“Hello, Flash,” were Dip’s words. “Listen. I’m too late to get that guy… Yeah, this is Dip. I got knocked cold, Flash. I’m still groggy.”
There was a pause, during which Dip evidently heard condemning words from the other end of the wire.
“You know where he’s goin’, Flash,” Dip protested. “Why don’t you get up there an’ nick him?… I getcha now! Marty an’ Lance are goin’ to take him for a ride. You’re stickin’ where you are. They’re callin’ you before they give him the works, eh?”
Dip hung up the receiver. Tottering, he made his way back into the outer room. He sat on the bench alone. Cliff Marsland was no longer there.
Cliff had slipped into the barroom the moment that Dip’s conversation had ended. He was thinking — grimly. His work was to watch Dip Riker, so Harry Vincent could go his way unmolested. Another enemy — Flash Donegan, was being covered by The Shadow himself.
But from Dip’s conversation, Cliff divined that Flash was laying low tonight — that Harry Vincent’s real menace consisted of two unknown hoodlums — men to whom Dip had referred as Marty and Lance!
There was no time to lose. Cliff had double work to do. He must put Dip Riker out of the picture; he must send a warning to The Shadow, so that Harry could be saved.
More than that, Cliff realized, his warning must be specific. He must learn where these two gangsters would be. There was one man who might tell. That was Dip Riker. A quick plan flashed through Cliff Marsland’s brain.
He stepped up to the bartender. The man was grinning in a friendly manner, now.
“That friend of mine,” said Cliff. “He’s pretty groggy. Mix up a drink for him. Make it snappy.”
While the bartender was complying, Cliff’s fingers went to his vest pocket. There he opened a little box and obtained two small pills.
Receiving the glass from the bartender, Cliff went to the room where Dip was sitting. On the way he quickly dropped the pills into the glass.
These were knock-out drops that Cliff had brought along in case there would be no other way to handle Dip Riker. Cliff knew the potency of those pills. Four of them would put a man to sleep. Two, Cliff was sure, would produce dizziness. He intended to make Dip Riker speak — without knowing it.
“Drink this,” said Cliff.
Dip imbibed the fluid with eagerness. He roused a trifle; then began to rub his forehead.
“Feelin’ bum again,” he complained. “Wait’ll I flop on this bench. My head feels like it was crackin’ open—”
Dip was lying down, holding both hands to his head. He seemed to be losing all sense of where he was. Cliff leaned close, and spoke in a convincing tone.
“Say, Dip — there’s a fellow named Flash calling you on the telephone. Says he’s got to speak to you, right away.”
Dip sought to rise, but sank back on the bench.
“You talk to him,” he said wearily; “tell him I’m sick—”
Cliff went to the other room and returned.
“He wants you to go up with Marty and Lance,” he said. “He wants you to start right away.”
“I can’t go,” said Dip weakly. “Can’t go, I tell you. Can’t get away from here—”
“I’ll put you in a cab,” responded Cliff. “The air will do you good. Tell me where the place is, so I can give the address to the driver.”
“Place where Marty is?” asked Dip. “It’s way uptown. Way up, by—”
Drowsiness had overcome the gangster. His words became an incoherent mumble. Cliff shook him by the shoulders. The man must talk! Harry Vincent’s life depended upon it. There was not an instant to lose. Dip Riker must complete that sentence!
But Cliff’s efforts were futile. The gangster lay dead to the world. The knock-out drops had worked too well!
Wild schemes came to Cliff. Should he call Flash Donegan, pretending that he was Dip Riker? Cliff knew the number, but realized that the plan was useless.
Harry Vincent — on his way to certain death — not knowing that danger lay in his path. How could he be saved?
Valuable minutes passed. Cliff, for the first time, realized that he had not informed The Shadow. That was the least he could do to save Harry, even though The Shadow, without knowledge of where Marty and Lance were, would be as handicapped as Cliff.
SCURRYING to the other room, Cliff seized the telephone and dialed a number. Despite his hurry, he was wise enough to close the door behind him.
A quiet voice came over the wire.
“M reporting,” announced Cliff, in a low tone.
“Burbank,” was the reply.
Burbank was The Shadow’s inactive agent, a man who seldom left his station, but one who handled the threads that connected The Shadow with such operatives as Cliff and Harry.
In tense words, Cliff gave his information. His voice was hopeless, for he knew that even when Burbank had relayed the message, it could be of no use, unless — a faint hope — The Shadow knew where Marty and Lance were located.
This was hardly likely. Cliff had been told to obtain all available information. Evidently The Shadow had not yet discovered the workings of the gang that Flash Donegan ruled.
Burbank’s voice seemed reassuring, but all hope faded with Cliff when he hung up the telephone. Harry Vincent was on his way to an unknown snare. Flash Donegan would be informed of his capture. The racketeer would deliver the death sentence.
Before The Shadow could possibly act, Harry Vincent would be no more!
All because Cliff had overloaded Dip’s drink with knock-out drops. If he had only used one, instead of two! But that was too late to rectify.
Cliff hastened to the other room to find Dip Riker still insensible. Vainly he strove to rouse the man. The dose had been too potent. Knowing the power in those drops, Cliff groaned. Dip would be unconscious for another hour — at least!
A feeling of intense helplessness swept over Cliff Marsland. It was mingled with a sense of blame and remorse.
Cliff had failed in his task. Harry Vincent was going to his doom! And where was The Shadow?
CHAPTER VII
MARGARET SEEKS A FRIEND
THE clock on Clinton Glendenning’s mantelpiece struck nine. The old man opened his eyes at the sound. He had been dozing in his easy-chair. He saw Larkin standing before him.
“What is it, Larkin?” growled the old man.
“You remember, sir, that I was going out tonight. You said that nine o’clock would be all right.”
“I recall it, Larkin. Go along, go along! Where is Miss Margaret?”
“I think she has gone out, sir. To call on some friends, I believe.”
“That’s good!” Glendenning rejoined. “Time she ended her moping. She hasn’t been out of the place more than a couple of times during the past month.”
“Of course, sir,” said the secretary, “if you think that it’s not best for you to be left alone—”
“Rubbish!” declared the old man fiercely. “I wanted you to go out. I said so. And I told Miss Margaret to go out tonight. I’ve been telling her that every night. I want to be alone once in a while. And, Larkin—”
The secretary turned as he was starting for the door.
“What is it, sir?”
“Take the bells off the telephones. Downstairs and up. I don’t want to be annoyed. Somebody may call up about some useless matter. Wanting to know if I have seen Buchanan — or that detective, Hasbrouck. I don’t want to hear either of them mentioned. I’ve had enough of it! Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Larkin silenced the bells on the telephone box. He left the room, and the old man heard him go downstairs. Clinton Glendenning sank back for another nap.
The secretary stopped before he reached the front door. The velvet curtain rustled beside him. Larkin heard a whispered voice. He spoke softly. Margaret Glendenning stepped from the other room.