Blissip heard a brief acknowledgment. Then, in a cautious tone, he said:
“I can tell you a lot about Mexico, when you get over here… I’ll wait in until you come… What is that?”
Blissip’s face clouded in momentary perplexity. Then it cleared. The man smiled.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll expect to hear from you before eleven o’clock… I’m not telling anyone that I’m in town… This mysterious business of yours has puzzled me a bit, but I figure you can explain it all when you see me… I brought along a map of Mexico, but a larger one would be better if you have it. Good… Don’t forget the room number… 1378.”
Burton Blissip of Buffalo hung up the receiver. He opened his suitcase and took out a folded map. He laid it on the writing table. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was nearly six o’clock. He decided to go out to dinner.
THE telephone call had been one-sided. Harland Mullrick, seated in his living room, had spoken only in short, terse syllables. Rising from his telephone table, he folded a slip of paper upon which he had written the number 1378. He faced Jerry Herston. who was seated at the other side of the room.
“Another one of those nut phone calls,” remarked Mullrick, in a nonchalant tone. “Ever since I’ve arrived from Mexico, I’ve had crazy birds bothering me to find out if there are any opportunities down in that country.”
“I noticed the other fellow was doing most of the talking,” observed Herston. “Who was he?”
“I wrote his name here,” returned Mullrick, holding up the slip of paper. “That doesn’t mean anything, though. I might as well forget it. You heard me stall the fellow, didn’t you? I’ll never bother to look him up.”
Mullrick was strolling by the end window as he spoke. He stopped and raised the sash. Its creaking noise was plain just above the sill. Mullrick tore the paper into two pieces and tossed the halves through the narrow space between sash and sill. He closed the window and sat down to tune in the radio.
In his careless, indifferent pose, Harland Mullrick had not noticed that the torn pieces of paper had not passed beyond the sill. They rested there, white bits upon the darkened sill. It was a mild evening; only a slight breeze was stirring. The pieces of paper remained.
IN the apartment above, Burbank laid aside his ear phones. He dropped his pencil on his sheet of notes. He had heard the monosyllables of Mullrick’s telephone conversation. They merely formed an unintelligible jargon, which read:
“Hello… Who is calling… Oh, yes… I see. You decided to look me up… That’s right. It’s hardly important… Yes… Yes… A good hotel… Yes… I cannot promise to see you tonight… I’m very busy; if I have the opportunity, I’ll get in touch with you. You understand, of course… All right… Good… Yes, I can… I have a large map… I’ll remember it…”
Under the notation, Burbank had added the remarks passed between Mullrick and Herston. After this, he had added the comments: “window raised” and “radio turned on.” Burbank had plainly heard the grating of the lifted sash, which was just above the hidden microphone that Burbank had planted behind the radiator in Mullrick’s living room.
Knowing that there would be no further conversation during the next few minutes, Burbank had deserted his post for the express purpose of learning — if possible — why Mullrick had raised the window. Moving to the corresponding window of his own apartment, Burbank raised the sash and peered below. His back made a bulky block against the dusky twilight. Looking downward, Burbank saw two white spots upon the outer sill of Mullrick’s window.
A slight flutter indicated that these were slips of paper. Burbank wanted them. Unlike The Shadow, he had no capability for making precipitous descents. Nevertheless, Burbank was resourceful. He stepped back from the window. He looked upward; then reached in that direction. He brought down a telescopic curtain rod which stretched above the window.
Burbank, during his long hours of duty, resorted to one methodical habit as he bided away the time. He always had a supply of chewing gum. Holding the curtain rod, he pulled a piece of gum from his mouth and affixed the sticky object to the end of the curtain rod.
Leaning from the window, he stretched the rod downward. He pressed its end against one piece of paper and drew the rod upward. hand over hand.
Detaching the slip, Burbank let the rod down to capture the other piece of paper. Here he made an error in calculation. The elusive paper flipped over from a gust of breeze; Burbank’s curtain rod swung slightly. The slip dropped from the edge of the outer sill. Caught in a slight eddy of air, it floated down the wall for a foot or more, and lodged on the narrow projecting cornice.
This gave Burbank a more difficult task; at the same time, it obviated the need for caution. The slip of paper was away from Mullrick’s window. Climbing to the sill of his own window, Burbank clutched the window frame with his right hand. The swinging curtain rod in his left he stretched his free arm along the wall and let the end of the rod touch the cornice. It barely reached. A motion of his wrist; Burbank planted the gummed end of the curtain rod upon the second slip.
Back to a safer position, Burbank brought the rod up hand over hand, telescoped it, and removed the second bit of paper. He hurried back to the ear phones. He could hear the radio still playing.
Removing the set, Burbank put other ear phones on his head. He connected with The Shadow’s sanctum, while he laid out the slips of paper. The Shadow’s voice came over the wire. In brief words, Burbank explained what he had done. He read off the figures: “One three seven eight.”
“Await arrival,” came The Shadow’s order.
Burbank closed the connection and went back to his dictograph receiver. He heard the radio stop abruptly. He listened for new conversation.
IN the apartment below, Harland Mullrick began to pace the floor. He was wrapped in thought. Jerry Herston sat stolidly awaiting word from him. Pascual was crossing the living room, engaged on some minor duty.
It was quite dark outside; none of the three had observed the manipulated curtain rod which Burbank had carefully maneuvered beyond the window.
“I’ve got to be careful, Jerry,” remarked Mullrick. “That’s why I had you look over the telephone connection to this apartment. You are sure that there’s not a chance of a tapped wire at the terminal box?”
“Not a chance,” returned Herston. “Say, Mullrick, if any dumb dicks are trying to get anything on you, I’d know it quick enough.”
“I’m counting on that, Jerry. At the same time, it pays to be cautious. When I deal with certain people, I don’t tell others about it. I’ve made an exception in your case, because I know I can rely on you.”
Mullrick paused. It appeared for a few minutes that he intended to talk more fully. But as he surveyed Jerry Herston with shrewd eyes, Mullrick evidently decided to keep his important ideas to himself.
“Fix up something for tonight,” he ordered. “I’ll go out with you again, Jerry. I want to think things over a while, by myself. You run downtown for dinner. Suppose I meet you about eight o’clock.”
“And if—”
“Call it eight. If you have to wait a few minutes, or maybe more—”
“It will still be eight o’clock.”
Herston arose from his chair and strolled to the door. Pascual gave him his hat and coat. The ex-detective departed.
When he had gone, Harland Mullrick still continued to pace the floor. At last, he sat down by the table. He drew a pencil from his pocket, picked up a sheet of paper, and wrote the name: