A man stepped from beside the door. Trigger spoke to him in a low growclass="underline"
“Hello, Herb. Where’s Greasy? Upstairs?”
“Yeah, Trigger, waitin’ for you.”
“All right.”
Holding his hand in front of him, Trigger spread his fingers, then closed his fist. He repeated the action twice. Herb nodded. Trigger entered the apartment. Herb slouched away from the door.
It was dark on the other side of the street. Herb did not see the figure that arrived there. He did not catch a glimpse of the blackened form that moved along toward the corner of the apartment house; nor did he see those burning eyes that stared upward toward the third floor of the building which Trigger had entered.
A light had appeared in a room on that floor. A soft laugh came in eerie whispered tones. A phantom shape glided across the street, unseen by Herb. It reached the side wall.
A squidgy sound occurred. It was made by concave rubber disks, attached to hands and feet. A batlike figure began its ascent straight up the precipitous bricks. Its goal was that lighted room.
Squawky Sugler had been right in his fears. The mysterious watcher was The Shadow. Like Squawky, the master of the night had chosen the Pink Rat as a post of observation. But where the stool pigeon had failed to see evidence of coming crime, The Shadow had detected it.
That was why The Shadow had left the Pink Rat. His disguise covered by his cloaking garb of black, The Shadow was planning a surprise visit. He was here to learn what Trigger Maddock had received from the small-fry crook during that interlude in the Pink Rat!
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THE Pink Rat was a cross-roads of the underworld. Gangsters, con men, dope peddlers — the scum of Manhattan made the place their rendezvous. Two rules governed the patrons of the joint. Men wanted by the police were barred; gang fights or lesser altercations were taboo.
The enforcement of these two provisions kept the Pink Rat unmolested. Although gambling and dope were ever present in the dive, the law violations were not on a large scale. Technically, the police should have closed the Pink Rat. They left it open because it drew customers from secret and more dangerous dives; also because it was a spot where stool pigeons had opportunities for picking up information.
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CHAPTER III
TRIGGER TALKS
TRIGGER MADDOCK had reached his apartment. The place was a tawdry, two-room affair. Both rooms had windows on the side. It was the first room — the living room — that The Shadow had observed from below.
Trigger had closed the door behind him. Standing just inside the room, he was tearing open an envelope that he held in his hands. Trigger had lost no time. This was the object that he had received in the Pink Rat.
Paper crinkled as Trigger opened a note. He scanned the lines hastily. A match crackled. The flame caught the paper; Trigger tossed it, burning, into a wastebasket. Again reaching into the envelope, he brought out an inner envelope. Stepping to the inner door of his apartment, Trigger rapped. A muffled voice responded.
“Come on, Greasy.” Trigger spoke in a growl. “Hurry up. I’ve got a job for you.”
The door opened. A sleepy-looking mobster appeared. “Greasy” was the counterpart of the two mobsters whom Trigger had left back at the Pink Rat.
“Wotcha want, Trigger?”
“Take this envelope.” Trigger handed the man the inner packet. “You know what’s to be done. Slip it along. Like you’ve done before.”
Greasy nodded. He held the envelope between his big paws. It was a plain, white envelope; it crinkled as Greasy bent it.
“What’re you waiting for?” snapped Trigger. “Get a move on, Greasy. Hop to it.”
Trigger was scowling as he eyed his henchman. Greasy shrugged his shoulders and grinned.
“All right, Trigger,” he responded. “I didn’t know you was in a hurry. Leave it to me. I’ll pass it along in a hurry.”
Greasy was looking toward Trigger as he spoke. Hence neither man was gazing toward the window. Neither caught a glimpse of the burning eyes that had arrived above the sill.
The Shadow had reached the window. He had seen Trigger deliver the inner envelope to Greasy. More than that; he observed the outer wrapper which Trigger still held.
Trigger nudged his thumb toward the door. Greasy nodded. Shoving his packet in his pocket, the big-fisted gangster strode across the room, opened the door and made his departure.
IT was then that Trigger looked again toward the opened envelope which he held in his own hands. It bore his name upon the face; that was all. Trigger tore the envelope into four pieces. He went to the metal wastebasket. The flames had subsided. Trigger dropped the fragments of the envelope in with the ashes of the message that he had destroyed.
Bringing a cigarette from his pocket, Trigger lighted it. He blew out the flame of the match and tossed the burnt stick in the wastebasket. He laughed in growling fashion as he puffed the cigarette. He turned toward the window.
A sudden, blurted oath came from the gangster’s lips. His fingers dropped the lighted cigarette. His right hand shot toward his pocket; then stopped midway. Thinking better, Trigger let both hands come up toward his shoulders while a frozen scowl appeared upon his blunt-nosed face.
Trigger Maddock was staring squarely into the muzzle of an automatic. That was a factor in itself; but Trigger had faced too many guns in his time to quail at the sight of a new one. What brought Trigger to rigidity was the sight of the intruder who held the looming weapon.
The automatic was projecting from a black-gloved fist. Above the gun, peering from between the upturned collar of a cloak and the brim of a slouch hat were a pair of fierce, relentless eyes.
“The Shadow!”
Trigger’s voice was an awed gasp. The whispered laugh that came in return was proof of the arrival’s identity.
“What — what do you want?” Trigger’s stammer was an attempted growl.
“The message.” The Shadow’s tone was a hiss. “Give me the information you received at the Pink Rat.”
Trigger hesitated. The Shadow’s gaze meant business. Trigger knew his eyes could see the opened window — that The Shadow might have witnessed Greasy’s departure.
“There’s nothing here,” protested Trigger. “I got an envelope down at the Pink Rat. Yeah — I’ll admit that. But I gave what was in the envelope to Greasy—”
“I saw the inner packet.” The Shadow’s interruption was cold. “I saw you tear the outer envelope. I also saw the flames from the paper that you destroyed.”
Trigger had no answer. The wastebasket, in the center of the floor, gave its own mute testimony. The ashes showed along with the fragments of the envelope that Trigger had thrown there also.
“The message!” hissed The Shadow. “Speak!”
“It wasn’t much,” growled Trigger, finding his voice at last. “It just told me to have a few guys ready — that’s all.”
“Proceed,” came The Shadow’s orders.
Trigger knew that he could not stall. He shifted as his eyes met The Shadow’s gaze. His lips were dry as he licked them nervously.
“It’s some kind of a job,” admitted Trigger. “A big shot wanted me and my crew. Say — suppose I tell you all I know. What do I get out of it?”
THE SHADOW’S laugh came in a whispered taunt. The shuddered mirth seemed to fill the room. It reverberated from the walls with sinister echoes that made Trigger shake.
“Death.” The Shadow phrased the word weirdly. “Death — unless you speak.”