“Positive!”
Killer Durgan arose and walked back and forth across the room. He seemed indifferent to Ernie’s presence. His hand brushed against a dainty liquor glass that was on a table.
The fragile goblet broke when it struck the floor, despite the thickness of the rug. Durgan stepped upon the pieces and ground them savagely beneath his foot. Then he glared toward Shires.
“You know why they call me Killer?” he demanded.
“I’ve heard,” replied Shires.
“All right! I get them when I go after them! But I quit using the rod when I got into this racket. The pickings are too soft.
“Look at this joint.” He swept his hand about the room. “Does this look like Tim Waldron’s place?”
“No!”
“You’re right it don’t! A dozen Tim Waldrons couldn’t raise the dough to keep up a joint like this! But it’s small change for me.
“The moll wants it this way — that’s why I’ve got it — and it only costs me my pickle money!
“Do you think I’m a sap like Tim Waldron? Do you think a bunch of dicks could mooch around here and find anything? There ain’t no leaks in my racket!
“You’ve heard of the Public Garage Owners’ Association. Well, I’m it! They all pay in the dough. You know it — but try to prove it. Why? Because I’m a garage owner myself!
“Garages? I’ve got three of them! I pay big dough to my own collector! I’m in the garage business! What do you think of that?”
Ernie Shires grinned admiringly.
“But I’m not taking chances!” continued Durgan. “No chances! I’m not Killer Durgan, right now. I’m Francis J. Durgan, head of the New Era Garage Corporation. My dough comes from a legitimate business — so they think.
“Remember that guy that was in here? Mike Wharton? He manages a garage for me! He’s no racketeer!”
Durgan sat down and stared at Shires. The racketeer’s face had lost its leer. It was grimly serious.
“Coppers — politicians” — Durgan was speaking slowly — “they’re all mine! I’m not afraid of any guy that packs a rod! If any one tries to muscle in on my racket, he’ll find out why they called me Killer Durgan!
“But there’s one guy — only one — that’s different from the rest. I know, because I’ve seen what he can do. That’s The Shadow!
“There’s a lot of guys in stir, because of his doings. They know who he is up at the Big House — but they don’t talk about him. There’s a lot of smart guys that are six feet under, right now, because they crossed The Shadow.
“Maybe I was lucky because I never mixed it with him. Maybe he was lucky. But I was playing a lone game then. Now it’s different. Let him try his stuff with me! I’ll be ready for him!
“You’re right, Shires. If The Shadow put the skids under one racket, he’ll try it with another! But it’s a new game for him!”
THE seriousness of Killer Durgan’s tone startled Ernie Shires. The gangster sat motionless in his chair as he listened to Durgan’s words.
He began to realize that The Shadow would prove to be a formidable foe. The recollections of the previous night — the sighing of the silenced gun — the black fighter in the dark — the mocking laugh that echoed from the sidewalks — all came back in vivid reality.
Despite the calm demeanor of his hardened face, Ernie Shires was uneasy!
“There’s one place where trouble will begin” — Durgan was speaking thoughtfully — “and that’s in the Bronx, where we’re lining them up right now! That’s where The Shadow will hit — if he tries to crack my racket!
“That’s where you’re going to be, Ernie! Get up there tonight and lay low. Call me to-morrow at noon. I’ll tell you what to do!”
He looked at Shires, still seriously. Then his wolfish leer reappeared.
Killer Durgan was again the evil-faced racketeer, whose countenance suited his bloody reputation.
“You’re working for me, Ernie Shires!” he snarled. “That means you do what you’re told! Understand? One grand a week — it’s yours! That means my work — all the time!
“Stay away from here when I don’t want you around — and come here when I want you” — he rose and stood in front of his visitor, a threatening look upon his face — “here, and remember this: lay off my moll! I saw you looking at her tonight. That’s all right. She’s good to look at. But no more! Get me? If any guy gets funny with that moll of mine, it’s curtains for that guy! Understand?”
Ernie Shires nodded knowingly. He knew the ways of the underworld. Still, Durgan’s warning did not worry him. With a thousand dollars a week, he could find plenty of women without concerning himself over Killer Durgan’s blonde. Durgan would find that out in due time. Shires kept his thoughts to himself.
“That’s all,” concluded Durgan. “Get going!”
Ernie Shires left the apartment. After he had gone, Killer Durgan stood in the center of his luxurious abode, thinking.
At length he laughed, and his face appeared monstrous in the soft light of the beautiful room which harbored its bestial master.
“The Shadow!” muttered Killer Durgan. “The Shadow! After the rackets, eh? Let him come! He’ll find out why they call me Killer Durgan!”
CHAPTER V
MARSLAND MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE
CLIFF MARSLAND sat in the lobby of Larchmont Court, watching the people who entered and left. His vantage point was a comfortable chair in a corner of the lobby.
Although he was not far from the clerk’s desk, his place was well chosen. He was inconspicuous; yet he could observe every one who went by.
Cliff had spent a great deal of time in that chair, yet he was not bored with waiting. A man who had just completed a term in Sing Sing was not the one to object to such comfortable surroundings. Patience had become an acquired virtue with Cliff Marsland.
As he lighted a cigarette, Cliff shifted his position slightly. A twinge in his shoulder made him wince. It was a reminder of that night when he had fought his way from the Hotel Spartan — that night when he had met The Shadow.
A week had passed since then, and Cliff’s wound was nearly healed. Occasionally it bothered him, as it had just done, and the pain was a cause for reflection.
Cliff could not recall exactly what had happened after he had made his dash for safety.
He remembered that some one in black — The Shadow, of course — had caught him as he was about to fall. He recalled the moving sedan and the distant shots of the pursuers. After that, all had been blackness until the next day.
He had been very weak when he had awakened, to find himself in what seemed to be a hospital room, with a nurse in attendance. A doctor had come in later, to examine his wounds. The physician had smiled encouragingly.
Cliff had remained there one night and another day. Then, on the second evening, he had received instructions. They had come in a letter which the nurse had delivered to him.
The letter was written in ink. After Cliff had perused its contents, the writing had disappeared. The note had instructed him to leave the house where he was staying.
He had done so, the nurse leading him down a dark flight of stairs, to a driveway. There, an automobile was waiting, manned by a chauffeur.
A long trip had followed. The car had swung along on country roads; it had skirted several towns; finally it had reached a broad highway.
There, it had eventually found its way into the Holland Tunnel — the first spot that Cliff had recognized, even though he had never gone through the vehicular tube before. He knew that he had been located somewhere in New Jersey, an hour’s ride from New York. That was all.
The car had taken him to Larchmont Court. There the driver had driven away.