AT the desk, Cliff had given his name as Clinton Martin — a name which had been mentioned in the letter. He had been ushered to a small suite reserved for him.
There he had found articles of apparel and everything else that he might need, including a well-stocked wallet and a check book on a prominent Manhattan bank.
He had filled out a card and mailed his signature to the bank, using the name Clinton Martin. Evidently he could draw on whatever funds he might need.
He had spent the next few days in idle recuperation; and this one chair had been his chief place. It had been designated in another letter — written in that same disappearing ink.
The letter had contained new instructions, and with it was a code of dots and dashes, which Cliff had memorized, and then destroyed. It was to be used later on, the letter said.
His present work was very simple. He was to watch every one who approached the desk and inquired for a certain suite on the twenty-first floor — the suite occupied by a man named Francis J. Durgan.
In this, Cliff had been successful. He had formed a casual acquaintance with the night clerk, and the fellow had proved to be loquacious. He had aspirations of becoming a house detective, and he liked to mention names in an undertone whenever Cliff approached the desk.
Cliff had observed Durgan on several occasions. He had also spotted for future reference two or three other men — one of them being Mike Wharton, Durgan’s confidential aid. But so far, Cliff had seen no one who answered to the description of Ernie Shires.
Cliff smiled at the thought of Shires. Cliff was watching for the actual slayer of Tim Waldron while he, Cliff Marsland, was reputed to be the murderer by the underworld!
Only The Shadow knew why Cliff had gone to Sing Sing. The name of Cliff Marsland was falsely heralded in gangdom. He realized that he had become a talked of personage in the bad lands of New York; yet at the same time he remained a mystery. For he was virtually unknown, and no one had shown any signs of recognizing him during his residence at Larchmont Court.
Two of the gangsters who had spotted him at the Hotel Spartan were dead as a result of the gun fight. The others were in the toils of the law.
None had known Cliff Marsland prior to his career in Sing Sing. He had appeared from nowhere, had defied the police after a bold bank robbery, and had gone to prison, a self-confessed criminal.
So here he was, this evening, silently observant and virtually free from recognition, unless some freak of fate should reveal his identity.
Cliff glanced at the clock above the desk. It was not yet eight. Durgan had gone out in the afternoon, and had not returned. Probably no visitors would arrive for some time to come.
Cliff yawned and settled back in his chair. A moment later, he became alert.
A woman had entered the lobby, and had walked to the desk. Cliff had seen her before. He knew her name. Madge Benton — Killer Durgan’s moll. The clerk had pointed the girl out to Cliff three days ago. Since then, he had seen her often.
CLIFF’S eyes were keen as he watched the girl, speaking to the room clerk. She was attractive, despite her freakish mode of dress. Too many sparkling rings. Too much make-up. Her blond hair, although effective in appearance, indicated peroxide treatments.
Cliff mentally compared the girl with others whom he remembered from years ago; and the others profited by the comparison — particularly one.
Cliff’s reverie stopped as he realized that the girl was watching him from the corner of her eye. This was not the first time that it had happened.
Durgan and other men in the lobby had paid no attention to the motionless man in the corner; they had apparently not known that they were being observed. But the girl had noticed it on each occasion.
Now, she turned to look back at the door. Her gaze met Cliff’s. The girl smiled. Cliff’s lips moved slightly.
The girl turned to the clerk and purchased some postage stamps. She walked deliberately toward Cliff and sat at a writing table only a few feet away.
She produced three envelopes from her bag, applied the stamps, and began to write the addresses. Both Cliff and the girl were out of range of the clerk’s view. The lobby was virtually deserted.
One envelope dropped from the table. It fell close beside Cliff. He saw it, but made no motion. The girl completed her writing. She looked for the missing envelope.
Cliff smiled as he watched her without turning his head in her direction. The girl was looking everywhere except toward the spot where the envelope had fallen. An expression of vexation appeared upon her face.
Cliff reached down and picked up the envelope. Rising, he stepped to the desk and laid the envelope before the girl.
“Thank you,” she said quickly. “Thank you — so much.”
She was looking straight into Cliff’s face, and her blue eyes sparkled. Cliff returned her gaze; then he made a motion as though about to turn away. The girl spoke again.
“That was a very important letter,” she said. “I wouldn’t have lost it — for anything! I want to thank you again!”
Her voice was appealing. Cliff smiled.
“I’m glad that I found it for you,” he said. “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t have been of greater service—”
The girl laughed softly. Cliff was standing beside the desk. Her hand crept over and pressed against his arm.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” the girl questioned.
“Probably,” replied Cliff. “I live here.”
“So do I,” was the reply. “I see a lot of people here — people that I’d like to talk to — like you, for instance — sitting around all day, with nothing to do.
“Right now” — with her right hand still on Cliff’s arm, the girl glanced at a watch on her left wrist — “I’ve got nothing to do for another hour. Guess I’ll go out for dinner. It’s pretty late, but I haven’t eaten yet.”
“Dinner is a good idea,” suggested Cliff. “Suppose we go together?”
The girl nodded eagerly. Her hand pressed Cliff’s arm. She leaned back in the chair and glanced into the lobby to make sure that they were not observed.
“Meet me outside,” she said in a low voice. “Five minutes from now — around the corner — by the cab stand! All right?”
“All right,” agreed Cliff.
THE girl left the lobby. Cliff resumed his accustomed chair. He lighted a cigarette and watched the clock. When the five minutes had elapsed, he picked up his hat, which lay on the floor beside him, and walked out into the street.
He found the girl awaiting him, away from the lighted front of the hotel. There was a cab by the curb.
“Downtown?” questioned Cliff.
The girl nodded. Cliff helped her in the cab. The girl leaned through the partition and gave the name of a restaurant on Forty-third Street.
“You’ll like the place,” she said to Cliff. “We won’t meet anybody that I know. They don’t go there.”
Again the girl’s hand pressed Cliff’s arm. Then her voice assumed a warning tone.
“I like you, big boy,” she said. “I want to tip you off before it’s too late. You’re taking a chance when you go out with me. I thought I ought to tell you.
“I’m Madge Benton — and I’m Durgan’s girl! Do you know who Durgan is?”
Cliff spoke as he was opening a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to the girl as he replied.
“You mean Killer Durgan?” he said, in an indifferent tone.
“Yes,” answered Madge, as she took a cigarette. “But he’s Francis J. now — they don’t call him Killer — but—”
She stopped and looked at Cliff. He detected a quizzical expression in her eyes as they passed by a street light.
“You mean he’s a dangerous sort of fellow,” said Cliff. “Is that the idea?”