ONE hour later, Doctor Sayre, returning with the promised newspapers, found his patient slumbering peacefully. The physician placed the journals on the table beside the bed; he arranged bottles of medicine, left a brief note stating the time that he would return; then departed.
At that precise time, Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was making a telephone call from a phone booth in an East Side drug store. Through Burbank, he was receiving orders from The Shadow.
A grim smile showed on Cliff’s face as the agent left the store. Keen of visage, square of chin, Cliff was a young man of predominating vigor. They called him a killer in the underworld. Cliff had never denied the reputation. Recognized as a free lance mobster of high skill, Cliff was able to serve The Shadow and at the same keep clear of suspicion.
There was a reason for Cliff’s smile. Cliff had accomplished something during this week that he had been working on his own. Like other lone hands like himself, he had joined the parade. Cliff Marsland had become a minion of The Crime Master!
The Shadow had assigned Cliff to this duty prior to the battle of last Tuesday. But The Shadow had added the proviso that Cliff must delay the action until opportunity arose for association with important members of The Crime Master’s huge band.
Cliff’s chance had come within the last few days. Louie Harger, his forces depleted after the fight at the Associated Importing Company, had been looking for new sharpshooters. Cliff had learned of this; he was now a member of Louie’s new crew.
Louie’s mob had its hangout at the Black Ship, a dive as notorious as the Pink Rat. Here, Cliff had noted single members of the mob stroll out; one had left two nights ago; one had gone last night.
This evening, a call had come for Cliff. It was Louie; the gangleader had ordered his new henchmen to come over to his room at the Hotel Spartan. On his way to the appointment, Cliff had called Burbank. By a stroke of real fortune, he had received timely orders from The Shadow.
“If you are given an envelope—”
This had been the opening of Burbank’s statement. Cliff was puzzling over the words as he paced along beneath the high structure of an East Side elevated. It was apparent that The Shadow must have gained some important knowledge that pertained to The Crime Master’s methods.
THE Hotel Spartan was a decadent structure that fronted on the elevated. Cliff Marsland reached the building; he entered the frowsy lobby and inquired of the suspicious looking clerk if Louie Harger happened to be in his room.
“Your name’s Marsland, ain’t it?” questioned the clerk.
Cliff nodded.
“Go on up. Room three six four.”
Cliff reached the room. He rapped at the door; a growl sounded. Cliff entered to find his new boss, Louie Harger, seated at a desk in the corner of the room.
“Hello, Cliff.”
“Hello, Louie.”
The greetings were terse. Though their motives and principles differed widely, Cliff Marsland and Louie Harger had certain characteristics in common. Both were men of determination. They possessed a hard-boiled manner that made them contemptuous of the small-fry denizens of the underworld.
It was plain that Louie was pleased with his new underling. The gangleader wasted no words as he handed an envelope to Cliff. Louie spoke in terse fashion.
“I want this passed along,” he declared. “Give it to some heel. Tell the mug to open it, take the dough inside and deliver the inner envelope to the guy it’s addressed to.”
Cliff nodded.
“Be careful about the bird you pick,” added Louie. “Grab some mug who’s easy to scare. Tell him to move — and nudge him with a rod just to hurry him along. Get me?”
“Right.”
Cliff thrust the envelope in his pocket. He smiled grimly as he left the hotel room. He knew the import of this envelope. It was a message from The Crime Master, passing through the hands of Louie Harger, for delivery to some other crook whom Louie did not even know!
Leaving the Hotel Spartan, Cliff started briskly toward the Black Ship. Making sure that he was not followed, he suddenly changed his course; doubling through an alleyway, he turned back along another street. He entered a blind alley; at the end of the cul-de-sac, he entered a doorway. Up one flight, Cliff came into a room and lighted a gas jet. This was Cliff’s temporary abode.
The Shadow’s agent produced the envelope. It was sealed; but that meant nothing. Cliff lighted a tin of canned heat and placed a tiny kettle over the flame. Soon water began to boil. Steam issued from the kettle’s spout.
Holding the envelope in the vapor, Cliff loosened the flap. He found a ten-dollar bill inside the envelope; with it, an inner packet that bore the name:
TURK BODELL
Cliff grinned. It was a certainty that any small-time skulker of the badlands would certainly deliver this note. Turk Bodell was head of a most insidious outfit. Safe blowers, pineapple throwers, men who handled explosives and stirred “soup” — these were the kind of minions whom Bodell governed.
Cliff steamed open the inner envelope. He found a folded sheet of heavy paper. Opening the message, he stared at the peculiar signature — an embossed seal that showed a scimitar behind a skull. Then Cliff read the orders.
NODDING thoughtfully, The Shadow’s agent replaced the paper in the envelope. He sealed the wrapper carefully; added the banknote and placed both in the outer envelope. Cliff Marsland was in on the know. He had learned the vital point in The Crime Master’s newest scheme — a stroke that was due to arrive tonight!
Cliff extinguished the flame beneath the kettle. He turned out the gas light. He was stealthy as he left his room. Reaching the alleyway, he headed westward. Soon he was clear of the badlands. Cliff arrived at a hotel; he entered and found a telephone booth. He called Burbank.
“Turk Bodell…” Cliff was terse in his report. “One o’clock… Wingroft Jewelry Store… Blowing the outer door — then a cleanup. There’s more besides.
“It looks like The Crime Master is stealing an idea from Weston. No mobsters will be near there at one. The note tips off Bodell… Yes… Squads will move in at the zero hour… That’s the idea; they’re coming up just ahead of the police.
“Cars will pick up the burglars… Running fight all along… No concentration.”
Cliff paused. He heard Burbank’s voice telling him to stand by. Cliff hung up the receiver. He waited for five minutes. The telephone rang; Cliff was prompt in his answer. He had given Burbank the number of the pay station; he knew that the contact man had communicated with The Shadow.
“Hello… Yes…” Cliff grinned as he listened. His replies were brief affirmations until Burbank completed the orders. Then came Cliff’s final utterance: “Instructions received.”
The Shadow’s agent left the telephone booth. Clutching the sealed envelope in his pocket, he started back on his eastward journey. It was not yet ten o’clock; three full hours remained in which to forestall crime.
From the note in his pocket, with its complete orders to Turk Bodell, Cliff had given The Shadow a perfect picture of tonight’s lay. There would be others in The Crime Master’s game besides Turk Bodell; but the head of the dynamite crew was the key man in the game.
Orders from The Shadow! They were instructions that Cliff could follow promptly. The new campaign had come into its own. The envelope that Cliff carried would go to its destination; but it would not further The Crime Master’s plan.
Simply, but effectively, The Shadow had decided on a counterstroke. The disabled warrior was counting upon Cliff Marsland to pave the way in a thrust against crime!