“But what if I pinch this Sailor Martz?”
“Nobody’ll know nothin’. Sailor Martz never seen me aroun’ with Rigger. Nobody down at Dory’s joint will know nothin’ about me. But they may know somethin’ about Rigger. See?”
“Does Sailor Martz talk much to guys he knows?”
“Maybe. I can’t say for sure; but he’s got pals down on the waterfront. He might’ve talked to them. An’ they ain’t likely to be all for Rigger. Some of them guys might talk.”
Conversation ended. In the tenseness, Hawkeye could hear Scud’s breathing, coming in wheezy fashion.
The stoolie was nervous as he awaited Cardona’s decision. At last, the detective grunted a verdict.
“All right,” declared Joe. “it’s a raid. There’s been coke peddlers seen down at Dory’s joint. That’s a good enough reason to grab the gang that’s down there.”
“Then I can slide along?” queried Scud, anxiously. “So’s I can be down at the Pink Rat before you head for Dory’s?”
“Sure. Keep yourself alibied with the guys that know you. I’ll need you later, Scud.”
“T’anks. Joe.”
Scud edged from the space beyond the house corners. Hawkeye could have touched the fellow as he came shiftily to the sidewalk. Scud chose the direction toward the street lamp. Hawkeye listened to his clicking footsteps.
A minute later, Joe Cardona emerged. Stocky, but muffled like Scud, the detective came along past Hawkeye. Joe’s coat almost grazed the shoulders of the crouched spotter; but the detective did not spy the huddled form.
HAWKEYE waited after Cardona had passed. Well did he know that either Scud or the detective might peer back after reaching their respective corners. While he lingered, Hawkeye did some thinking. His findings gave him a single answer.
A raid was due at “Dory” Halbit’s, the waterfront dive that Scud had named. The raid, however, would be delayed. First, to allow “Sailor” Martz time to get there; second, to let Scud establish himself at the underworld joint known as the “Pink Rat”; third, to give Cardona a chance to form a picked squad at headquarters.
All of which gave Hawkeye satisfaction. With one hour — perhaps two — before the law took action, Hawkeye could complete his own work and allow The Shadow ample leeway. Realizing this, the little spotter waited a full five minutes before leaving the wall by which he crouched.
Hawkeye sneaked back to the avenue. He saw no sign of Cardona as he paced along the dingy East Side thoroughfare. Shambling across the street. Hawkeye headed northward until he reached a drug store that looked like a palace of luxury on the fringe of this decadent district.
Entering, Hawkeye found a telephone booth. After glancing warily to note that he was unobserved, the spotter dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
In a half whisper, Hawkeye poured out his news. He was talking to a man whom he had never seen, the contact agent who received the reports of active workers and passed them along to the chief. Hawkeye had spoken to Burbank only by telephone; he regarded the contact man somewhat as he did The Shadow.
For Burbank seemed on the fringe of that mysterious blackness that surrounded the master sleuth. A quiet voice, always responding, ever ready with instructions. Such was Burbank, as Hawkeye knew him.
“Off duty.”
Burbank’s quiet tone was a command to Hawkeye. The little agent hung up the receiver and slouched from the drug store. He had given his report. His task was done. Though Burbank had given no commendation, Hawkeye knew that his successful work would not go unforgotten.
Hawkeye had gained an inkling that The Shadow, too, was out to trail “Rigger” Luxley’s missing band.
That outfit was a dangerous crowd that had been missing from New York until recently. Rigger and company had bobbed into view ten days ago; then had gone suddenly to cover.
The law was after Rigger. So was The Shadow. Sailor Martz, apparently, was the one man through whom Rigger could be reached. Who would corner Sailor first: the law or The Shadow? Hawkeye grinned as the question struck him while he shambled through the darkness.
Hawkeye knew the answer.
The Shadow.
CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT
FOG was relentless along the waterfront. Moving in from the sea, it had tightened its grip upon the land.
Thicker than ever, it clung most heavily to the spot of its first choice: where water met with shore.
There was nothing of comfort in the heavy-throated blares of whistles that came from the river. Those blasts were ghoulish at close range. They were like the voice of the fog itself. Yet to those who frequented these sodden spaces, the tones were commonplace.
Dory Halbit’s dive was not a place for particular patrons. It attracted the riffraff with its cheap grog.
Hard-visaged huskies, rat-faced roustabouts, suspicious-eyed loungers — these were the customers who slouched about at battered tables, undisturbed by those long-echoing blares from the river.
Dory Halbit was present in person. He always was. An ex-seaman, Dory had retired after being crippled in a storm. The possessor of a wooden leg, he found land navigation troublesome and seldom left the grog shop.
Tonight, as on all nights, the proprietor was leaning against the bar in the corner of the dive, keeping a gleaming eye on all who entered or left. For Dory was on the lookout for trouble; when it came, he was capable of handling it. Sleeves of his tattered shirt rolled to his elbows, neck bared, Dory looked formidable. Tattooed arms and chest were brawny; and Dory’s love for a fight made him forget his wooden leg when action started.
Joe Cardona had stretched no point in stating that a raid would not cause surprise at Dory Halbit’s. The one-legged dive owner had many doubtful acquaintances. His place had come under frequent police surveillance. It was Dory’s caginess that had caused the law to desist. If the man happened to be working in cahoots with dope smugglers, it was a sure bet that he would be able to cover up in a pinch.
It was conceded that when — if ever — the law did raid the dive, Dory would enjoy a good laugh the morning after. Tonight, Cardona was ready for the thrust that would prove fruitless in incriminating the proprietor. But in his drive, the detective would perhaps gain results of a different sort.
Through a general round-up of the dive’s habitue’s, Cardona might capture men who would give him information. Joe wanted facts concerning Rigger Luxley; and if Sailor Martz failed to talk, others might know something. Good reasoning; for these fellows at Dory Halbit’s would not mind spilling whatever they might know about a landlubber mobleader.
QUIET prevailed at Dory Halbit’s. Quiet, according to the proprietor’s view. Unshaven seamen were swapping coarse jests; rowdies who had cash were growling for drinks; raucous greetings were being exchanged between newcomers.
Such commotion, to Dory, was more pleasing than silence. So long as the customers were engaged in trivial conversation, no brawls would begin. Much though he liked a fight, Dory did not want to see one start. Fights meant cops; and Dory veered clear of trouble with the police.
Wisps of fog were creeping through broken windowpanes of Dory’s dive. The place was below street level; moisture-laden atmosphere picked it as a settling spot. Encroaching mists were driven back, however, by the clouds of smoke that issued from the mouths of customers.
Medleys of tobacco were always common at Dory’s. Dutch sailors were puffing at big pipes; gesticulating Spaniards and Italians were consuming cigarettes of many foreign blends; squatty Malaysians were smoking rank-odored cheroots. The haze of tobacco smoke was tinged with curls of yellow and blue, and through that shifting cloud, Dory kept constant watch on all newcomers.