“You know the story, Burke. Where there’s a gang, there’s a leader. That’s the guy I’m looking for. I’m going the rounds to hear the alibis. That’s the only system.”
The reporter sat down. Cardona, paying no attention to his presence, began to check half a dozen names on a list that lay upon his desk. These were the names of mob leaders whom the shrewd sleuth intended to question.
Joe Cardona studied the topmost name. He picked up the telephone and called a number. Clyde Burke heard the clicking of a voice; then came Cardona’s questioning:
“Hello. Hotel Spartan?… Brodie Brodan there?… This is a friend of his… Out of town, eh… I see… Wired to have a room for him… I’ll see him later…”
Joe hung up the receiver. He looked at the names on the list, then folded the sheet of paper and tucked it in his pocket.
“Six thirty,” he remarked. “That’s when I’ll see the first guy on the list. I’ll pick up the others in the evening. Hear what they have to say for themselves. I’ll let you know, Burke, if we get anything new.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
The reporter strolled from Cardona’s office. Reaching the street, he approached a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He called a number. A quiet voice responded.
“Burbank speaking.”
“Burke,” returned Clyde. “Report. Cardona checking on gang leaders. Going the rounds. First stop Hotel Spartan, six thirty, to see Brodie Brodan.”
“Report received.”
CLYDE BURKE left the booth. His assigned task was completed. He had informed Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow, of the steps that Joe Cardona was taking to apprehend the murderer of Perry Trappe. Reports that went to Burbank were telephoned immediately to The Shadow, wherever he might be. Burbank represented the hidden link between The Shadow and his active agents.
Clyde Burke was speculative as he strolled toward the Classic office. He knew that Brodie Brodan was a figure in the underworld. Like others of gangland’s elite, Brodan lived at the Hotel Spartan when in New York. That hotel was a decadent structure on the East Side — a meeting place between would-be big shots and the lesser of gangdom’s minions.
Brodie Brodan, Clyde had heard, made frequent visits to Chicago. He was supposed to be friendly with big shots of that city. The fact that a telegram had arrived indicated that Brodan might have paid a visit to the Mid-West metropolis.
It was nearly six o’clock when Clyde Burke reached the Classic office. At that precise time, a man appeared in the concourse of the Grand Central Station. It was Brodie Brodan. Strolling amid the crowd, the heavy-browed gang leader approached a package room.
Tendering two tags to the attendant, Brodie received a pair of suitcases. He carefully detached the stubs that the package man had left on the bags. Picking up his burdens, Brodie walked toward a train gate.
He stopped in an inconspicuous spot by a broad stairway and waited there.
Six o’clock. The gate opened. A throng of passengers came forth. Brodie watched them from a distance until he spied a man in a loud tan overcoat who was carrying a black suitcase. Picking up his own bags, Brodie strolled after the arrival. As the man reached the exit from the concourse, Brodan was beside him.
“Hello, Fritz,” growled the gang leader. “Keep on strolling, I’m with you.”
“O.K., Brodie,” mumbled the man with the black bag.
The pair moved from the terminal. They reached the taxi tunnel and entered a cab. Brodie told the driver to take them to the Hotel Spartan. Settling back in the rear seat, the gang leader spoke in a low voice to his companion.
“Give me the ticket stub, Fritz.”
The other man brought the required object from his vest pocket. Brodie studied the car number and the berth.
“I checked out of the Hotel Spartan five days ago,” he said, in a low tone. “Been living in a joint where they don’t know me. Packed up today and left my bags in the baggage room at the Grand Central.
“Here’s our story. You met me in Chicago, yesterday. Hotel Drury — where you were stopping. We pulled out on the Starlight Limited ten o’clock last night. I’ve used that train before. I know it. Twenty-one hours from Chicago; came in on schedule. Anything else happen?”
“Nope.”
“Where did you see the New York newspapers? The ones with the story about a guy named Perry Trappe getting the bump?”
Fritz raised his eyebrows. He knew the game now. Until this moment, he had not known the purpose of the alibi which he was to establish.
“Evening newspapers came on the train at Albany,” he said. “I was in the club car.”
“We were in the club car.”
“O.K., Brodie.”
THE taxicab had reached a dingy district. It was rolling along beneath the superstructure of an elevated line. Brodie Brodan peered from the window.
“Here’s the hotel,” he stated. “Come in with me, Fritz. Check in for the night. I might as well have a mug from Chicago along with me.”
The two alighted after the cab had reached the curb. The driver passed the bags into the lobby and a loafing bell hop carried them to the desk. Brodie swaggered in with Fritz at his heels and waved his hand to the clerk.
“Keep a room for me?”
“You bet,” returned the clerk. “Got your wire, Mr. Brodie. Room 406.”
The bell hop carried the bags to the elevator. Brodie started in that direction. It was then that a man arose from an obscure corner. Brodie did not see him until he blocked the gang leader’s path, Brodie raised his heavy eyebrows in feigned surprise as he faced Detective Joe Cardona.
“Just a minute, Brodie,” declared Cardona, soberly. “I want to talk to you. Where are you going?”
“Up to my room,” returned Brodie.
“All right,” agreed Cardona. “I’ll talk to you there.”
“Come on up, Fritz,” said Brodie, turning to his companion. “You can check in afterward. I’ll phone down to the clerk.”
The three entered the elevator. The door closed. The clerk stared quizzically as the lift ascended. Thus he failed to see a motion which occurred in a corner of the lobby where a little used passage led to the rear of the hotel.
Someone had been watching from that spot. Keen eyes had witnessed Brodie Brodan’s arrival. They had seen Joe Cardona interrupt the gang leader’s progress. While the clerk still stared at the door of the elevator shaft, a figure came openly into view.
A tall being clad in black; such was the appearance of this unnoticed visitant. With easy, stealthy stride, the shape that had come from the gloom of the passage edged toward the stairway that led to the upper floors.
For a moment, the sinister figure stood revealed. Blazing eyes flashed from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. The upturned folds of a long, black cloak obscured the lower features of the stealthy stranger. Hands were gloved in the same sable hue.
Then the phantom being blended with the darkness of the stairway. The clerk, shifting his gaze blankly toward that direction, saw nothing. The Shadow, like a being invisible, had followed Joe Cardona and Brodie Brodan to the fourth floor of the Hotel Spartan.
CHAPTER VI. THE ALIBI
“Do you know Fritz Fursch?”
Brodie Brodan put the question to Joe Cardona. At the same time, he gestured toward Fritz, the man whom had met at the Grand Central Station.
“Never met him,” answered Joe.
“Meet him now, then,” suggested the gang leader. “Fritz, this is Detective Cardona. Joe Cardona — a good guy.”
Cardona shook hands with the man from Chicago. They had reached Brodie Brodan’s room and the gang leader was placing his bags upon the bed. He turned to switch on a light, for dusk had brought gloom to this narrow-windowed room.