“That is why I prefer to go downstairs to a public pay station. I shall not be more than ten minutes. I can call from the drug store in the next block. Make yourself quite at home, Mr. Vincent.”
With this, Jubal made a prompt departure, leaving Harry Vincent puffing at his cigar. As soon as Jubal had gone, a grim smile showed on the visitor’s steady lips.
Harry Vincent had been seeking James Jubal with a definite purpose. Ostensibly a young New Yorker with a private income, Harry actually played a hidden but adventurous role. He was an agent of The Shadow. A secret aid to an amazing master who battled all undercurrents of crime.
The Shadow had learned of James Jubal. He knew that the suave man was a swindler. The Shadow had delegated Harry Vincent to contact with Jubal and learn the details of the fake promoter’s game. Harry had started his appointed task.
He had made a mistake in the beginning. By way of introduction to Jubal — through correspondence — Harry had mentioned the name of Rutledge Mann, a New York investment broker.
Mann, like Harry, was a secret agent of The Shadow.
Jubal did not suspect that fact. But Jubal did know that Mann was a dealer in reputable securities. The swindler had therefore suspected that Harry Vincent might be out to trap him. To counteract Harry’s efforts, Jubal had been cagey in all his references to the Chalice Gold Mine.
Jubal did not want Harry Vincent on the “sucker list.” Harry knew it. But he was making the best of a bad beginning, seeking to lull Jubal. Harry had managed this visit as his first actual meeting with the swindler.
Fifteen minutes passed. Harry had finished his cigar. Jubal had not returned.
The telephone bell jingled. It repeated. Harry answered it. He heard Jubal’s voice.
“Mr. Vincent?” Jubal’s purr was smooth across the wire. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Listen, old man; I have to go to Chicago. Just time to catch the next train. I’ve just checked out, downstairs.”
“Wait for me in the lobby,” suggested Harry.
“I can’t,” protested Jubal. “The cab is waiting. Call me next week, old fellow. Good-by.”
THE receiver clicked at the other end. Harry Vincent hung up his own telephone. He smiled sourly. He looked about the room, opened a closet door, and saw emptiness. No trace of luggage. James Jubal must have checked all his belongings downstairs.
The rogue had pulled a stall. Harry knew it and felt disgruntled. He should have suspected the game in the beginning; but Jubal had pulled it smoothly. The swindler had dropped Harry like a hot potato.
Chicago? Harry shook his head. That city would not be Jubal’s destination. Perhaps the man intended to remain in New York. If there were only some trace of Jubal’s real objective, this investigation would not be a total failure.
A thought struck Harry Vincent. The Shadow’s agent went to the telephone and examined the pad. He saw marks on the upper sheet: the piece of paper that had been directly beneath the one which Jubal had torn away.
Harry took the pad and carried it to the window. The tracing was illegible; nevertheless, it was the only clue. Finding an envelope, Harry inserted the pad, pocketed it and picked up hat and coat. He strolled from the hotel room.
TWENTY minutes later, Harry Vincent entered the inner office of a suite that was located high in the towering Badger Building. Seated at a mahogany desk, Harry found a chubby-faced man who extended a hand in lethargic fashion. This gentleman was Rutledge Mann.
Briefly, Harry told of his visit to Jubal’s. Mann listened; then stared reflectively from the window, eyeing the pinnacles of Manhattan’s sky line. Then Mann turned and spoke in deliberate fashion.
“It was a mistake,” he granted, “to mention my name. Jubal realized that I would not have sent a customer to him. However, the damage has been done. I shall forward your report.”
“And this goes with it,” put in Harry, extending the envelope that contained the pad.
“Yes,” agreed Mann. “And in the meantime, Vincent, remain at your own hotel.”
Harry Vincent took his leave.
Rutledge Mann found a ready sheet of paper and used a fountain pen to inscribe a message in ink of vivid blue. This writing was in code. Mann allowed the ink to dry; then folded the sheet promptly and inserted it in an envelope. With it he placed the pad that Harry had brought.
It was after half past five. Mann arose, left his office, and took an elevator to the street. There he entered a taxi and rode to Twenty-third Street. Dusk was settling as the chubby-faced investment broker approached an old, dilapidated building.
Mann entered the antiquated structure and ascended a flight of rickety stairs. He followed a dingy hallway and stopped in front of a secluded door. Upon a grimy glass panel appeared the name:
B. JONAS
Mann dropped his envelope in a mail chute in the door. That done, the investment broker strolled away.
His part had been completed. That office served as The Shadow’s mail box. Later, the mysterious chief would call and obtain the envelope.
The telephone clue had been passed to The Shadow. A slender thread amid a skein of approaching complications; yet it was destined to bring The Shadow into contact with a strange trail of coming crime.
CHAPTER III. CROSS TRAILS
MANHATTAN’S dusk had become evening’s darkness. Times Square was again a mass of glitter that gave the false impression of a city widespread with light. For New York, despite the brilliance of its centers, harbored spots that were dark with menace.
Such was an alleyway within the borders of the underworld. There, darkness was jet. Shuffling forms were barely discernible as they headed into the little cul-de-sac. This alleyway was the entrance to a dive frequented by mobsters. A place called “Louie’s Joint.”
An opening door sent a wedge of light out into the alleyway. The door closed; darkness returned. Then came another arrival; again a brief flash of light. Louie’s Joint had gained another customer.
Inside that barring door was a smoke-filled room, where rowdies sat about at battered tables. The raucous gibes of hoodlums showed that some of the throng were merry. But in one corner of the room, hard-faced men were engaged in serious conversation.
Half a dozen in all, this group was discussing news that had come along the “grapevine.” One big fellow, a dock-walloper called Jeff, was making comment while the others listened.
“It don’t sound likely that Bugs Barwold is back in town,” commented Jeff. “You can’t count on the grapevine all the time. You know how it is — any heel can gum the works by starting off some hokum.”
“Yeah,” growled a listening mobster.
“But one thing’s sure,” continued the big dock-walloper. “If Bugs is around, he’ll be up to see that moll of his. The one that works at the Club Renaldo.”
Nods from the gang. One man alone did not join. He was a chisel-faced chap who sat directly opposite Jeff. The dock-walloper noted that this man had not nodded. He put a query to the chisel-faced listener.
“What about it, Cliff?” demanded Jeff. “Ain’t I right? Wouldn’t Bugs roll in to see the moll?”
“He wouldn’t go to the Club Renaldo,” returned the man addressed as Cliff.
“Right,” came a comment.
Jeff grinned. The dock-walloper had an answer to the statement. He looked at the chisel-faced man. Cliff Marsland was something of a hero in the bad lands. He was known as a killer; yet one on whom the bulls had pinned nothing. Jeff wanted to impress Cliff Marsland.