They were approaching a lighted corner, and Cliff saw a large drug store. Leaning forward, he poked his automatic into the cab driver’s ribs. As the man shuddered, Cliff ordered him to stop by the curb.
“Listen, you,” said Cliff, in a low, emphatic voice. “I’m supposed to bump you off. See? But I’m going to let you get away. I’m treating you right, see?”
The man stammered his thanks. Cliff paid no attention. He must impress the man with a sense of constant danger.
“I’ve got a reason for it,” continued Cliff, softly and rapidly. “I’ve got a hunch I can use you some time. Later on. But if this guy that was with me knows you’re alive — it’ll be the end of you. He’ll get you.
“Your only chance is to scram. If you squeal to the police, your life won’t be worth a nickel. Here’s some dough” — Cliff thrust a roll of bills into the startled man’s hands — “but you’ll never live to use it if you forget what I’m telling you!”
“I’ll do anything!” blurted Dunc Miller. “Anything that you say is best! I don’t want to die!”
The man was petrified with fear; he was clutching this one straw of safety. Cliff was sure that he would obey.
“Run your cab in an alley and leave it there,” ordered Cliff. “Over on the East Side. Pick a place with empty houses around, so it would look like I could have hidden your body. Then light out for Buffalo.
“Call at general delivery for mail — your name will be Willard Watson. You’ll hear from me. This thing will blow over. You’ll be back in New York. I’ll see you get your cab again. Got that?”
“Yeah,” replied the cab driver, clutching the roll of bills.
“Then move,” ordered Cliff. “And remember, don’t slip up on my instructions, or you’ll get this.” As a reminder, Cliff stroked the muzzle of his automatic across the back of Miller’s neck. The cab driver quailed at the touch of the cold metal.
Cliff was on the sidewalk, now. The cab pulled away and sped for the nearest avenue. Cliff hurried to the drug store. He reached an empty telephone booth and called a number. Burbank’s voice responded.
In quick, brief phrases, Cliff gave his report. Burbank’s quiet, patient voice checked the information. Cliff hung up the receiver.
The word was in. His job now was to meet Donegan at the Club Yama.
EVEN as Cliff Marsland was leaving the drug store, a telephone was ringing in a room of the Dolban Hotel, near Ninety-sixth Street. Harry Vincent answered it. He had moved up to the Dolban to keep away from observation by Flash Donegan’s underlings.
Burbank’s quiet voice greeted Harry’s response.
“Emergency,” came Burbank’s warning. “Go direct to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. Call back for instructions.”
Within three minutes, Harry was on board an uptown subway train. The hidden wheels of The Shadow’s secret machinery were clicking. The Shadow’s agent was in the race to reach Jerry Middleton — not only in the race, but leading the field.
The man with the clew had visited Cardona. Dunc Miller’s information was now turned to use for The Shadow!
CHAPTER XV
MIDDLETON SPEAKS AGAIN
THE side entrance of the old house loomed black as Harry Vincent stood before it. There was a dim light upstairs — in the back room on the second floor. Otherwise the house seemed uninhabited.
Harry tried the door. It was locked. The young man pulled some keys from his pocket.
Picking locks was not one of Harry’s natural accomplishments. But he had learned important secrets of that art during his period of service with The Shadow.
Harry risked the glow of his flashlight, and smiled as he saw that the lock was a simple one. He tried a master key. The lock turned.
Within the house, Harry was more free with his light. He saw a stairway, leading from the front. He followed it to the second floor. In another minute he stood listening outside Middleton’s door.
The heavy breathing of a man was audible. The door was locked. Harry tried his key, and found that there was a key on the other side. The clicking of metal apparently caused no alarm.
Harry still heard Middleton’s breathing. He was sure that the man was asleep.
Prying with the master key, Harry was quickly rewarded. A dull plop from the other side of the door showed that the inner key had been forced from the lock, and had fallen on a carpeted floor.
Harry opened the door and entered. By a rear, shaded window, a young man reclined in an armchair. There was only one light in the room.
Harry approached and put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. The sleeper’s eyes opened. A startled gasp burst from his lips. Then his head dropped back. He appeared exhausted.
“Middleton,” whispered Harry, “I’ve come to warn you. The police are coming. I am a friend. We must get out of here.”
“The police?” questioned Middleton. “Let them come. I’m ready to give myself up. I’ve been afraid to go to them. I hope they’ll be here soon.”
“Come,” said Harry.
He tried to help Middleton to rise. The young man floundered back helpless. Harry realized that the fellow had reached a state of complete nervous exhaustion. It would be impossible to get him out of here.
But that was not necessary. Harry had another plan — it involved risk, but he was willing to take it. In a moment, he could tell if it were practical.
“Don’t make any noise,” he warned.
Harry extinguished the light. He raised the shade beside Middleton, and peered into the darkness. He barely distinguished the outline of a roof over the back porch.
Leaning out, Harry looked upward. The top of Middleton’s window projected. Above it was the flat roof of the building. Yes, the plan was feasible.
Harry, strong and agile, knew that he could clamber above the porch and hoist himself to the housetop in less than half a minute. The porch roof spread, and the buildings in the rear were dark. He could make his escape free from observation.
Once on the housetop, the rest was easy. There were several houses in the row; this one was at the end. A flight across the roofs and a clean get-away. All while Cardona and his invaders were looking for Middleton!
HARRY opened the side window. The little door was just below. That was where Cardona would approach. Harry’s job was plain. Here, by the side window, he could talk to Middleton.
He would also be on hand as a prosecutor in case one of Flash Donegan’s men arrived before the police. When Cardona came, he could have Middleton — for the man’s information would then be on its way to The Shadow, with Harry bearing it!
Even if Harry should be found with Middleton, there would be no serious consequences. For Harry was not engaged in crime. He could pose as a good Samaritan, who had helped Middleton to his home. The man’s weakened condition would make the story plausible.
These possibilities flashed quickly through Harry’s keen brain. Now, leaning forward in a chair by the side window, he began his quiz.
“You’re worried, old fellow,” he said gently. “I’m here to help you. Talk to me.”
“You’re a friend?”
“Yes.”
The tone impressed Jerry Middleton, and the darkness eased his nervousness. He realized that his enemies already knew what he knew. Only a friend would want to hear his story.
“I’ll talk to you,” he said. “I’ll talk. Don’t question me. I’ve got to talk, or I’ll go mad!
“I knew all about these murders — all before they happened. All except Hasbrouck. That was news when I read it in the paper.
“I’m to blame, but I was in it before I knew it. I joined the cult. I believed that crime was right. I brought Buchanan there. I wanted him to be one of us. Then I saw the book.”
“What book?”
“The Book of Death. We were all in it. Each had his page — a page of death. But we of the faith were immune — unless we broke the faith.
“I learned all that, and then I found that Buchanan was not one of us. He had not stood the secret test. He was to be — a sacrifice!
“I was afraid then. Afraid when Charn called for me alone and showed me the book. But I took some more of the drink that Charn gave me. It made me happy. I agreed to the sacrifice. I was there. I saw — I saw Buchanan die!
“That changed me. I had some of the drink. I knew it was dope — hashish, I thought. I left town the next day. I tried to forget. It was all right until the drink was gone. Then I seemed to become mad.
“I tried to get some hashish. I failed. I tried other narcotics. I could stand none of them. Then came terrible dreams — dreams with the names of others who were written in the book.
“Dale Wharton’s name was among them. I wrote him from Connecticut. He tried to come to see me secretly. He was being watched — by Charn. He was killed.
“George Andrews, another. I was going to see him. I arrived too late. He was hanging, dead. Then Charles Blefken. I had to warn him. I thought he was safe when I found him at his home.
“Then, when he left the room, I was frightened. I was afraid to stay. I found his body. I didn’t wait an instant. I hurried here. Now I am afraid to leave this place. Afraid — afraid—”
Middleton’s voice died away in a slow, hoarse whisper. The man’s head dropped back in the chair. Harry listened by the side window. He heard nothing. He knew that Cardona could not be entirely noiseless. There were still important facts to learn.
“The mark of Charn,” murmured Middleton vacantly. “The mark of Charn. I saw it placed on Buchanan’s forehead. The mark—”
He gave a slight cough; then came a whispered gargle. Harry waited for him to speak again. He heard a slight hissing from Middleton, as though the man were exhaling between his teeth.
Then, the dim form of the man by the window slid to the right. Harry could see the whiteness of his face as it fell forward.