Big Ben obeyed.
“Count off fifteen hundred dollars.”
With shaking hands, the big dock walloper followed the instructions. The Shadow’s free hand suddenly appeared. It reached across the table and drew the bills from Big Ben’s grasp.
“You can keep the rest,” said The Shadow.
The black-clad form seemed to melt into the curtain behind it. Only a flash of eyes was visible beneath the broad-brimmed hat.
Then Cliff could see nothing but the gleaming muzzle of the automatic. Again, a low, sinister laugh came as an uncanny whisper. The Shadow was gone!
With an oath, Ernie Shires leaped to his feet. He was drawing his automatic, bent upon instant pursuit of the strange being who had appeared from nowhere.
But Big Ben was quicker than Ernie. He leaped to the doorway, caught the gangster, and thrust him back in his chair.
“Let me go!” exclaimed Ernie. “I want to get that guy—”
“Get him?” Hargins laughed sullenly. “I’m wise to your game! You can’t fool me with a gag like that!
“No wonder you held out on the dough. Durgan didn’t want you to pay it to me in his place. Not a good idea, he said. So we came somewhere else. Here — the joint you picked! Sit down!”
AS Ernie started to rise, still seeking to pursue The Shadow, Hargins thrust him back in his chair and yanked the gangster’s hand from his pocket.
“Sit down — and keep your mitt away from your gat” — Big Ben’s voice meant business — “you yellow double-crosser! Framing it with a guy to make it look like a stick-up! Leaving me half a grand to make it look on the level!
“Well, it don’t go, see? Come across! Make up what’s missing — and do it quick! Get me?”
“Lay off that stuff, Ben,” retorted Ernie. “I want to get that guy! He’s the bird that’s queered our racket! Let me get him!”
“Stay right where you are!” warned Big Ben. “I want some dough out of you! Get me? If you don’t come across, you’ll hear from Bart Hennesy — you and Killer Durgan, both!
“I’ve had enough phony stuff tonight — and when a guy pokes a gat in through the curtain—”
Suddenly suspicious because of his own remark, Hargins turned for an instant and swept his free hand against the curtain, as though to make sure that no invisible watcher was waiting there.
Ernie Shires seized the opportunity. His hand was close beside a bottle standing on the table. Cliff saw the gangster grasp the neck of the bottle and swing it ferociously at Big Ben’s head. The dock walloper turned as the blow was falling.
Before he could press the trigger of his automatic, the bottle crashed against his skull. Big Ben crumpled beneath the impact. He slumped between the table and the curtain. Ernie Shires laughed.
“A double-crosser, am I?” he muttered. “Well, you don’t look like you’re going to tell ‘em that any more!”
He stooped beside the table. When he arose, Cliff saw the bills that Big Ben had held, were now in the possession of Ernie.
Shires opened the curtain a bit and peered out. The grin that showed on his face evidently indicated that no one was in the barroom. Ernie cast a last glance at the form of Big Ben.
“Looks like you’re out of it,” he mumbled. “But there’s one guy that ain’t out of it — won’t be until I get him. That’s The Shadow!” A look of evil hatred came over Ernie’s features. “And he’s the guy I’m going to get!”
Ernie Shires was gone. Cliff followed a few minutes later. He said nothing to the waiter as he passed through the restaurant. The man would probably find Big Ben soon. It would be best to be somewhere else then.
Cliff was still thinking of the night’s events when he reached his apartment. Killer Durgan, Ernie Shires, Big Ben Hargins — all had met with defeat that night!
Cliff had played his part. So had Nipper, Dave, and Patsy.
They had been paid by The Shadow, those three — and The Shadow, in turn, had been repaid by the very men whom he had thwarted!
CHAPTER XIV
GRISCOM SEEKS AID
IN the center of a great private office, a man sat alone at a massive desk. He was a strange, solitary figure, in the midst of commodious surroundings.
Everything in the room betokened wealth and influence — from the huge, expensive rug to the oak-paneled walls. The place was obviously the headquarters of a man of great importance — and the man was Stanley Wilberton, banker and financier.
It was he who was sitting at the desk, quietly engaged in a study of legal documents that lay before him.
The door opened at the far side of the room. It closed noiselessly. A man approached the desk. He came across the room with slow, mechanical stride, almost as though he were approaching a shrine in the midst of a temple.
Although there was no sound of the man’s approach, Stanley Wilberton looked up as he arrived before the desk.
“What is it, Crowley?” he asked, in deliberate tones.
“Two gentlemen to see you, sir.” Crowley spoke in a level, monotonous voice. The tones were in keeping with the man’s appearance. His face was placid and changeless in expression.
“Who are they?” questioned Crowley.
“Mr. Howard Griscom, sir; and a Mr. Cranston, who is with him.”
“Humph! I don’t know that I can see them, Crowley.”
“Mr. Griscom says that it is urgent, sir.”
Wilberton looked directly at his secretary.
They formed a remarkable pair, these two men — the great financier and his confidential secretary. Wilberton had often spoken of Crowley as his right hand. Crowley was indeed a master of efficiency, although he dealt in few words.
There was something in the words that he had uttered that Wilberton understood without further questioning. Mr. Griscom had said that an interview was urgent. Unless that statement had impressed Crowley, the secretary would not have repeated it. Crowley was always right. Mr. Griscom’s mission must be urgent.
“I shall see Mr. Griscom,” declared Wilberton.
Crowley bowed and retired. A few minutes later, Horace Griscom, pale-faced and visibly worried, entered the room, accompanied by Lamont Cranston.
Griscom’s companion showed no signs of worriment. His expression was as fixed as it had been that night at Griscom’s home. Cranston showed no great interest in the surroundings.
The luxury of Wilberton’s office had impressed many men of means who had entered. Lamont Cranston seemed merely to take it for granted.
Crowley was with the visitors. He drew up two chairs before the desk. The men seated themselves.
Crowley remained, but did not sit down. He stood at the side of the desk, staring at Stanley Wilberton as though he were the financier’s familiar demon, awaiting whatever orders might be given him.
AFTER a few minutes, Stanley Wilberton pushed the documents to the side of the desk. Crowley leaned forward and began to arrange them in neat piles.
The financier paid no attention to him. He looked up and studied his visitors with a sharp gaze.
“Good morning, Griscom,” he said tersely.
“Good morning, Mr. Wilberton,” replied Griscom. “You remember Mr. Cranston?”
“Yes.” Wilberton dismissed the greeting with a single word. “What brings you to see me, Griscom?”
Howard Griscom shifted in his chair. He felt ill at ease in the presence of the great financier. He invariably sank to inferiority when he met Stanley Wilberton; yet, somehow, he usually managed to receive consideration from Wilberton.
“I have come in reference to the theatrical merger,” explained Griscom. “You will recall that I was approached by a representative of the Theatrical Owners Cooperative Association — in reference to paying money to what we considered to be a racket.”