“The servant don’t amount to much anyway; but to make it all the softer, he was taken sick a couple of months ago and Calbot sent him to a sanitarium. Being a crabby guy himself, Calbot hasn’t taken on anyone else. He lives in the house all alone and he has a room down in his basement where he spends most of his time mulling over a lot of junk that he’s collected. He’s got a big vault down there, too.”
“We’re goin’ in?” questioned Bozo.
“Wait a minute,” ordered Brodie. “You’re doing just what I tell you, Bozo. You and Cliff are to be with the mob, outside of Calbot’s place. You’ll hear a shot from inside. That’ll mean the end of Calbot. Wait a couple of minutes, see? Then gang the joint. Shoot up the windows; pile in through the doors — they’ll be open — and make a big noise. Then scram, in a hurry, before any flat feet show up. Got it?”
Bozo nodded, a trifle perplexed. Cliff grinned, to show that he understood. Brodie could see which was the more intelligent of his two lieutenants.
“It’s a cover-up,” growled Brodie. “Like we’ve done before, Bozo. We lost some gorillas out on Long Island; we don’t want to drop any more on this job. That shot from inside tells you that it’s all set to do some shooting. But wait a couple of minutes—”
“So the man who fires the shot can get away,” interposed Cliff.
“That’s it,” announced Brodie. “Say, Cliff, you’ve got a noodle, even if Bozo hasn’t. Wake up, Bozo! I’ve given you credit for being more than just a dumb egg.”
Bozo scowled. He glanced angrily at Cliff, as though blaming his companion for the criticism which had come from Brodie Brodan. Cliff returned the scowl with a steady gaze. He felt that Brodie’s innuendo regarding Bozo was quite correct.
Bozo, tough, stocky, and with a hard-boiled face, looked like an ordinary gorilla. He had gained his lieutenancy purely through survival in the service of Brodie Brodan. He was a relic of the gang leader’s past.
Brodie saw Bozo’s malicious glare. He ended it with another growl that caused Bozo to ease back in his chair and give a sheepish grin.
“No sorehead stuff,” warned Brodie. “You and Cliff are working together. Figure it between you where you’ll pick up the mob. Ten o’clock’s the time. Beat it — and dope out your game outside. Look Brisbane Calbot up in the phone book. He’s listed. That’ll tell you where he lives. I’m going up to the Club Madrid. Stay away from there. Call me here tomorrow.”
Brodie waved his hand toward the door. Cliff and Bozo arose and made their exit. Brodie’s face, usually immobile, showed changing expressions after the pair had gone. Brodie was comparing his new lieutenant, Cliff Marsland, with the old, Bozo Griffin. The comparison was in Cliff’s favor.
Rising from his chair, Brodie Brodan went to a closet and brought out a tuxedo. The gang leader was preparing for a gala night at the Club Madrid. His plans of crime had been completed. The clock on his bureau showed five minutes to eight.
HALF an hour later, at exactly eight twenty-five, a click resounded in a darkened room. Shimmering blue light glared upon a polished table. White hands stretched forth to obtain earphones from the wall where a tiny bulb was burning.
“Burbank speaking,” came a voice over the wire.
“Report!” It was The Shadow’s whisper that sounded weirdly in the sanctum.
“Report from Marsland.”
The Shadow listened in the gloom. The clicking of Burbank’s telephoned voice brought the word which the contact man had heard from Cliff. Every detail came in terse form.
“Instructions,” spoke the voice of The Shadow. “Marsland to follow orders as given by Brodan.”
“Instructions received,” answered Burbank.
The earphones clattered to the wall. The bulb went out. The blue light clicked off. A creepy laugh rose to a shuddering crescendo. Silence came to the sanctum.
The Shadow had departed. He had learned the facts he wanted. He would find a way to deal with crime.
The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW’S PART
NINE o’clock. The home of Brisbane Calbot, an old-fashioned brick structure, showed gloomily in the semidarkness of a side street.
It was a building that no one would have suspected as a place where valuables could be found. In fact, that was one reason why Brisbane Calbot kept this old house. He did not want to be annoyed by intruders who might come to rob; and the fact that his place was so inconspicuous made it an ideal location.
A patch of blackness appeared beneath the light of a street lamp. It paused there, and its shape became that of a human silhouette. Shown in profile, the brim of a hat projected above a hawklike nose. That silhouette was the symbol of a living presence; yet no figure appeared in the darkness near the lamp.
The black patch moved. It blended with the darkness of the street. A slight swish was all that announced a motion in the gloom. A strange, invisible creature was moving toward Brisbane Calbot’s old house. The Shadow had arrived before men of crime.
There was a cement passage beside the old house. That was the course which The Shadow took; yet no eyes — unless they had possessed the sharpness of The Shadow’s own — could have spied the progress of this mystic visitant.
The dull whiteness of a side door was blotted by a grotesque blackness that covered it. The door was heavy; though its outer surface did not show it, the barrier was held from within by formidable fastenings.
Slight clicks occurred in the darkness. Slow minutes passed. At last the door yielded to The Shadow’s skill. The barrier opened. The Shadow entered. The locks tightened again as an unseen hand threw them with scarcely a telltale sound.
Traveling through a passage, The Shadow spied a single light in a side room. He stalked to the door. His tall form threw a long streak of blackness across the threshold. That darkened, flattened length became immovable. It was not noticed by a man who sat reading at a little table.
Brisbane Calbot was a middle-aged man whose appearance gave him the air of a recluse. He was totally engrossed in his reading; and the volume which he held showed that he was engaged in study. The walls of the room were lined with odd books in dusty bindings.
SATISFIED that Calbot was completely oblivious of what passed about him, The Shadow moved away from the open doorway. He moved through a passage. A tiny light, its circle of illumination no larger than a silver dollar, became the medium through which he found a low, locked door. This was obviously the entrance to the basement.
The Shadow’s pick went to work. The lock yielded. The Shadow opened the door, pointed his flashlight down a flight of steps and descended, locking the door behind him.
The basement proved to be a formidably protected place. The iron gratings that covered the small windows were such that no one could have opened them without long trouble and considerable noise. A locked door drew The Shadow to it. He opened this barrier as he had the others. He stepped into Calbot’s curio room.
Iron shutters guarded this place. The room was large and well-stocked with all sorts of oddities. The Shadow, knowing that his presence here could not possibly be detected, turned on a light. His spectral form made a grotesque figure in this unusual room.
Suits of armor, curious weapons of many descriptions, iron statues, urns and pedestals — these were the assortment of oddities through which The Shadow stepped. The room was in disarray; and it was obvious that the weight of the objects themselves made them inviolate to thieving hands.
It would have required a group of moving men with a van to carry away Calbot’s collection. Stealth and subterfuge could not avail with this huge lot of curios.