Hobbling rapidly, the wizened-faced observer was making for the subway. Harry Vincent had chosen that mode of transportation to beat Moe Shrevnitz to Roscoe Boulevard. Soon Montague Rayne would be aboard an express, speeding southward, to reach the East Side minutes ahead of these men who had arrived at Myram’s old abode.
BUT meanwhile, Harry Vincent had rung the doorbell of the house. The fat-faced woman opened the barrier, to stare suspiciously at this new visitor. Harry doffed his hat and delivered a pleasant smile.
“Does Mr. Myram live here?” he inquired.
“Don’t know nothin’ about him,” retorted the woman. “The name don’t sound familiar, mister.”
“That’s odd,” remarked Harry. “The employment agency told me that—”
“Myram don’t want no employment,” interrupted the landlady. “He’s gotten a job, he has.”
“Then he did live here?”
“Yes. But he don’t no longer. I ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’ about him.”
“I see. The old gentleman paid you not to talk.”
The shot hit home. The woman became confused. Harry calmly drew a wallet from his pocket.
“How much did he give you?” inquired The Shadow’s agent.
“He give me ten bucks,” admitted the landlady. “But that ain’t the whole of it, mister—”
“Here’s another ten spot,” interposed Harry. “I’m covering his bet. Who was he? What did you tell him?”
The woman pondered; then accepted the money with a shrug of her shoulders. Her attitude indicated that she thought Harry as reliable as the visitor who had preceded him. Mechanically, she gave Myram’s new address; then added further information.
“The old gent told me his name,” she stated. “Said it was Montague Rayne. Said he used to know Myram; that’s why I talked to him. You look honest, young man; that’s why I’m tellin’ you the same.”
“Thanks.”
HARRY smiled and descended the steps. Again the door closed.
Harry signaled to Moe; then strolled down the street and put in a call to Burbank. He explained all that had happened; Burbank gave prompt instructions. Harry was to remain on duty, watching for any further visitors; Moe was to drive back to Manhattan and cover the East Side address.
Harry left the store. He reached Moe’s cab. He gave the taximan the news; Moe shoved the cab into gear and sped away. Harry found a secluded spot across the street from 813 and went on watch.
He felt keen disappointment because he had not arrived ahead of Montague Rayne; at the same time, Harry was convinced that he had done the most that he could under the circumstances.
He was positive, for one thing, that no one had come here ahead of the elderly visitor. Whoever else might be in the game, that person had not gained the trail. Harry had never heard of The Creeper; nevertheless, his guess was correct. Only The Shadow had used the proper method of tracing Myram through a consultation of employment agencies.
The sudden advent of Montague Rayne had been produced by other circumstances. Harry recognized that much, even though he could not guess the causes that had led to the old visitor’s arrival. To offset that, however, Harry was sure that his own prompt report would serve The Shadow. Even if Montague Rayne had chosen to visit Myram’s new abode, The Shadow — if contacted immediately by Burbank — could be there as soon.
So Harry reasoned; and with that thought, he gained ease of mind as he settled for his lonely vigil. To Harry, a quick quest had brought prompt solution. Whatever The Shadow’s purpose in seeking Myram, the result would soon be gained. So Harry believed; and with good cause.
To-day, however, Harry’s guess was wrong. Not through poor reasoning, for The Shadow had actually gained the results he wanted, despite the surprising entry of Montague Rayne. The Shadow’s only dangerous adversary was The Creeper; and, for the present, The Shadow was far ahead of his unsuspected foe.
Chance, alone, was to balk The Shadow. Chance that was already in the making; chance that was due to move with surprising swiftness, to change the trail before the cloaked master could gain success. That chance which was to stay The Shadow would work double harm. For where The Shadow lost, The Creeper would gain!
CHAPTER VI. DEATH INTERRUPTS
IT was after six o’clock when Harry Vincent began his lonely vigil on Roscoe Boulevard. A clouded day had brought early dusk. The Bronx streets had darkened to such extent that Harry had needed the aid of the street light to fully note the features of Montague Rayne.
In Manhattan, the gloom was even thicker, particularly upon an East Side avenue where the high steel structure of an elevated railway obscured the last glow of the darkening sky. Grimy street lamps were feeble in the increasing haze of blackness. All seemed dismal on this squalid thoroughfare.
A palefaced man was walking down the street, his eyes furtive as he looked about him. He stopped at the entrance of a dilapidated pawnshop. There he paused to stare at a darkened doorway a dozen yards below. His cautious glance ended, the palefaced man entered the hockshop.
Hardly had he done so before a grimy, sweatered figure shifted from the near-by doorway. A pasty-faced, evil-eyed rogue came shambling up to the pawnshop window. Pausing there, the fellow peered around the edge of the opened door to see the palefaced man engaged in conversation with the proprietor of the pawnshop.
A transaction was completed; the palefaced man came out. Again he failed to see the sweatered figure, for the evil-eyed observer had shifted back into the doorway. It was not until the furtive man turned a corner that the ugly spy decided to enter the pawnshop himself. He shambled through the doorway and nodded to the sallow man behind the counter.
“Hello, Soaker,” greeted the sweatered man, with an unpleasant grin. “Old paleface was in to see you again, eh? What did he soak this time?”
The man behind the counter blinked uneasily; then he held up a gold signet ring that glittered in the light.
“This is all, Dopey,” he replied. “Ten bucks is all I gave him for it.”
“Yeah? Looks like you skun the guy.” “Dopey” leaned over the counter. “Listen, Soaker. You been stallin’ me too much. This bird is unloadin’ hot stuff, ain’t he?”
“What if he is?”
“Well, you’re takin’ chances when you freeze it. Why be a sap? If you want to fence stuff, take it from guys that you know. Like me.”
“I do that, don’t I?”
“Sure. But you don’t give no breaks in return. Listen — that mug’s been in here half a dozen times, always soakin’ somethin’ new. Why wait until the bulls grab him? Why not give me the lay? Who is the mug? Where does he bunk?”
“Soaker” rubbed his chin meditatively; then nodded. He had caught Dopey’s drift. He was deciding that it was policy to play in with this small-fry crook who knew too much.
“All right, Dopey,” informed Soaker, coming from behind the counter. “I’m closing up to-night. Go ahead; do your dirty work while I’m not around. The stuff’s hot, all right. You might as well have it as the guy that’s got it. He’s a sap, anyway. Too dumb even to keep his trap shut.”
“Talked to you, did he?”
“Sure. His name’s Myram. He lives around the corner, third floor back, in the first house past the butcher shop. He used to be a butler for some millionaire.”
“That’s who he lifted the stuff from?”