“That’s that!” said Ernie approvingly, after the third man had gone. “The smart-aleck D.A. up in the Bronx is going to have something to guess about to-morrow.
“I’ve done the tire-slashing. Been doing it all week, and swiping tires and damaging paint jobs, and all that. The garages that have swung in line are doing a good business with short parking. But these guys” — Ernie spread the three receipts like a poker hand — “have been figuring on getting business without paying for it!
“There’s a lot of others feel the same way. Watch ‘em fall in line, now. It’s going to be easy for the sales talkers and the collectors. This is a smooth racket, Ben!”
Ernie pulled open a drawer in the desk and dropped the receipts in it. He locked the door through which his visitors had come and motioned to Big Ben to follow him. Ernie went to the door that led to the darkened rear of the garage.
“We’ll go out this way, Ben,” he said. “Nothing to do here until later. Come along. We’ll take in a movie.”
HE stopped abruptly as he opened the door. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and threw its rays through the empty space ahead. The glare revealed small piles of boxes and pieces of junk from old automobiles.
“What’s the idea, Ernie?” asked Big Ben, peering over the gangster’s shoulder.
“See anything?” whispered Ernie.
The flashlight caused strange, uncouth shadows as it turned here and there. They were like mammoth, ghostly shapes. The rays swept a corner of the room.
Ernie hesitated an instant as the light revealed a depth of blackness; then he turned the rays in another direction.
“I don’t see nothin’ at all,” commented Big Ben. “Nothin’ except a lot of shadows. They don’t mean nothin’.”
“Maybe they do — sometimes,” replied Ernie cryptically. “I ain’t felt right, tonight, Ben. Guess I must be nervous” — the gangster laughed sarcastically — “because when I come in here, I figured some guy was trailing me.
“But there ain’t nobody here. That’s a bet! Come along!”
He turned out the torch and led the way through the darkness, after locking the door of the office. When they had passed the outside door, Ernie locked it also. The two men walked to the street; there Ernie gripped Ben and held him back.
“It was right here,” he said. “I was smoking a cigarette. I waited, and it seemed like eyes were watching me. Eyes somewhere in the dark. Wait a minute, Ben! We can’t be too careful!”
A short time elapsed; then Ernie was satisfied. He and his companion emerged and sauntered along the street. Ernie began to laugh at his own qualms.
Something moved back in the darkness of the room outside the back office. There was a slight rustling sound in that very corner that Ernie had passed with his light.
A vague, low sound came from the office door. The door opened as an invisible hand finished with the lock. The tiny ray of a vest-pocket torch appeared within the office.
The light rested on the desk. A black-clad hand appeared and opened the drawer. It removed the three receipts that Ernie had placed there. The light went out.
A low laugh filled the room. It was no louder than a convulsive breathing, but its sound was weird and terrifying. The drawer slid shut.
A few seconds later, the door closed. The lock clicked. There was a slight sound at the alley door. It opened. It closed. A vague shape moved toward the street.
The Shadow had come and gone! Like a phantom of the night, he had made his way to Ernie’s lair and had taken away three slips of cardboard.
What was the purpose of this nocturnal visit?
Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XI
THE BLOWOFF
CLIFF MARSLAND entered the Club Drury, just as he had done twenty-four hours before. Last night’s affray had not hurt business. If anything, it had added to the peculiar reputation of the night club. The dance floor was thronged.
A smile came over Cliff’s lips. It seemed strange that he should be here again, so soon; that despite his important role in the fracas that had rocked the Club Drury, he should be totally unsuspected and quite free to come and go.
He made his way along the wall until he reached the entrance with the hanging curtains. There he encountered a waiter.
“Private room No. 6,” said Cliff.
“Reserved?” asked the waiter.
“Yes.”
He was ushered to one of the empty rooms.
“You are expecting others, sir?” questioned the waiter.
“Yes,” replied Cliff.
As soon as the waiter had gone, Cliff reached beneath the table. His fingers found an envelope. Cliff opened it.
Inside were three slips of cardboard, each a storage receipt from a garage. Cliff smiled and slipped the objects into his pocket. He did not know who had left the envelope there, but he imagined it was The Shadow.
The envelope had come off easily; it could not have been fastened in place very long before. That did not matter, however. The important fact was that the presence of the envelope fitted in exactly with instructions that Cliff had received not long ago through the medium of the sign that flashed outside his apartment window.
Cliff lighted a cigarette and waited. Five minutes passed. Nipper appeared at the door. He entered and closed the door behind him. The pasty-faced gunman grinned as he gripped Cliff’s hand.
“Everything’s fixed,” he said. “Got ‘em on the phone ten minutes after you called me. They remembered you all right, up in the Big House. Patsy thinks you’re an ace. Both him an’ Dave are right guys.”
There was a rap at the door. Nipper, resuming his waiter’s pose, opened the door. Two men entered; the waiter who had accompanied them went away. Nipper closed the door and turned to see Cliff shaking hands with the newcomers.
CLIFF remembered Dave Talbot and Patsy Birch well. The men were very much alike — both hardened figures of the underworld. Like Nipper, they had been doing time since the days when mobsters worked their individual crimes.
Both were waiting for an opportunity to join up with a safe and prosperous racket. They had wisely decided to fit themselves in with the new regime of gangland.
“Give us the lay, Cliff,” said Nipper eagerly. “I’ve fixed it so I can get away tonight. I’m throwin’ this job here any time you say. What’s the dope?”
“Just this,” said Cliff quietly. “Last night, Nipper told me he could get you fellows — Dave and Patsy — when I needed you.
“I didn’t frame it last night, because Nipper and I ran into something we hadn’t expected. But I’ve been doing some figuring to-day, and I’ve talked — well” — he changed his words — “I’ve made arrangements with a fellow that’s in on this with me. Who he is — that’s my business!”
Cliff was pleased to see his listeners nod. He knew that any mention of The Shadow would be a fatal error. “All you fellows have to know is that you’re working for me. Get the idea?”
“O.K.,” said Dave. “We’re with you, Cliff!”
“All Nipper knows,” resumed Cliff, “is that I’m muscling in on a racket.
“Look at it this way. I’m out of the Big House. While I’ve been doing time, a bunch of punks have been working. I’m out now — and every time I look for an opening, they want me to do some baby work. No dough in it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Nipper. “We’ve all been up against it — Dave an’ me. You’ve got the goods.”
“I figured,” said Cliff, “that if I wanted to work a racket, the best way was to break in on some of these fellows that think they know all about it. So I’m muscling in; and I’m doing it my own way.
“I’ve got cash! I’m going to keep on getting it! You fellows are in the same boat that I was in; that’s why I’m giving you the chance to step in on the ground floor of this game.”