The spurious scroll from the Kaaba. Its former owner a man named Cecil Armsbury! These were facts which The Shadow had learned. Through them, he would trace crime to its source!
The whispered laugh of The Shadow echoed through the hollow stillness of Brisbane Calbot’s reading room. The tiny light vanished. The Shadow had departed.
CHAPTER XIV. CROOKS SUSPECT
ONCE again, Cecil Armsbury and his nephew, Martin Havelock, were seated in the living room of Armsbury’s home. Calhoun, the solemn-faced servant, had just gone out to the hall, closing the door behind him. The departure of the servitor was followed by a growl from Martin Havelock.
“I don’t like it!” expressed the man who called himself Duke Larrin. “I thought that Brodie Brodan was smarter than he is. Getting his mobsmen picked off is something I hadn’t counted on.”
“Less men for him to pay,” reiterated Armsbury, in a satisfied tone.
“All right from that standpoint,” admitted Havelock. “But I can’t see what caused the trouble. Nothing has gone sour — otherwise Fingers or Croaker — even Brodan — would have shown up at the crypt. They polished off Brisbane Calbot, sure enough, and stowed his body somewhere. But what caused all the shooting?”
“Easily answered,” returned Armsbury. “The shot that Croaker Mannick fired as a signal must have brought in someone other than Brodie’s men.”
“Who, for instance?”
“The Shadow.”
Cecil Armsbury uttered the name in matter-of-fact fashion. His nephew stared in unfeigned alarm. A cackling laugh came from old Armsbury.
“The Shadow,” repeated Armsbury. “You, Martin, have yourself expected him to appear. He is a supersleuth; and it is not at all unlikely that he has trailed some of Brodan’s mobsmen. Brodan’s system was a delayed attack. The Shadow, lurking somewhere in the dark, must have come to meet it.”
“He didn’t stop Fingers or Croaker,” declared Havelock. “They made a getaway all right. Those fellows whose bodies were found by the police were just second-rate gangsters.”
“Precisely,” stated Armsbury. “That is The Shadow’s forte, my dear nephew. He fights with men of the underworld. He kills them and he feels satisfied. But he has touched the surface only. He cannot have reached beneath. He will never reach far enough” — the old man’s eyes were gleaming with cunning — “to learn the secret of our crime crypt.”
“You’re right about that,” decided Havelock. “The Shadow is a keen worker, but all indications show that he hasn’t gone far. I’m glad, though, that this was the last job for Fingers Keefel and Croaker Mannick. They can lay low until they’re due at the crypt.”
“On the fifteenth,” chuckled Armsbury.
“Yes, the fifteenth,” repeated Havelock. “But there’s one point of contact left. Brodie Brodan.”
“A clever man, Martin, despite your criticism of his leadership.”
“Sure Brodie’s clever. That’s why I picked him. But he’s the only one that The Shadow might trail to the crypt. That’s why I want to make sure about him.”
“How?”
“I’m going to call Brodie. I’m going to tell him to be on the lookout. I took the right precautions from the start. He has a special crew all fixed to handle our final job.”
“Which will bring us vast wealth,” chuckled Armsbury, “as well as destroying the final shred of evidence that might be used to expose my past.”
“There’s only one answer,” declared Havelock. “Somebody in Brodie’s mob must be working with The Shadow. I’m going to put Brodie wise to what I think — and let him act accordingly.”
“A wise thought,” returned Armsbury, “but actually an unnecessary precaution. Brodie is through with his present minions. When he tells them that they are no longer needed, they will have no further trail to follow.”
“Except Brodie himself. That’s why I’m calling him. I can reach him at the Hotel Spartan, from a pay station a long way from here. There’ll be no way of tracing my call.”
With this decision, Havelock arose and sauntered from the room. Cecil Armsbury smiled indulgently. He did not share his nephew’s apprehensions.
THE aftermath of Martin Havelock’s precaution came at the Hotel Spartan. Brodie Brodan, seated in his room, was talking with Bozo Griffin. Coincidentally, the gang leader was discussing the very subject that Havelock had mentioned to Armsbury — the forestalled raid on Brisbane Calbot’s home.
Brodie’s voice was coming in a growl when it was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Brodie picked up the receiver. His eyebrows furrowed as he heard the voice of the man whom he knew as Duke Larrin.
Duke’s terms, though cautious, were to the point. Brodie answered them in short monosyllables. His words meant nothing to Bozo Griffin. When the call was complete, Brodie placed the telephone aside and stared at Bozo.
“I was talking to Marsland a short while ago,” asserted Brodie. “That’s why I called you up here, Bozo. Marsland can’t account for the trouble up at Calbot’s any more than you can. But he told me — without criticizing — that you were the one who told the mob what to do. Is that right?”
“Sure, I told ‘em,” retorted Bozo. “If I hadn’t, Marsland would have. The thing looked like a set-up, Brodie. I can’t see why Marsland squawked.”
“He didn’t squawk,” returned Brodie. “He told me something which you have admitted. Seems to me you don’t like Marsland, Bozo.”
“I don’t,” growled the lieutenant.
“Good,” grinned Brodie. “That’s why I want you to pal with him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Stick along with the guy. Do as I tell you. I’m keeping the two of you to handle the mob if I need you later. You buzz me every night at the Club Madrid. When I’ve got work for you to do, I’ll let you know.”
There was a rap at the door. Brodie gave a summons to come in. Cliff Marsland entered. Brodie had told him to return.
“Hello, Marsland,” greeted Brodie, in a cheery tone. “Was just talking about you. Bozo, here, was a bit sore because he thought you were passing the buck to him on that trouble up at Calbot’s. I told Bozo to get over it.”
“No reason for him to be sore,” remarked Cliff, in a quiet tone. “He gave the order quicker than I expected, that was all. It might have been better to wait a few minutes longer.”
“Then you’d have given the same order,” growled Bozo. “It would have turned out the same way, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably,” admitted Cliff.
“That settles it,” expressed Brodie Brodan. “Stick out your mitt, Bozo, and give Marsland the grip. You birds are pals. Get it?”
Bozo obeyed. Cliff shook hands in friendly manner. Brodie lowered his growl and spoke to the reconciled lieutenants.
“I’m laying low, boys,” he declared. “I’m sticking at the Club Madrid — except when I’m here at this hotel. When I need something done, I’ll let you know. That’s why I want you to be pals. Get it?”
Nods from the lieutenants.
“Bozo can call me every night,” resumed Brodie. “I’ll tell him what’s to be done. If it don’t sound O.K. to you, Marsland, you can get me on the wire to make sure. But we’re laying easy for a time — that’s all.”
With a wave toward the door, Brodie dismissed his lieutenants; Cliff Marsland and Bozo Griffin went from the room. From now on, they would stick together, with the understanding that both would be ready when needed.
SEVERAL minutes passed. Brodie Brodan picked up the telephone. He called a number. A growling voice responded. Brodie recognized it. The man at the other end of the wire was one whom he had chosen to keep under cover — “Sinker” Hargun — a mobster who had his own squad of gorillas.