The Shadow reached for earphones. Gaining them, he whispered. A voice answered:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report.”
“Report from Marsland. Man answering description of Jerry Kobal is registered at the Hotel Santiago, just off the Bowery. Under the name of John Kane. Marsland covering.”
“The report received. Instructions. Other available agents to cover and await further orders.”
“Instructions received.”
Earphones clicked in the darkness. Again came The Shadow’s mirth, this time with a different tone. The new trail had opened; soon, perhaps, The Shadow would be close upon the man who had gained the missing scroll.
The light clicked off; the black walls of the sanctum throbbed with the fading echoes of The Shadow’s departing laugh.
CHAPTER XIII. A CASH DEAL
FIFTEEN minutes after The Shadow had given orders to Burbank, a taxi pulled up across the street from the old Hotel Santiago. The driver of the cab was Moe Shrevnitz. Called from his usual uptown stand, the hackie had been ordered here by Burbank. Moe had made the trip in ten minutes of swift travel.
His arrival was expected. A man stepped around from the curb. It was Cliff Marsland; in terse tones, Cliff gave information while Moe listened.
“Hawkeye’s not here yet,” he said, “but he’s due. When he arrives, tell him to cover the back of this old joint. There’s a way in from the back.”
While Cliff was speaking, another cab stopped a short distance behind Moe’s. From it stepped a stooped figure; that of a man with a cane, who carried a fat portfolio beneath his arm.
The keen eyes of Montague Rayne glistened as they spied Moe’s cab. Paying his own driver, Rayne hobbled forward with remarkable spryness. He reached the side of Moe’s cab and listened.
Neither Cliff nor Moe saw the intruder. Cliff was on the street side of the taxi; Moe’s attention was directed to that point. Though The Shadow’s agents were speaking in guarded tones, their words were overheard.
“It’s Jerry Kobal, all right,” Cliff was saying. “He’s in Room 508, registered as John Kane. I’ll mosey around the lobby a while, to give Hawkeye time to get here.”
“I’ll be watching for him,” returned Moe. “I’ll send him to cover the back door.”
Cliff strolled away; Moe settled back behind the wheel. At the same moment, Montague Rayne swung away from view. Muffling the clicks of his cane, he headed for the Bowery. Looking off to the right he could see the front of the old hotel, with its grimy lights interspersed with burned-out bulbs. A pleased cackle came to Rayne’s withered lips.
Though Moe Shrevnitz did not know it, his cab had been spied quite often lately by those same sharp eyes. Moe had a regular parking place near Times Square; any one who had seen his cab elsewhere might easily have had the luck to spot it at its usual stand.
Moe had figured in the quest for Myram; a proof that he was connected with the search for the scroll.
Moreover, Moe was sometimes lax in watching backward to see if his cab happened to have another on its trail. On this quick trip, he had not once glanced behind to look for followers.
Montague Rayne was hobbling to the rear of the old Hotel Santiago. Once there, he found an obscure entrance. He used it and came to the rear of the lobby.
Cliff Marsland was strolling about, killing time. While Rayne waited, Cliff went on. Rayne hobbled into the lobby, passed a sleepy clerk behind the desk and continued, unnoticed, up a stairway.
IN Room 508, Jerry Kobal was seated at a table, his typewriter set before him. The weary-faced man was working on his story; but the twitching of his face showed that he could not keep his mind to the task. Jerry was troubled, nervous; when a rap sounded at the door, he sprang about with a jolt.
“Who’s there?”
A quavering tone responded to Jerry’s sharp question. It was a kindly, friendly voice, that formed a query.
“Mr. Kane? Could I see you for a few minutes?”
“All right.”
Jerry went over and unlocked the door. He saw the bent form of Montague Rayne; he stared, puzzled, as he viewed the withered face. Then the old visitor hobbled forward. Smiling, he delivered a tired smile as he sat down in a chair and laid his portfolio on the floor beside him.
“Sorry, sir,” remarked Jerry. “I guess I’m not the Mr. Kane you came to see.”
“No?” Rayne chortled the question. “Did I say that I had come here to see Mr. Kane?”
“That’s what you said, sir.”
“I was wrong. I came to find Mr. Kobal. Jerry Kobal.”
At mention of his own name, Jerry twitched nervously. A hunted expression showed on his face; then faded as he heard another senile cackle come from the lips of his doddering visitor. This fellow could offer no trouble, Jerry decided. The ex-crook closed the door and locked it.
“All right,” he acknowledged gruffly. “I’m Jerry Kobal. What’s on your mind, grandpop?”
“Sit down.” Rayne’s tone, though high-pitched, showed firmness. “I have a proposition that may interest you, Kobal. Tell me: what about the parchment scroll you have in your possession? How did you acquire it?”
Jerry stared, startled; then shook his head.
“You’re not a dick,” he decided, “and you don’t look like a crook. An old chap like you ought to be on the level. Say — who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Rayne. Montague Rayne. I have only recently arrived in New York. Come, come, Kobal; tell me about the scroll. Be honest with me.”
“You want the whole story?”
“From the beginning.”
“All right.” Jerry’s face showed determination. “I’ll come clean. I’ve been wishing that I could find somebody who might believe what I’ve got to say; and you look like you might be the man, Mr. Rayne.”
“I shall believe you, Kobal. I can always tell when a man speaks the truth.”
Jerry paced the room. He paused and faced his visitor; then spoke frankly.
“I WAS a crook once,” he said. “I was in stir; now that I’m clear of the Big House, I don’t want to go back. I was living in a little apartment, Mr. Rayne, writing out some of my experiences. I felt my own story might do good work — might steer other fellows away from crime — help them to keep straight.”
Rayne nodded. His face showed a beaming smile. Jerry felt more at ease. He resumed.
“Last night,” he detailed, “who barged in on me but Slugger Haskew, a crook I used to know. He was wounded — almost dying — and he told me if I didn’t work with him, he’d bring the cops in on us. That would have implicated me in whatever job Slugger had been doing.
“I pretended that I’d work with him. He gave me the scroll. It’s in Latin — I could recognize some of the words, even though I couldn’t translate them— and it must be important. Because Slugger wanted me to pass it on to a crook called The Creeper.
“He told me to head for a hotel called the Alcadia, an old joint north of here. He said I’d know The Creeper when I heard him — by the fellow’s footsteps. Slugger was to call, after I’d gone, and put The Creeper wise to where I was.”
Jerry stopped. For a moment, he eyed Rayne suspiciously, wondering if this visitor might be The Creeper, despite the fact that he had come without making that strange tread of which Slugger had spoken. Then, disarmed by Rayne’s friendliness, Jerry continued.
“I didn’t go to the Alcadia,” he affirmed. “I didn’t want anything to do with murderers. I’ve gone straight, Mr. Rayne, and I’m going to stay straight. I came here instead — here to the Santiago. I’ve been wondering what to do ever since — whether I should call the police or not. Honestly, I’ve been in a stew!