“I’ll tell my man to show Middleton into the lounge room when he comes. It’s across the hall, past the side door. I’ll have you in there, to overhear what Middleton has to say.”
“Great! We’ll try it, anyway.”
CARDONA picked up the letter which he had placed on the desk. He studied the writing once more. Without a word, he tossed the message to Blefken.
Rising, the detective scooped up his whiskered mask, and in a few seconds he again presented the appearance of the old prospector.
There was no need for further discussion. Charles Blefken unlocked the door of the office. He shook hands cordially with his visitor as the disguised detective leaned on his cane.
“Good-by, sir,” declared Blefken, for all listeners to hear. “Good-by, and remember me to your stepson. A great boy, he is. Stop in any time, and tell him to do the same.”
Cardona flung a bewhiskered grin at the prim stenographer as he left the office. Down the corridor he hobbled, still playing the part of the old man. But beneath the scattering wig that adorned his head, the star detective was thinking of more than trivialities.
His mind was still upon that mad message — the strange letter that Charles Blefken had received from Jerry Middleton.
“Tonight!” muttered Cardona, as he waited for the elevator. “Tonight! And unless I miss my guess, Middleton will be there. There’s dynamite behind that note even though I didn’t say so to Blefken!”
CHAPTER VI
DIP TRAILS TROUBLE
DIP RIKER had one misfortune: his face. Had it not been for his ugly, fang-toothed features, he might have been the leader, and his friend Flash Donegan the underling. But Dip, wherever he went, was a marked man. That was the reason why he exercised extreme caution whenever he had any special task to perform.
This evening — Thursday — he had a definite duty. He was to watch and follow the man who had paid a visit to the old house where Clinton Glendenning lived. Harry Vincent was Dip Riker’s quarry.
Flash Donegan had assigned Dip to the job because he knew that Dip could do it. At the same time, Dip labored under a handicap. He was afraid to show himself too often in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite, where Harry Vincent spent most of his idle hours.
It was after six o’clock when Dip, realizing that the important evening was at hand, decided that it would be best to keep a closer watch on his man. He had spied Harry in a lounging chair, in the hotel lobby, by looking through the revolving door. The young man seemed half asleep.
Dip entered, keeping his face turned away. He went directly to the cigar counter, and purchased a newspaper. Sitting down, he hid his features behind the outspread pages, and managed to keep a sly watch on Harry without running risk of being noticed.
Dip’s hunch proved a good one. Within ten minutes after his arrival, he heard a boy paging Mr. Vincent. Harry looked up and inquired. The boy pointed to a telephone on the lobby desk.
Here, again, Dip was in luck. The telephone was not more than fifteen feet from where he was sitting.
Harry Vincent appeared to have trouble being heard when he spoke. Dip drank in every word. By the time the conversation was well begun, the wolf-faced gangster was gaining useful information.
“Yes,” Harry declared, “I’ll be here… At seven o’clock? Sure… Yes, I can wait until half past… Eat with you here?… All right, Bill… I want to get away shortly after eight o’clock… No, I can’t take in a show tonight… Sorry… I’m going out, I say… Out… Not before eight o’clock… All right… Between seven and seven thirty…”
Harry complained to the clerk about the bad connection; then asked for the key to his room. His parting admonition was that he would be in his room until some one called; after that, he could be found in the hotel dining room. Then Harry strode toward the elevators.
Dip Riker slipped from the lobby. His mind was settled now. No use to be seen around the Metrolite until eight o’clock. That gave him time for a run up to Frankie Gull’s place.
It was damp tonight. Dip decided that a swallow of bootleg liquor would be good for his constitution.
THREADING his way up Broadway, Dip employed his customary plan of baffling all followers. He stopped at a crossing, as though about to go to the other side of Broadway. But his eyes were secretly watching the cross street. He was getting ready to throw an obstacle in the way of any follower.
Just as the signal was given for traffic to cross Broadway, Dip darted over the side street. A surging mass of automobiles shot forward. Dip, hurrying up Broadway, was free from pursuit, for the hurtling traffic barred all followers.
Thirty yards on, Dip utilized another trick. He doubled into an arcade, and swung back to the very side street which he had crossed. He arrived there just as traffic ceased, and slipped back to the other side. Then he timed his course and crossed Broadway exactly as he had originally planned.
Up past the arcade which Dip Riker had entered, a husky, heavy-set man growled to himself. He had been following Dip Riker. He had been baffled by the foxy gangster.
Although he had lost the trail, this pursuer was evidently informed on Dip’s habits, for he lost no time in wending his way toward Frankie Gull’s.
When the husky chap entered the place, he found that his hunch was correct. Although he had lost the trail a short distance from the Metrolite, he had picked it up here.
He spotted the mean-faced gangster standing at the end of the crude bar. Without more ado, the newcomer sidled over and nudged against the man at the bar. Dip flung him a sullen look. The stranger grinned.
“Say” — his voice was low — “you’re Dip Riker, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” growled Dip. “What of it?”
The newcomer leaned close and whispered into the gangster’s ear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” were his words. “Just came in from Chicago. Ran into Pete Boutonne in Buffalo. He told me to look you up.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Gravy, fellow, gravy! Pete tells me you don’t like these rods that hang around New York. Said you fixed him up with a job, because he was clear of all the mobs. Then he had to scram out of New York, so you let him go. Thought he’d be doing you a favor if he sent me to see you.”
Dip Riker was interested. He remembered that Flash Donegan was on the point of letting Marty Jennings go. When that would occur, it would be Dip’s job to bring in a new gunman.
Dip had no one in mind at the present. It was worth while to become acquainted with a Chicago gat-wielder who was recommended by one of Donegan’s old standbys.
“What’s your name?” asked Dip.
“Cliff Marsland,” was the reply.
Dip’s eyes opened. Cliff Marsland! Dip had heard of him in the bad lands. Cliff Marsland was known there as a killer — a man who had done a stretch in the Big House called Sing Sing.
After his release from prison, Marsland had mixed in the New York rackets; then he had disappeared. The rumor was that the town had gotten too hot for him. Dip wanted to make sure.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Why did you scram?”
Marsland laughed.
“It wasn’t the mobs that worried me,” he declared. “I mixed it with a few of them, but the bad boys were all wiped out about that time. It was the cops that made me scram. They were watching for any guy that had been up in the Big House.
“A couple of my old pals went the route, and I thought maybe the cops would hook me up with it. So I beat it for Chi.
“Now I’m back. It was all a false alarm. I could walk into headquarters to-morrow, and there wouldn’t be a squawk.”