Maxwell Grant
The Man from Scotland Yard
CHAPTER I. TRAILS CONVERGE
NIGHT-THICKENED fog lay heavy above Manhattan. Grimy, hazy blackness held pall above the great metropolis. City lights were smothered in the mist.
That shroud which dampened the brilliant districts held greater grip upon areas that were ordinarily gloomy after dark.
Near the waterfront, the grimy blanket had full reign. Steaming surges of mist were rising from the river, clinging to piling and piers, rolling in upon the dim-lit thoroughfares. Basso blasts of steamship whistles blared in from the water, accompanied by the staccato shrills of tugboats.
Such sounds alone cleaved the fog laden air. Other noises, clicking footsteps of passers, rumbles of occasional trucks, were muffled by the thickness. People themselves were swallowed by the mist. Where feeble lights showed dim areas, forms came into view, then disappeared.
Humans had become ghosts down by the river. Wafted in from the bay, the fog had taken a liking to the land. Literally, it was enveloping Manhattan like a monster from the deep, creeping forward to a total triumph that would end only when rising winds came to dispel it.
A muffled wayfarer was tramping along a street that led in from the river. The night was not cold; dampness could be the only excuse for his upturned coat collar. Yet long, hunched shoulders and down-turned face were indications of a menace other than the fog.
It was plain that the tramping man wanted to escape recognition. His gait betrayed the fact; his choice of streets was added indication. Moreover, he showed a furtiveness when he peered back at every crossing. The wayfarer feared followers.
The fog gave the man confidence as he reached the moisture-surfaced structure of an elevated railway.
He had put distance between himself and the waterfront. The grime of blackened pillars seemed to please him.
Dull lights of shop windows gleamed from the avenue and showed a pallid, long-featured face. Protruding teeth glittered as the muffled man delivered an unpleasant smile. A quick glance over shoulder; the fellow ducked into the obscurity of a side street.
Fear of followers had passed from the wayfarers thoughts; had he lingered longer, his trepidation would have returned. Hardly had the long-limbed individual cut away from the avenue before another hunched figure shambled into view beside the “el” pillars.
Crafty eyes from a wizened face made thorough search along the avenue. Quick-gazing, those optics picked the very street that the long-limbed man had taken. Shuffling cater-cornered across the street, the newcomer headed for the same route.
Though this New York fog was as thick as the traditional London “pea-souper,” the follower had kept on the quarry’s trail. Wherever the long-limbed man was going, the shorter fellow would remain close behind him. Strange figures of the underworld, the two were playing an odd drama of the night.
OF the pair, the wizened-faced trailer was the more intriguing. Any man who could stalk prey through this fog must unquestionably be clever at his chosen game. That little trailer was indeed clever. He had a reputation for his ability. In the scumlands of New York, he was known as “Hawkeye,” the craftiest of all spotters.
One person alone was conceded to be Hawkeye’s better at such tasks. That one was the mystery figure of the underworld — The Shadow. Crooks gave The Shadow credit for superhuman powers; it was little wonder that they were willing to acknowledge him superior to Hawkeye.
Gunners had claimed that they could outshoot The Shadow; cracksman had bragged that they possessed greater skill than that unknown champion of right. Listeners had laughed at such boasts. Those of the underworld knew this much of The Shadow — that he had no equal in any line of endeavor that came within his sphere of action.
So Hawkeye, had he claimed himself on par with The Shadow, would have been greeted with jeers. But Hawkeye, oddly, possessed a modest spirit regarding his own ability. The little trailer never made mention of The Shadow; and he had good reason for preserving silence. Hawkeye was in The Shadow’s service.
The Shadow had found the little spotter to be a useful aid. Master who battled crime, The Shadow had supertasks of his own. Known as the scourge of crookdom, he was forced to leave lesser work to others.
Tonight’s trail was one that The Shadow had passed to Hawkeye. Under secret orders, the little spotter had been told to pick up the trail of a fellow named “Scud” Paffrey. Hawkeye had previously seen Scud close to the waterfront. It was that vicinity that Hawkeye had chosen tonight.
Scud had been coming back from somewhere. Hawkeye had spied him slinking through the fog. One glimpse of long, hunched shoulders and muffled face had been all that Hawkeye needed. The spotter was still on Scud’s trail.
Entering the side street that Scud had chosen, Hawkeye spied a glimmering light ahead. Fog rendered the street lamp dingy; but Hawkeye knew that Scud could not get by that lighted patch without revealing his stooped figure in the mist.
Close enough to have reached the street before Scud gained the light, Hawkeye knew also that the long-limbed man must he close by. Creeping forward, The Shadow’s agent advanced with caution.
Hawkeye had gained a hunch that the end of the trail was near.
Thirty yards from the corner, Hawkeye paused. Scud had not reached the street lamp. Here, on the near side of that glow, blackness was complete. Hawkeye’s eyes could spy nothing; the spotter was relying on his ears. To his keen hearing came the sound of whispers, muffled, seemingly, by the mist.
Hawkeye reached out in the darkness. His hand encountered the fog-dewed surface of a brick wall.
Using this as a guide, Hawkeye crept ahead. The wall ended with an invisible corner. Voices became audible. Hawkeye crouched.
Scud Paffrey was whispering to someone in the darkness. The rendezvous was being held in a passage between two buildings, undiscernible in the overhanging blackness. Hawkeye caught the tones of a low, half-growled voice. Detecting words, he realized the identity of the man whom Scud had met.
Detective Joe Cardona! Known as the ace of New York headquarters, this sleuth had contacts in the underworld.
TO Hawkeye, the presence of Cardona indicated an astonishing fact. Scud Paffrey, accepted as an average denizen of the underworld, was a stool pigeon, reporting to the law.
The Shadow must have known that fact. That was why he had put Hawkeye on the job of watching Scud. The law was after information; Scud had access to it. The Shadow had decided to use Scud as a lead.
Hawkeye grinned to himself in the darkness. He had been late in trailing Scud; hence he had not learned the stoolie’s objective. Here, however, lay opportunity. What Scud was telling Joe Cardona, Hawkeye could also hear. The little man listened.
“No trace of any of them, eh?” came Cardona’s growl. “Looks like you’re laying down on the job, Scud. You told me you’d find Rigger Luxley. But you haven’t got a trace on him or any of his pals.”
“I told you about Sailor Martz,” insisted Scud, his whisper half a whine. “He’s due down at Dory Halbit’s joint. Back from the fruit pier. He’s comin’ there tonight, Joe.”
“What of it? That don’t tell us anything about Rigger. He wouldn’t be there.”
“But Sailor was in with Rigger’s outfit. No foolin’, Joe; that’s somethin’ I know, for sure. An’ maybe Sailor’s got some pals that was in with the mob.”
“But that’s something you’re not sure about. Say, it looks like the dragnet is going to be the only bet, after all.”
“That won’t be no use, Joe” — Scud’s whisper rose in frantic protest — “honest, it won’t! It’s curtains for me, if you spring the dragnet. Too many guys would know that I might’ve spilled somethin’ about Rigger Luxley.”