The words rang true. Furthermore, they explained a point about Cliff Marsland that Dip Riker had heard discussed. Gangsters had wondered where Cliff Marsland had gone. He had dropped out of the underworld with surprising suddenness.
So he had been in Chicago! That settled the matter.
DIP, usually of sound judgment, was positive that Cliff Marsland’s story was correct. But he was miles from the truth.
Neither Dip nor any other gangster knew the real truth about Cliff Marsland. They had no idea that Cliff was actually an agent of The Shadow — that he was not a killer by profession.
Cliff was married to the daughter of a theater owner. His wife and his father-in-law were now in Europe. During their absence, Cliff Marsland was back in service with The Shadow.
It was true that Cliff had been convicted, and had served time in Sing Sing. He had not, however, committed the crime for which he had paid the penalty. That was a secret which only Cliff and The Shadow knew.
“How do you like this joint?” questioned Dip, anxious to make the acquaintance of the notorious Marsland.
“Terrible,” growled Marsland. “Don’t come up to the joints they’ve got in Chi. I can show you a better dump than this — right here in New York.”
“Where? questioned Dip.
Cliff named an address. Dip reflected. The place mentioned was nearer to the Metrolite than Frankie Gull’s. Dip had an idea it would be a better place to be located.
“Come along,” suggested Cliff.
Dip acquiesced. The two men sauntered from Frankie Gull’s. It was not yet half past six. Dip decided to spend half an hour with Cliff, to sound him out.
Cliff took Dip to a dark door on a side street, near Sixth Avenue. No ceremony was necessary. Cliff simply opened the door, and they went in, to find a bar larger than the one at Frankie Gull’s.
There were tables in the corner, and the two sat down at one of them. A waiter brought drinks and sandwiches. Dip gulped down the contents of his glass. Cliff held his glass poised at his lips.
“Good place, eh?” he questioned. “Look at those imported bottles on the shelf.”
Dip glanced behind him. When he had finished a quick inspection, he turned again to Cliff Marsland. The firm-faced man was setting his glass upon the table empty. Dip had not seen him pour the liquor against the wall.
Conversation began, and both men talked briefly. Dip took a strong liking to Cliff Marsland. Dip Riker was closemouthed and seldom told all that he knew, and Cliff appeared to be a man of the same stripe. The one great difference lay in their appearance.
With Cliff, as with Flash, Dip was at a disadvantage. For Cliff Marsland was a man of well-chiseled features. His face showed strength and purpose; it bore none of the characteristics that marked the ordinary gangster.
Another drink was served. Cliff took advantage of Dip’s glance at the clock to again decorate the wall with the contents of his glass. It was nearly quarter of eight. Dip Riker shifted in his chair.
“Guess I’ve got to be goin’, Cliff,” he said. “You ain’t leaving town right away, are you?”
“No. Not if there’s anything stirring here,” Cliff informed him.
“Where can I find you?”
“How about Frankie Gull’s?”
“O.K. Listen, Cliff, I’ll see you there to-morrow. Drop in around six o’clock. I’m not saying that there’ll be anything doing — not for a while, anyway — but we can talk then. I’ve got to see — to see another guy, you know. Maybe Pete told you that.”
Marsland nodded. “Yes. That’s what he said. Pete’s a great guy. When he left you, he slid out of the racket. Running a garage up in Buffalo, now.”
THIS information impressed Dip. He had not heard from Pete for some time. He did not know that the man’s whereabouts were well known to some of his old pals in New York, and that Cliff Marsland had obtained the information through The Shadow.
“To-morrow night, then,” declared Dip.
“O.K. Have another drink before you go,” Cliff urged.
Dip stepped up to the bar to accept Cliff’s invitation. The man from Chicago paid for the drinks, and Dip gulped his liquor. Cliff set his full glass down as the bartender gave him some money in return.
“How about this?” demanded Cliff. “trying to short-change me, eh?”
The bartender thrust out his jaw in defiance.
“What’re you tryin’ to pull?” he demanded. “I ain’t no sap!”
“Look at this, Dip!” exclaimed Cliff, turning to his new friend, and holding out the money. “Trying to knock me off for half a buck. What do you think of that?”
The altercation caught the attention of the only other men in the room — four tough individuals who were sitting at a table. One of them came forward. Dip was not acquainted with the place.
He did not know that this man was the proprietor; and that the other three were his friends. Cliff was familiar with that fact, however. He saw that Dip resented the interference, so he turned to the bartender, leaving the proprietor to Dip.
Quick words followed. The proprietor gripped Cliff’s shoulder. Cliff turned and pushed him aside; then swung quickly back toward the bartender, who was weighing an empty bottle between his hands.
“Try to club me, will you?” demanded Cliff.
With that, he flung himself over the bar and seized the man in the white apron.
Dip looked just in time to see the bartender swing his arm back with the bottle. He thought that Cliff was trying to save himself. He did not realize that Cliff was actually the aggressor.
The proprietor made a grab for Cliff. Again, Dip misunderstood the action. He did not know that the interfering man simply wanted to prevent a fight. Dip swung a powerful punch to the fellow’s jaw. The proprietor dropped like a chunk of heavy wood.
Cliff was grappling with the bartender, wresting the bottle from the man’s hand. Dip started to pull a gun from his pocket, but he never got that far.
The three men at the table were upon him as one. Down he went, beneath a whirl of flying fists. A hard object cracked him in back of the ear, and Dip Riker knew no more.
When he came to his senses, he was lying on a bench in a back room. Cliff Marsland was bending over him. Beside Cliff, Dip recognized the features of the proprietor. Seeing Dip’s eyes open, Cliff explained the situation.
“This fellow owns the joint,” he said. “You shouldn’t have slugged him. I was wrong making a pass at the barkeep. He got my goat, that was all; when he picked up the bottle, it made me mad. After I took it away from him, the fight was all ended.
“But the boys had to jump on you, or the cops might have come in. They don’t want any target practice around here.”
“It’s O.K. now,” volunteered the proprietor. “I wasn’t going to hurt your friend here. Cliff knows me well.”
Dip sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He sank down again. This went on for several minutes. Then the groggy gangster sank into a half doze. A while later he opened his eyes once more.
He began to understand fully what had happened. He shook hands with the proprietor, and leaned back against the wall.
“What time is it?” he questioned.
The proprietor consulted a watch.
“Nearly nine o’clock.”
An oath came from Dip.
“I gotta be goin’!” he exclaimed. “No” — he paused to reflect, and nodded stupidly — “it’s too late. Got a phone in this joint?”
THE proprietor pointed to another room. Dip rose and staggered in that direction. He was too dazed to think of closing the door behind him. He did not realize that Cliff Marsland was capable of hearing every word he uttered. Dip dialed a number and received an immediate reply.
He spoke to Flash Donegan.