Gummy had attributed two murders to a gangleader named Whitey Calban. Joe Cardona felt sure that the reliable stool had gained the facts. But there was no way of tracking Whitey to his present lair. Cardona’s face showed grimly in lamplight as the sleuth neared the borders of the underworld.
This would mean the dragnet. Tonight, from headquarters, Joe would have to pass the word for a complete search of the underworld. Skulking criminals would be hauled before the law. Those most liable to suspicion would receive the third degree. Some one, Joe felt sure, would squawk on Whitey Calban, even though the gangleader might himself escape the mesh.
JOE CARDONA had passed the Pink Rat. Even had he entered the dive, he would not have learned more than Gummy the stool had told him. For the Pink Rat sheltered a cagey lot of ruffians. Little of importance was spilled within its walls.
Rat-faced mobsters — men who had managed to dodge suspicion of the police — were assembled in the smoke-filled room that formed the chief portion of the Pink Rat. Bottles were pounding upon tables. Glasses were clincking. Oaths came in gnarling, raspy tones.
The Pink Rat was not a healthy place for strangers. Not more than three stool pigeons outside of Gummy would dare to enter its portals. But hardened, recognized denizens of the underworld were welcomed in this dive. It was the hangout for the toughest.
A fellow with a chiseled-face came sauntering through the door. Hands were raised in greeting as this newcomer — better dressed than most of the other patrons — sauntered to a table by an inner door.
This was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent was regarded as a killer by those of the underworld. He belonged to a class of supergorillas. He was a fighter whom any gangleader would have chosen for a lieutenant.
No one suspected Cliff’s real mission in the badlands. None of the denizens of the Pink Rat would have believed that Cliff was working for The Shadow. They did not know that Cliff, tonight, had just completed an intensive tour through the tenderloin, searching for Whitey Calban’s hideout.
The Shadow’s agent had learned as much as Gummy — no more. His discoveries, however, had been shared by another. The Shadow had also been sojourning in scumland. He, like Cliff, had picked Whitey Calban as the probable killer of Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton.
THE waiters in the Pink Rat were an odd lot of aproned ruffians who looked as tough as the patrons. Every one was a capable bouncer. All were ready to pounce upon stools, battle with police or mix it with unruly mobsters should occasion demand. New faces constantly appeared among their number. The waiter who thumped a bottle on Cliff’s table was a long-faced fellow whom The Shadow’s agent had never seen before.
The waiter was apparently left handed. As his fingers still encircled the bottle, Cliff Marsland stared. Upon the third finger of the left hand, The Shadow’s agent spied the flashing sparkle of a strange gem that flickered changing hues beneath the light. It was The Shadow’s girasol — the strange fire-opal that was an unmatched jewel.
Cliff had been instructed to report here to The Shadow. With him, Cliff had the data that The Shadow needed. It was in a small envelope — a list of the places where Cliff had been in search of Whitey Calban.
Moistening his thumb upon his tongue, Cliff followed the action by placing his hand in his pocket. He found the flap of the little envelope; dampened it; then pressed it against the flabby surface of a banknote. Drawing a roll of currency from his pocket, Cliff peeled off the bill that held the envelope. He stared straight at the bottle as he laid the banknote — a ten spot — on the table, with the envelope beneath.
The girasol glimmered as the waiter’s hand moved from the bottle. The hand crunched the ten-dollar bill. Cliff, glancing upward, saw a stoop-shouldered form shambling through the opening at the back of the Pink Rat.
Five minutes later, the waiter reappeared. His hand laid bills and change upon the table. Grasping the crinkling one-spots, Cliff could feel a little envelope among them. He thrust the money in his pocket.
Cliff knew that The Shadow, like himself, had been searching this district. Cliff had gone to certain places at The Shadow’s order, which Cliff had gained through Burbank. Both searches had been futile. Hence this rendezvous at the Pink Rat.
The Shadow had added Cliff’s list to his own. Striking off the places that had proven worthless, The Shadow was ordering a new search. The Shadow would go to certain spots; Cliff to others.
Cliff’s new list had reached his pocket with the money. Watching, Cliff saw the stoop-shouldered waiter nearing the door that led outside. That barrier was at the opposite end of the Pink Rat. Cliff knew that The Shadow was leaving.
Cliff’s gaze wandered. It would be his turn to depart shortly. The Shadow’s agent pushed bottle and glass aside. He was about to rise from his chair when he heard a sharp challenge from the other end of the room. Buzzing conversation ended as mobsters stared toward the other end of the smoke-filled dive.
Two regular waiters had blocked the path of the one who had neared the outer door. They were arguing with him. They did not recognize him as one of the regular waiters at the Pink Rat. They were not satisfied with his explanation that he had come on the job tonight.
“Yeah?” a beefy-faced waiter was demanding. “So you want to scram, do you? Well, you ain’t goin’ to. There’s been too many stools around this joint lately. We ain’t lettin’ nobody like you get out.”
In response, the stoop-shouldered waiter released a sudden jab to the beefy face before him. The challenger collapsed as the sock reached his jaw. The other challenger let out a yell as he pounced upon the false waiter. With one accord, the patrons of the Pink Rat were leaping to their feet to join in the fray. As the brawlers struggled by the door, burly mobsmen sprang to block the barrier.
THE Pink Rat was lighted by three sets of ceiling lights. Those at each end of the basement dive were clusters. The central illumination came from a single frosted bulb set in the middle of the ceiling.
Each set operated from a different circuit. One switch was by the outer door, the other was close to the table where Cliff Marsland sat. The third — the central switch — was in back of an improvised bar.
As mobsters, anxious for strife, were leaping to their feet, the false waiter sent his second antagonist sprawling from a vicious wallop. The challenger rolled across the floor.
The fake waiter did not pause. His left hand shot to the light switch near the outer door. Before mobsters could stop him, he had pressed the switch. At the same instant, his right hand came from the side of his smudgy apron. An automatic boomed; the aim was perfect. The bullet shattered the big light in the center of the dive.
Cliff was acting as The Shadow fired. No eyes were in his direction. With a quick grasp, Cliff yanked the switch by the inner door. The smoky dive was plunged in darkness; with it came the jeering, strident tones of a weird laugh.
The Shadow! Mobsters knew with whom they had to deal. The odor of powder mingled with the aroma of tobacco as revolvers barked wildly toward the spot where the enemy had last been seen. Flashlights glimmered; they dropped as booming shots from an automatic picked the hands that turned lights toward the door.
The mobsters at the entrance were pouncing in the dark. Fierce hands were grasping for the invisible quarry. The Shadow, close to the wall by the door, was eluding them. He had drawn a second automatic in the darkness. Swinging this weapon, The Shadow was clearing the path.
His adversaries were at a hopeless disadvantage. They were gripping for one among several; but to The Shadow all forms were those of enemies with whom he could deal.