Harry checked on all passengers who came aboard 3 D while the train stood in the Baltimore depot. He looked through the car when he came aboard. Then, when the train was starting, he decided to go up to the club and write out his report.
The Southern Limited resumed its speed. Blazing southward toward the national capital, the huge locomotive tugged a train of silent cars where sleeping passengers lay comfortably in their berths.
In car 3 D, the porter was still wondering why the two men had changed their minds at Baltimore. As he passed lower six, the porter noted that a curtain was hanging loose. He stopped to fasten the buttons, holding the curtains together as he did so. He did not want to wake the passenger within.
He did not know that that passenger had involuntarily changed his berth from lower six to upper two.
Nor did he realize that no disturbance — not even a wreck — could arouse the former occupant of lower six.
For Rudolph Zellwood, despite the cramped confinement of his present quarters, had no complaint to register. Of all the passengers in the car 3 D, he was sleeping most soundly. His repose was the permanent slumber of death.
CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND TRAIL
CLIFF MARSLAND, back in New York, had kept on the trail that he had begun. Greaser Bowden was his quarry and Cliff saw to it that he lost no trace of the man. In this task, Cliff had held one advantage. He knew Greaser well by sight, for it was Cliff’s business to know the characters of the badlands. But Greaser — though he might have recognized Cliff’s name — did not know The Shadow’s agent.
The trail had led to the Club Samoset, a new spot of bright life on Broadway. It had been opened by a former big shot who had made money in the booze racket. With prohibition ended, the one-time hooch merchant had invested his capital in a legitimate night club.
The spot had become a rendezvous for associates of other days and it was exactly the type of place that Cliff would have expected Greaser Bowden to choose. Cliff, always with an eye on Greaser, saw the fellow join a party at a table near the dance floor. Cliff picked a place not far away.
As the party was having dinner, Cliff ordered one for himself. While he ate, he wondered on one point.
Why had Greaser failed to report to some one after leaving the Pennsylvania Station? Cliff knew that Greaser must be in the employ of some one higher up. The only theory that Cliff could finally decide upon was that Greaser had been told to report only if some hitch had occurred at the station.
There was a long and varied floor show at the Club Samoset. Greaser remained to see it. Therefore, Cliff did the same. At intervals, he dropped out to make a phone call to Burbank. He received no new instructions from The Shadow. The only orders were to stay on Greaser’s trail until the man made contact with his unknown chief.
It was after midnight when Greaser decided to leave the night club. As the man was descending the stairs, Cliff saw him glance anxiously at his watch. That was a good sign. It indicated an appointment.
Cliff took up Greaser’s trail, along crowded streets.
Not far from Times Square, Greaser took a side street and entered the lobby of a narrow but ornate apartment house. Cliff noted the name over the door:
ANTRILLA APARTMENTS
The Shadow’s agent did not follow. Instead, he sidled off through the darkness and made a corner cigar store. He had learned exactly what he wanted to know — the name of the man who hired Greaser Bowden. Cliff knew it must be “Dobey” Blitz.
Among erstwhile big shots, Dobey Blitz carried an unusual reputation. The man had been in rackets of many sorts and had acted in many capacities. He had always emerged with a safe skin. For Dobey had a clever way of cloaking his illicit enterprises under legitimate businesses.
One of his lines had been apartment houses. In fact, where rentals and sales were concerned, Dobey had an aptitude that enabled him to make money on the level. Cliff — like every one else in the underworld — had heard of Dobey’s purchase of the Antrilla Apartments. Cliff had never seen the building until to-night, but he knew that Dobey Blitz lived there.
Ex-mobleader, ex-racketeer — Dobey had turned legit for the present. But that signified nothing to those who knew him well. To Cliff, it was a present proof that Dobey was the big shot who had ordered the rubbing out of Sigby Rund. For when Dobey dealt in crime, it was well handled.
From the cigar store, Cliff passed his information to Burbank. The voice over the wire told him to await a reply. When the answer came, Cliff was ordered off duty. Cliff knew what that meant. The Shadow was taking up the work that his agent had begun.
TO all appearances, the lobby of the Antrilla was no different from the usual apartment house. There was a desk, with a clerk always in attendance. There were two elevators; one was always at the ground floor.
There was a doorman constantly on duty. Thus three men were able to look over all who entered, for the elevator operator was quite as observant as the other two.
There were actually twelve such employees, for they worked day and night in eight-hour shifts. All were henchmen of Dobey Blitz and they commanded salaries that were surprisingly large. Every one of the dozen was an ex-gangster. Dobey had simply chosen thugs who looked respectable.
The stairway from the lobby was barred by a heavy, lazy-tonged grille. This was kept shut by a heavy lock. Perhaps it was the presence of that formidable barrier that accounted for the confidence displayed by the clerk, the doorman and whichever elevator operator who happened to be peering from the car at the bottom of the shaft.
For these three watchers were posted to keep undesirable persons from going upstairs. There were tenants — respectable ones — who were allowed free passage. All others had to show credentials to get by. Since the stairway was blocked, the elevators were the focal point that occupied the attention of the watchers.
Less than half an hour after Cliff Marsland had decided not to enter the Antrilla Apartments, a strange figure appeared at the entrance to the lobby. It paused and blended with a darkened depression at the side of the entry. Vaguely, against the gloomy tiling, the figure showed as a spectral shape topped by an outline of cloaked shoulders, hawklike profile and slouch hat.
The Shadow had arrived. With keen eyes, he was peering inward, watching the doorman who paced back and forth within the entrance. A few minutes passed. The doorman stalked toward the desk. It was then that The Shadow moved inward.
Like a ghost, his black form reached the spot where the doorman had been standing. The elevator operator was glancing inward; he did not see the spectral shape that entered. The Shadow’s form seemed to fade toward the far, secluded side of the lobby. It paused beside a bulky, ornamental pillar that was four-sided in shape.
The doorman did not notice the blackened figure that seemed a part of the post. The elevator operator was waiting to go up. He snapped his fingers toward the desk. The clerk, seeing that the dial showed the second car was almost down, gave the signal to go. The door of the elevator clanged.
Eight seconds elapsed while the clerk watched for the arrival of the second car. In that interval, The Shadow moved away from the post. Twenty feet marked his path to a second pillar, where he again became motionless. This pillar was near the stairs.
A few minutes later, the arrival of two people caused clerk and operator to look toward the front door. It was then that The Shadow glided clear of the post and moved phantomlike to the stairs. Six steps up — his spectral form was hidden from observation; but his path was barred by the heavy, telescopic grille.