the door shut. He drew a big revolver from the pocket of his own coat. He looked about the room; saw nothing but the bed and the chair. He yanked away the mattress. Beneath it lay the prize he wanted.
With a gloating chuckle, the mauler snatched the ebony casket from its resting place. He flung it to the floor and shattered it with one terrific impact of his huge, heavy-soled foot. Breaking the box apart, he drew forth a flattened sheet of parchment, a scroll that bore an inscription that he could not read. With a grunt, Slugger thrust the prize beneath his coat.
The whole process had required less than a minute and a half; yet before Slugger had completed his work, a new arrival had reached the darkened hall at the head of the stairs. Obscured by darkness, The Shadow had stopped; he had heard the splintering of the ebony casket.
Automatic in his right hand, his left hand reaching for the door, The Shadow was moving forward. He stopped with suddenness as his ears detected a new sound. It was coming from the stairway above, descending from the third floor. An odd sound, surely descending, yet not increasing in its loudness. No footsteps — only a ghostly creeping.
THAT sound which had terrified other listeners was not impressive to The Shadow. For the first time, this cloaked master had heard The Creeper; but The Shadow’s reaction was to analyze the strange tread of that hidden approacher. He knew at once that the man in the dark must be a foe; he reasoned also that the odd illusion of the creeping was a subterfuge to puzzle listeners.
The big man who had cracked into Dopey’s room was an underling, working for this watchful chief who had chosen to wait above. The Shadow was in darkness, between the two; yet his position was the best for the moment. The Shadow knew that his own presence was unknown by either the creeping man or the husky who had smashed into Dopey’s hide-out.
The Shadow waited silently; his chance would soon be due.
It was then that a freak of circumstance intervened. Within the lighted room, Slugger was also listening to that cautious, creeping sound. He was gazing toward the door, his ugly head cocked to one side. He had no thought for Dopey; he believed that the fellow had been knocked out to stay. But Slugger was wrong in that guess.
Dopey had come to life. Blinking from the wall, he saw the mattress that Slugger had yanked from the cot. He spied the shattered box; looking up, he saw Slugger gazing at the door.
A venomous expression came over Dopey’s groggy features. Reaching in his pocket, the man who had murdered Myram drew his revolver and came unsteadily to his knees, ready to aim for the big pug who had dealt him the haymaker.