WITH Burbank at his station, The Shadow was free to conduct other operations. The man who moved swiftly by night was endeavoring to locate Flash Donegan’s base of operations — the spot where Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero were on duty.
This was no easy task. Only two men could have revealed the place. They were Flash Donegan and Dip Riker. Others, who might have told, were no longer in New York.
There were good reasons why The Shadow did not care to question either Donegan or Riker; but now, since the conversation that Burbank had overheard, it was important that The Shadow should know at once.
Burbank continued his patient waiting. He knew the situation thoroughly.
The Shadow, in his search for Donegan’s underlings, had not yet achieved his objective. Perhaps he might be in the vicinity; but he was not actually there.
Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero were in waiting for whoever might come their way. Harry Vincent was en route. A phone call to Flash Donegan would report the capture of The Shadow’s agent.
Time went by. A light glowed on the plug box beside Burbank. Instantly the man became active. Flash Donegan was receiving a call!
Burbank dialed The Shadow’s number. The response was immediate. Burbank spoke a word of explanation.
Quickly, he inserted plugs. The Shadow, on the outside, was cut in on Donegan’s wire. Burbank was adjusting a double-head phone. Through one ear, he could hear Flash Donegan’s conversation. Through the other, he could listen to The Shadow.
“That you, Marty?” said Donegan’s voice.
“Right, Flash,” came the gruff reply.
“What news?”
“Good! Got him!”
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was grinning as he sat at the telephone. A half-emptied bottle of liquor stood beside him.
Flash had been drinking, but his faculties were keen. He prided himself on the quantity he could imbibe without feeling the effects.
“The ride’s next,” Flash spoke.
“O.K., chief,” said Jennings. “We’re goin’ right now!”
A buzz sounded in Burbank’s right ear The Shadow was giving an order. Burbank responded. His deft fingers changed the plugs.
But now the situation was different. Three men were on the wire. Flash Donegan, Marty Jennings, and The Shadow. Neither Flash nor Marty knew what had transpired. The conversation had taken a strange turn — one which did not surprise Marty, but which puzzled Flash immensely.
For Marty Jennings was still hearing the voice of Flash Donegan; but he did not hear what Flash was actually saying!
The answer to this paradox was simple. Marty was listening to another person — a man who simulated Flash Donegan’s voice so closely that Marty could not detect the difference. Marty Jennings was talking instructions from The Shadow!
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was growling in the mouthpiece. He could hear Marty’s replies and interruptions. But they did not make sense. Flash could not understand it. Had his henchman gone crazy?
“Give him the bump, quick!” said Flash.
Marty did not hear it. Instead he heard a voice — which he took to be that of Flash — which said:
“Have you made the guy talk?”
“No,” replied Marty. “We haven’t tried.”
“Haven’t tried!” exclaimed the real Flash Donegan. “I said to give it to him — I didn’t ask if you had finished the job.”
Again, Marty did not hear the utterance. Instead, the false voice reached his ears.
“Maybe he knows something, Marty. We ought to make him squawk.”
“O.K., chief,” answered Marty. “How do you want it done?”
“Done!” exclaimed Flash Donegan angrily. “You know how to do it. Don’t act so dumb. Take the ride — quick.”
But, instead, “Better hold him until I get there,” was the statement that came to Marty from what sounded like Flash’s voice.
“O.K.,” replied the gunman. “We’ll wait for you here.”
“I didn’t say to wait!” blurted Donegan, confused and angry. “I said to get going. Start now!”
BUT Marty Jennings did not hear the protest. The other voice — the voice that was every bit Donegan’s — was taking another course, prompted by what Flash had actually said.
“It may not be safe to keep him there,” were The Shadow’s next words. “Take him out, and I’ll meet you, on the way to where you’re going.”
“That’s the stuff, chief!” was Marty’s enthusiastic response. “You know that alley in back of Howley’s old garage on One Hundred and—”
“That will do,” came the false voice.
The words served two purposes. They satisfied Marty Jennings that his chief understood. They were also a signal to Burbank. The quiet man switched the plugs.
The voice of the real Flash Donegan was coming through, to Marty. But Burbank was in readiness. His hands were waiting to again change the lines, should he receive another signal. That proved unnecessary.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Jennings was saying, when Flash himself made an interruption.
“Lay off that talk, Marty,” said the racketeer. “Lay off — don’t you hear me?”
“Sure thing, I hear you,” responded Marty. “I’ve been hearing you all along. I got you straight, chief—”
“Then get going! Do you understand that?”
“You bet. Lance is ready with the buggy. We’re hustling.”
“That’s all, then. Don’t waste any time with the guy.”
There were two sharp clicks — one when Jennings hung up; the other from the receiver in Flash Donegan’s room. Burbank made an adjustment of the plugs, and spoke in a low voice over the outside wire.
“They have finished,” was all he said.
There was a sibilant reply. Burbank heard a click in his right ear. He removed the head phones. Again, he waited in the darkness of the silent room.
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was talking to himself.
“What was the matter with Marty?” he grumbled. “All he had to do was get the O.K. from me. Asking me how I wanted the guy bumped off. Saying they’d wait for me, when I told him this afternoon that I didn’t want to mix in when they caught any snoopers.
“Talking about going to the alley in back of Howley’s — well, that’s a good place to unload a smoke wagon! Nobody near there to hear the shots. Funny how Marty got balled up; well, anyway, he’s wise now.”
So saying, Flash Donegan helped himself to another drink.
The fate of Harry Vincent was no longer of concern to him. That young man was to pay the penalty for treading within Flash Donegan’s domains.
The racketeer had disposed of the matter in the simplest fashion, leaving it to such capable killers as Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero.
WHILE Flash was enjoying his grog in his apartment, Marty Jennings was passing instructions along to Lance Bolero.
“Open the door, Lance,” he said. “I’ll drive the buggy out. You hop in beside me.”
“What’s the lay, Marty?”
“Flash thinks we ought to make this guy squawk.”
“All right. That’s a cinch.”
Lance began to step toward the back seat of the touring car, as though he already had a method in mind.
“Not here, Lance,” warned Marty. “Flash is takin’ care of it. He’s goin’ to meet us back of Howley’s.”
“He didn’t say nothin’ about it before,” said Lance dubiously. “I don’t see why—”
“This guy ain’t no ordinary bird,” responded Marty. “He’s got somethin’ in mind — or he wouldn’t have come in right after the others. You know the lay, Lance. After anybody comes along with the sign, we gotta watch close.”
“Maybe you’d better call Flash again and—”
“Not on your life! He was sore because I talked as much as I did. He started the gab, though. Go on — open the door!”