The Shadow, like Cardona, had an answer. It differed, however, from Cardona’s. It came, shortly after Cardona had formed his final decision regarding his suspect.
THE light clicked in The Shadow’s sanctum. Long white hands appeared beneath the bluish glare. The Shadow’s right hand wrote a name upon a sheet of paper; beneath the name went two short statements:
Brodie Brodan.
Clock in bag. 7:10.
A laugh sounded from the gloom on the near side of the bluish light. That laugh betokened keen understanding. It told of a clew which Joe Cardona had not noticed; one, however, which had not escaped The Shadow.
Brodie Brodan had been in Chicago for three days or more. He had told Cardona that he had packed his bags in a hurry; that he had not opened the second bag upon the train. Therefore, the clock had not been touched since it was packed.
Ten minutes after seven! A clock packed in Chicago — hurriedly — had registered New York time! There could be but one answer. Brodie Brodan had not packed that desk clock in Chicago. Had he done so, it would have shown ten minutes after six, allowing for the difference in time between Chicago and New York.
Brodie had packed his clock in New York. He could not have gone to Chicago, as he stated. There was a chance that he might not have changed its time during his sojourn in the Middle West. That chance; however, was slight.
The clew was sufficient for The Shadow. It was the thread which marked Brodie Brodan’s alibi as a doubtful one. With that thread as a starting point, The Shadow was ready to trace Brodie Brodan’s activities in the immediate future.
A long hand reached across the table. A tiny bulb flashed from the wall as The Shadow drew a pair of earphones toward him. A quiet voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Instructions to Marsland,” ordered The Shadow, in a low whisper.
“Ready,” was Burbank’s answer.
The sinister tones of The Shadow’s eerie voice clung to the lighted corner of the room as the master worker gave his orders. When Burbank’s final corroboration came, The Shadow placed the earphones back upon the wall. The little bulb went out. The blue light clicked. The sanctum was in complete darkness.
Then came a whispered laugh. It rose to a strain of shuddering mockery that awoke ghoulish echoes from the hidden walls of blackness. When the reverberations had died, deep silence reigned.
The Shadow had departed. His orders had been given. The Shadow had taken the first step to trail Brodie Brodan — the gang leader whom he suspected was concerned with the death of Perry Trappe.
Where Joe Cardona’s hunch had faded, The Shadow’s inkling had begun. From keen deduction, The Shadow had picked up the trail which Cardona had lost. Crimes like the murder of Perry Trappe were due to fall in sequence.
Through his agent, Cliff Marsland, The Shadow would gain the word he needed. When crime next struck, The Shadow would be there!
CHAPTER VII. MOBSTERS MOVE
“OFF for Chi, eh?”
The speaker was Brodie Brodan. He was seated in his hotel room, on the second evening following his arrival at the Hotel Spartan. The man to whom he was speaking was his alibi artist, Fritz Fursch.
“Yeah. Leaving at nine o’clock,” replied Fursch. “Anything you need done?”
“Not a thing, Fritz. You did your job. Say — Cardona fell for that gag like a punk. We’ll work the stall again, some time.”
“What — on Cardona?”
“No.” Brodie snorted. “Not a chance of that, Fritz. Next time we’ll use it, we’ll work from New York west. If I’ve got a job to pull in Chi, I’ll plant you here and let you come out there with a couple of tickets.”
“And a newspaper in my pocket.”
“Yeah. That clinched it.”
Fritz Fursch looked at the clock on the bureau. It showed quarter after eight. The alibi man stretched himself and strolled about the room, intending to spend a last few minutes with Brodan.
“I’m set for my next alibi,” remarked the gang leader, in a casual tone. “I’ve got Lobo Ruscott all fixed — he’s the guy that’s running the Club Madrid.”
“Another job coming, eh?”
“Pretty soon.” Brodan’s reply was noncommittal. “I just took another bird into the outfit — and he’s a swell worker, too.”
“The fellow up here this afternoon?”
“Yeah. Cliff Marsland. Say — he’s cagey, that guy. Everybody knows he’s as good as half a dozen gorillas; but there’s nobody can lay a finger on any jobs he does. I met him up at the Club Madrid two nights ago — and he let it out that he was on the loose.”
“There’s lots of gorillas on the loose these days.”
“Not guys like Cliff Marsland. He gets dough when he works. Needs some cash — that’s all. I picked him up at a bargain and promised to keep mum about the price. Just the guy I needed.”
Brodie Brodan paused to light a cigarette. Fritz Fursch noted the clock again. He decided it was time to leave for his train.
“So long, Brodie,” he said. “Get me at the Hotel Drury when you need me.”
FIVE minutes after Fritz’s departure, there was a tap at the door. Brodie Brodan issued a summons to come in. A husky, well-attired young man appeared. Brodie Brodan recognized Cliff Marsland and waved his visitor to a chair.
Brodie held a high opinion of his new recruit. Cliff Marsland was a different type than the average gangster. His face showed intelligence. His appearance was clean-cut. Yet with it, Cliff possessed a firm chin and a straight-featured face that showed self-confidence and ability. Brodie Brodan classed him as one mobster in a thousand.
“All set, Cliff?” questioned Brodie.
Cliff Marsland nodded.
“O.K.,” decided the gang leader. “We’ve got a job tonight — and I’m picking you as my right hand man. We’ve got to spread. I’m putting you in charge of part of the crew. Get that?”
“What’s the lay?” questioned Cliff, in calm fashion.
“I’ll give it to you,” declared Brodie. “We’re going out to Long Island. A big house near the Sound — home of a millionaire named Tyler Bogart. There’s three entrances to the place — front, side and back.
“Bozo Griffin will handle the front. Just for emergency — that’s all. I’m taking the side — because that’s where someone’s going in. The back is yours — and there may be a getaway in that direction. That’s why you’re there. To cover.
“I’ll be on the job. When you hear three quick shots from the side, pile in. That means the getaway has been made by the side and I want a quick fuss at the back. Get it?”
Cliff nodded.
“If you see anybody duck out in your direction,” added Brodie, “you pass out three quick shots. That lets me pile in from the side. There’ll be two guys coming out — if they come your way. Let them ride.”
“I’ve got it.”
“There’ll be shooting in the house, maybe,” remarked Brodie. “That doesn’t mean anything. Forget it. If I give the signal, you kick up the fuss, then scram with your part of the outfit. If you give the signal, beat it right away. That’s all.”
Cliff repeated the instructions in methodical fashion. Brodie nodded his approval. He arose and motioned his new lieutenant toward the door.
“Come along,” he ordered. “We’re meeting the mob out back. Wait a second — I want to phone the lobby. Better see who’s down there.”
Brodie made the phone call. It was evident that he had fixed the clerk. Brodie’s signal to leave was proof that no unknown loiterers were in the lobby.
Brodie led the way to the stairs instead of the elevator. At the bottom, he pushed Cliff toward the passage that went through to the rear of the hotel.