Scanlon went out at half past ten. Vincent did not follow him immediately this time. He waited long enough to take another elevator downstairs. In the lobby, he went through the motions of busying himself at the magazine rack, while he kept on the lookout for his man. Vincent finally spotted him going through the revolving door, and followed a short distance behind.
Scanlon entered a building on Broadway. Vincent, noting that there was only one entrance, waited patiently on the street.
It was nearly noon when the middle-aged man reappeared. He went into a restaurant, and Vincent followed, seating himself at a distant table.
He trailed Scanlon through an uneventful afternoon - always at a distance. Vincent began to be surprised at the way he could identify the man. He could give Scanlon a full block lead, and spot him crossing a street.
It was not difficult to do this because of the peculiar characteristics the man displayed. His quick, nervous steps would stop at intervals, while he cast a furtive glance backward.
“This fellow is surely worried,” thought Vincent. “My mysterious benefactor is not the only one who’s in this game. Somebody else is after him, I’ll bet a derby.”
Late in the afternoon, Scanlon slipped into a motion-picture theater. Vincent, tired with the aimless chase, was tempted to do likewise; but he decided that the man might be playing some ruse. In this he was evidently wrong, for he waited more than two hours before Scanlon again appeared.
“No percentage in this,” mumbled Vincent as his quarry turned up Broadway. “He’s wandered everywhere with no purpose, and now we’re back near the hotel. But I’ll stick with him. He couldn’t be so aimless without having some pur - Ah! That looks suspicious.”
A hard-faced man with a black mustache had popped suddenly from the obscurity of an orangeade stand. It was at the corner upon which the Metrolite Hotel was located, and Vincent realized that the fellow had held a commanding view of the entrance to the hotel.
The newcomer was short and stocky, and wore a mixed brown overcoat. Vincent’s first suspicion was hardly more than a hunch, but after he watched the actions of the man for a few minutes, he was solidly convinced that he, too, was watching Scanlon.
To put his theory to the test, Vincent neglected Scanlon for the moment, and centered all his attention upon the man in the brown overcoat, who dodged artfully in and out of the crowd and was a difficult quarry, indeed.
After fifteen minutes of further wandering, Vincent became exultant when he again saw Scanlon, turning into a restaurant, half a block ahead. By following the man in the overcoat, he had kept Scanlon in range, also!
The stocky, mustached individual entered the restaurant. Vincent followed and found a table in the corner. He was within twenty feet of Scanlon, but was almost obscured from view by a rack which held overcoats.
He ordered dinner and waited. For a while he saw nothing of the man with the brown overcoat; then Vincent spotted him, walking across the floor. He had taken off his coat and now appeared in a dark-blue suit.
“By George!” exclaimed Vincent softly. “He’s sitting down at the same table with Scanlon! I’ll listen in on this.”
Vincent moved his head toward the side of the coat rack, and caught the conversation.
“Well, well,” began the man with the mustache, whose thick dark hair had become a noticeable characteristic, since he had removed his hat.
Scanlon half jumped from his chair. Vincent caught sight of the man’s startled eyes. Plainly Scanlon did not relish the other’s intrusion.
“You don’t seem to remember me,” continued the dark-haired man.
“I don’t,” replied Scanlon, somewhat gruffly. It was the first time Vincent had heard his voice, and it sounded harsh and grating
“You’re Bob Scanlon, aren’t you?” asked the dark, haired man pleasantly. “Shoe salesman from Frisco?”
“That’s right.”
“You don’t remember me, then?”
“No.”
“Steve Cronin, from Boston,” said the dark-haired man glibly. “Used to sell shoes myself. Met you at the convention in Chicago, five years ago. Out of the game now. Been here in New York four years. Remember you, though. Good time we had out there.”
He held out his hand, which Scanlon shook rather reluctantly.
“Don’t mind my eating with you?” persisted the man who called himself Steve Cronin.
“Guess not,” grunted Scanlon. “I suppose I met you in Chicago all right. Hard to remember all the shoe men I meet.”
“I’ve got a good memory,” answered Cronin. “I can tell just where I’ve met a fellow and just when. Funny, isn’t it, that I should happen to see you come walking in a restaurant this way?”
Vincent smiled to himself. Cronin had seen Scanlon going in - not coming in.
The talk drifted to shoes. Cronin was glib and talkative, but evasive. Vincent noted that the man said very little that was definite. Scanlon grunted, and merely answered questions occasionally.
When the meal was finished, the man with the mustache rose first.
“I have an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch. “See you later, old man.”
With that he left the restaurant. Scanlon followed five minutes later and started up a side street. Vincent was not far behind, but he kept on the opposite sidewalk. He noted that Scanlon’s actions were more nervous than ever.
When the San Francisco shoe salesman turned up one of the avenues, and increased his pace, Vincent had a hunch that proved to be a good one.
“This bird is doubling back to the hotel,” he said to himself. “He’s taking a long walk to do it because he wants to be sure that Cronin isn’t after him. Furthermore, he doesn’t want Cronin to know where he is staying. But Cronin does know, and he’s too wise to trail Scanlon. So I’ll be wise, too.”
He waited until the shoe salesman was nearly a block ahead. Then he called a cab and rode to the Metrolite. He went up in the elevator, convinced that within twenty minutes the occupant of 1417 would be back in his room.
CHAPTER IV
A BOLD MURDER
IN the darkness of his room, Harry Vincent sat in a chair by the door. A thin crack enabled him to view the lighted hallway; a casual passer would not have noticed that his door was not entirely closed.
Five minutes had elapsed since his return, and those minutes had seemed like hours. For he knew that something was definitely in the wind.
Footsteps came softly down the corridor. It was not Scanlon; Vincent could tell that by the sound. Yet the steps were coming on, and unless they passed by and turned the short hallway to the left, it seemed logical that they were bound for the room next to his own.
Vincent suppressed a low whistle as the man came into his limited view. It was none other than Steve Cronin!
The man with the mustache threw a glance toward the darkened transom of Scanlon’s room, and Vincent could see his lips curl in an ugly grin that showed a tusklike tooth. Cronin’s coat was thrown back and his hands were thrust roughly in his vest pockets.
“A fine specimen of humanity,” thought Vincent. “Looks like a wolf - and probably acts like one. But at heart he’s yellow; I can tell that.”
Satisfied with his inspection of Scanlon’s doorway, the stocky man walked along the hall and turned the corner. He was out of sight of 1417; but near enough to appear at an instant’s notice.
Vincent breathed quietly as he waited. On no account must he betray his presence. Action was here, or would be, upon Scanlon’s return. Perhaps the shoe salesman, with all his appearance of fear, would be a worthy match for the ill-visaged Cronin.
Ten more minutes went by; endless minutes that held Vincent on edge. Then came the quick tap-tap of Scanlon’s footsteps with two or three of the familiar pauses; then the man was at the door of his room, the sound of his rapid breathing hissing in Vincent’s ears.