Cliff returned to Madge. The girl observed the expression on his face and decided that she had won her cause.
It would be unwise to try further persuasion. Madge sought to be alluring rather than revengeful. Her honeyed words brought a pleased smile to Cliff’s lips.
“I’m your moll, Cliff,” declared Madge. “Gee! I wish I’d met you long ago! But it was worth waiting, Cliff. Tell me, Cliff. You don’t ever think of any other girl, do you?”
“Not now.” Cliff had been thinking of another girl, one whose photograph he had seen in the society section of yesterday’s newspaper. “There was a girl — once — but that was all forgotten when I was put away.”
“A swell dame, Cliff?”
Cliff nodded.
“Just like ‘em!” said Madge emphatically. “They drop a guy just as soon as he gets in a jam! I’m not that way, Cliff!”
She looked into his eyes, as she leaned forward and gripped both his hands. Cliff smiled again.
“I’d better make that second phone call,” he said thoughtfully. “It may mean trouble for Killer Durgan.”
Madge sat back at the suggestion. She was positive that Cliff Marsland meant business tonight.
At the telephone, Cliff called his number and received a prompt reply. The voice began to give instructions as soon as Cliff had made his identity known.
“Go to Cassidy’s cigar store immediately,” came the order. “You know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Go to the back room. It is a meeting place. That has been arranged. You will give instructions to the men—”
There was a click. The voice of the operator came over the wire, asking for the number. Cliff gave it impatiently. He was informed that the line was busy. He hung up the receiver and called again. A busy signal followed. It was one of those troublesome and unexpected interruptions.
“GO immediately.” That had been the order. Cliff knew Cassidy’s store. He had been exploring through the underworld at various times, and had learned much from Madge. Cassidy had a back room, where no one was disturbed — if Cassidy knew them.
The place had fallen into disuse due to police observations; but now it was coming back into its own. There was a phone in Cassidy’s back room. In an emergency, Cliff could call from there. It would be wise to get on the job.
He returned to Madge. He told the girl he was going on his way. He left the restaurant. She was to depart later.
Cliff was still wondering about his mission when he reached the street. He failed to glance behind him. He did not see the man lurking by the steps. Cliff entered a cab and gave the destination.
He lighted a cigarette and rode along in silence. He did not glance behind. When he reached Cassidy’s, he walked directly through the store and entered the back room. No one else was there.
Cliff sat down in front of the telephone, pondering whether to call his number. He fancied that he heard the door open. He turned, expecting to encounter a person whom he was to meet.
He found himself staring into the muzzle of a huge automatic. It was held by a short, stolid-faced man.
“So you’re the guy, eh?” came the man’s low words. “Put up your mitts” — Cliff obeyed — “and don’t get funny, or you’ll get a load from this smoke wagon.
“Maybe you’d like to know who I am? I’m Mike Wharton. I’m working for Killer Durgan — the guy whose moll you’ve tried to swipe!”
Wharton paused to eye Cliff with a malicious glance. Killer Durgan’s operative seemed highly pleased with his capture. Still covering Cliff with his automatic, Wharton advanced to the telephone.
“What’s more,” he said, “I’ve got wise to who you are. Cliff Marsland — that’s your name. I trailed you tonight. I heard Durgan’s moll call you ‘Cliff’ when you were going into that restaurant.
“Durgan isn’t wise yet — but he’s going to be, right now! I’m keeping you here until he shows up. Get that?”
He lifted the receiver of the telephone with his left hand. He called a number which Cliff recognized as that of Larchmont Court. Wharton gave the number of Durgan’s suite. A minute later, he was talking to Durgan himself.
“Listen, Durgan” — Wharton still watched Cliff, who was staring in return — “I’ve got the guy that was running with your moll. I’m holding him here unless you want me to — what’s that? Sure! I’ve got him covered with my gat. Sure I’ll bump him off! Right now!
“Listen, now. I’ll tell you his name, then I’ll pull the trigger so you can hear him pass out. All set? Here goes. The guy’s name is—”
As Cliff was about to launch himself forward in a desperate, futile attack that would have meant certain death, two shots rang out from the doorway. Mike Wharton collapsed, dead. His automatic clattered to the floor.
“Come on, Cliff!”
It was Nipper Brady! The little gangster had arrived when sorely needed. He had ended the career of Mike Wharton — and the sound of the fatal shots had been heard by Killer Durgan, who supposed that they marked the end of the man whose death he desired.
Cliff hurried through the cigar store and out into the street. Nipper bustled him around the corner, into a touring car, where Patsy Birch and Dave Talbot were waiting. Patsy was at the wheel. He started the car in response to Nipper’s command.
“We got your phone call, Cliff,” said Nipper, as they rode along. “Give us the lay. We’re ready for anything!”
Cliff was bewildered. Then understanding dawned. During that twenty-minute interval between phone calls, The Shadow had called Nipper, and had told him to be on hand with Patsy and Dave. In doing so, The Shadow must have simulated Cliff’s voice to perfection.
These were the men whom Cliff was to meet! It was Nipper who had saved his life — but back of it lay the action of The Shadow!
“Pull up here, Patsy,” ordered Cliff. He left the car and entered a store a short way down the street. He called the usual number, and heard the quiet voice.
Briefly, Cliff explained what had happened. Then came the instructions that Cliff had not received before. He nodded, almost to himself, as he listened to the words over the wire.
Back in the car, he instructed Patsy where to drive. The car stopped in an obscure street behind a parked truck.
“We’ll wait here a while,” said Cliff, as he and his men clambered into the truck, “and while we’re waiting, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
DOWN on a Brooklyn dock, a crowd of men were assembled. They were dock wallopers, and they stood idly by while a smaller group conferred.
Bart Hennesy and his chief lieutenant, Spunk Hogan, were talking with Hoke Larrigan. There was antagonism in the air.
Technically, the dock wallopers all owed allegiance to Bart Hennesy. Some of them had come with him and Spunk. Less than half of the crowd were Larrigan’s workers, although this was a dock where Larrigan held sway.
A truck drew up and two men clambered from it. One of them spoke to a dock walloper.
“We’re looking for a shipment for Gratz & Company,” he said. “We want the public loaders to heave it on board for us.”
“O.K. Wait a while. We’ll find it for you.”
The arrival of the truck had evidently been expected. A discussion began between Bart Hennesy and Hoke Larrigan.
“All right,” growled Bart. “Let’s see your boys load it. Let’s see ‘em collect. Then, let’s see my cut. That’s what I came down here for!
“You think you’re independent, handing me this challenge. Well, I’m here — and I’m going to collect.”
Hennesy spoke with assurance. His own men outnumbered those of Hoke Larrigan. It was to be a show-down, and Hennesy was to win, as he had always won.
While Hennesy was speaking, a second and smaller truck arrived. It swerved away and drew up at the side, standing at right angles to the larger truck.