“This is Brodie,” informed Brodan. “All set?”
“Yeah,” came Sinker’s growl.
“Let it ride then,” returned Brodie. “You know the lay. Go through with the job. I’ll see you after it.”
Brodie hung up the receiver. He grinned as he prepared to leave for the Club Madrid. The warning that had come from Duke Larrin had aroused latent suspicions in Brodie’s mind.
The Shadow! Duke Larrin had mentioned the name of that dangerous foeman. He had stated that an agent of The Shadow might be a spy in Brodie’s camp. If such were the case, the guilt must lie between Bozo Griffin and Cliff Marsland. Of the two, Brodie picked Cliff as the logical one.
Hence the mob leader’s insistence that Bozo and Cliff stick together. It had been Brodie’s original idea to break up his mob after the Calbot job. His present plan was better. The Shadow — if Cliff were his informant — would be waiting for another move by Brodie’s present mob. That move would never come.
Brodie would lie idle at the Club Madrid. Sinker Hargun would do the dirty work.
Bozo and Cliff, however, were not out of Brodie’s mind. The crafty gang leader had plans concerning them; and by keeping the two together, he saw a culmination that would strike home.
Brodie Brodan had played his cards craftily. Cliff Marsland, strolling through the badlands with Bozo Griffin, had gained no suspicion whatever. When the pair reached the notorious dive known as the Black Ship, they separated for the time. Cliff, with opportunity at his disposal, slipped into a room where a telephone was located and gave a call to Burbank.
SOME time afterward, the tiny bulb glowed on the wall of The Shadow’s sanctum. The little spot of light showed clearly, for the silent room was dark. The glow remained. At last, a swish in the blackness announced that The Shadow had entered.
Hands clicked the earphones in the dark. The voice of The Shadow spoke from the total gloom.
Burbank replied with his report — a simple statement from Cliff Marsland. The Shadow gave brief orders.
Cliff was to stick with Bozo.
A weird laugh resounded as the blue light clicked above the polished table. There was cause for The Shadow’s mirth. The master fighter could see that Brodie’s instructions to Bozo and Cliff were a stall.
Plotting fiends were planning different crime. The Shadow was seeking their objective. Beneath the surface, he had gained startling results that his enemies did not suspect. Though they believed his hand was present they had no inkling that he had learned an iota of their game.
The Shadow was planning a counterstroke to crime; one that would prove astounding when it came. But in the plans lay a flaw that even The Shadow did not see — for it was the result of Cliff Marsland’s unfortunate lack of intuition.
Cliff’s report had failed to give a complete resume of the conversation with Brodie Brodan. It did not show that Cliff, himself, lay under the gang leader’s suspicion. That fact concerned The Shadow, for it involved the safety of his agent.
All lay in the cunning of The Shadow’s contemplated counterstroke; for when it was delivered, The Shadow would find the life of Cliff Marsland dependent upon The Shadow’s own success!
CHAPTER XV. AT THE MUSEUM
A FEW days after the affair at Brisbane Calbot’s, a stoop-shouldered old man appeared on the avenue in front of the new Egyptian Museum. Turning from the sidewalk, this visitor ascended the granite steps that led to the imposing edifice.
The old man had an odd, tottering step that seemed to indicate a strength despite the frailty of his form.
His short height was due to the forward lean of his shoulders. This resulted in a peculiar upturn of his neck; and the old man made a ludicrous appearance as he stalked toward the entrance of the museum.
An attendant at the door grinned and turned to a companion. He pointed out the figure of the weary-looking old man.
“Here he is again,” said the attendant. “The guy I was telling you about. If he ain’t a card, I miss my bet. We get some goofy looking birds around here, but this old turkey-neck has ‘em all beat.”
The old man was at the door when the attendant ceased speaking. The uniformed man opened the barrier to admit the visitor. The old man bowed in friendly fashion and mumbled his thanks. Then, in a quavering tone, he asked:
“Is the curator in his office?”
“Yes, sir,” returned the attendant. “You can see him this afternoon.”
“Ah!” The old man’s tone was grateful. “I had hoped to find him here. This is my third visit in the past few days. I had hoped to find him this time.”
Following the attendant’s pointing finger, the old man walked along a corridor and reached the office which had been indicated. An inscription on the glass door read:
HANDLEY MATSON
CURATOR
The old man opened the door. Hesitatingly, he entered. He reached an outer office and bowed to a young woman, evidently the curator’s secretary.
“The curator?” questioned the visitor. “May I see him?”
“Who shall I tell him is here?”
“Professor Dilling. Professor Sturgis Dilling.”
“Be seated, professor.”
The old man was carrying a heavy package under one arm and a briefcase in his other hand. He placed these objects upon the floor and seated himself in a chair. He produced a pair of large-rimmed spectacles and adjusted them to his eyes. The action gave him an owlish appearance.
“The curator will see you, professor.”
OLD Sturgis Dilling arose and followed the girl into an inner office. He bowed to a cadaverous-looking man who sat behind a mahogany table. Handley Matson, curator of the Egyptian Museum, looked like the mummy of some Pharaoh.
“Good afternoon, professor,” said Matson, in a solemn voice. “What is the purpose of your inquiry here?”
“I am an Egyptologist, sir,” returned Dilling, in a quavering voice. “I came, a few days ago, to see the tomb of Senwosri. I was informed that it was not open to the public.”
“It is not,” asserted the curator. “We intend to have it so after the new wing is completed. However, I can show individual visitors the tomb. Would you like to see it?”
Sturgis Dilling nodded. His eyes gleamed warmly. The curator arose and led the way to the door. He passed through the anteroom, with the professor following. On the way, the old man hesitated; then picked up his package and briefcase to totter after the curator.
The pair reached a long room some distance from the office. They passed an attendant who was standing at the door. The curator turned to the professor.
“You have seen the antiquities here, of course?” he asked. “We have some remarkable specimens of Egyptian art and sculpture in these cases, particularly here.”
Sturgis Dilling nodded as Handley Matson pointed out a show case that contained delicately sculptured objects of the sort found in Egyptian tombs.
“This is the Armsbury collection,” explained the curator. “Purchased from Cecil Armsbury, a man whose archaeological work is highly recognized. Over here are clay tablets — also from the same collection.”
Professor Dilling stared at the second case. He seemed to be deciphering the inscriptions on the tablets.
The curator watched the old man nod.
“I have seen these,” declared Sturgis Dilling. “Very interesting, sir. Very interesting, indeed.”
The curator led the way to the end of the room. He removed a large key from his pocket and unlocked a heavy door. Within was a huge stone sarcophagus, with heavy lid. Standing before the coffinlike structure was an upright mummy case, fastened with heavy bands.