“Yes,” said the girl. “He’s a brute! The only men that I know are like him, and he’s the worst of the lot” — there was bitterness in her voice — “so I’m putting you wise. If he knew I was out with you — well, he’d try to bump you off, that’s all!”
“He might try,” said Cliff quietly.
“You don’t know Durgan,” said Madge warningly. “I know lots of gunmen. They’re the only men I do know. I like them. They’re on the level. But they’re toughest when it comes to their molls.
“I shouldn’t be here with you tonight. But I’m sick of Durgan. I liked you the first time I saw you, big boy” — there was an appeal in her voice that made Cliff realize the admiration she held for him — “and I just had to make friends with you. It’s because I like you that I’m putting you wise” — her hand pressed more tightly against Cliff’s arm — “and I won’t think bad of you if you give me the gate now and for all. That’s how I feel!”
THE tone of the girl’s voice convinced Cliff of what he had suspected all along; that Madge had been waiting the one opportunity to make his acquaintance.
Cliff had known many women. Although there was one who stood out in his memory, he remembered the others. He had never found it difficult to win a woman’s love; and when a girl talked as Madge was talking, he knew that she would never betray anything that he might say.
He felt that fortune had smiled upon him. Through Madge, he could learn of Killer Durgan. He decided to win her confidence.
“So you like gangsters,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” responded Madge. “They’re regular guys. But don’t ever have a run-in with one like Durgan—”
“Do you know a man named Cliff Marsland?” interrupted Cliff.
“The guy they say bumped off Tim Waldron?” questioned Madge, in an awed tone.
“Yes.”
“No. I don’t know him.”
“You do now!”
A gasp came from the darkness beside Cliff. It was several seconds before the meaning of his words had impressed the girl.
“You don’t mean” — her voice was breathless — “you don’t mean that you are—”
“I am Cliff Marsland!”
“Say” — Madge’s tone was filled with admiration and approval — “you’re some guy, big boy! Gee! I never thought that you were Cliff Marsland!
“They’re all talking about you — they figure you’re a big shot — the way you busted up that flock of gorillas. Durgan never pulled a stunt like that. They’ve been wondering where you were and here it was you, right in our hotel!”
“My official name,” said Cliff quietly, “is Clinton Martin. Remember that. As for your friend, Killer Durgan” — there was sarcasm in his voice — “don’t worry about what might happen to me if I met him!”
There was nothing boastful in Cliff’s tone. His words made a marked impression upon Madge. She nestled beside him in the cab.
“You’ve been doing a stretch in the Big House, haven’t you?” she said softly.
“Yes,” replied Cliff.
“Are you looking for a moll?”
“Not now.”
Madge laughed. His reply made her snuggle more closely. Then she became suddenly serious.
“How about before,” she said, “back before they put you away? Was there a moll then?”
“Yes,” replied Cliff, “there was. But that’s long ago, Madge. That’s all been forgotten.”
“Gee, Cliff!” the girl exclaimed. “I’m glad to hear that! You’re on the level, all right. Gee, I’m glad I got you here! You’re the guy I’ve been looking for. I’ll ditch Durgan—”
“Later,” said Cliff quietly.
“All right,” agreed Madge. “But it won’t be too long, will it, Cliff?”
“No. Not too long.”
The cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. The driver opened the door. Cliff Marsland stepped from the taxi with Madge Benton clinging closely to his right arm.
CHAPTER VI
CLIFF MAKES PROGRESS
CLIFF MARSLAND entered the outer room of his apartment at Larchmont Court. He closed the door softly behind him. He did not turn on the light. Instead, he walked across the room and sat in darkness beside the telephone table.
The window was close by. From this room on the eighteenth floor, Cliff could see over the intervening buildings to the brilliant lights of Times Square, which threw a lurid glow through a smoky mist that had settled over the city.
Cliff watched the changing lights. Most of them were too far away to be distinguished; but there were two electric signs near by that he noticed.
One was a large clock, which marked the hour of nine. The other was an advertising sign with an intricate border of varicolored lights that flashed on and off with great rapidity.
Picking up the telephone, Cliff called a number from memory. Shortly afterward a voice answered.
It was a quiet voice, that spoke almost mechanically. Cliff mumbled into the mouthpiece. The voice at the other end spoke.
“I can’t hear you,” it said.
Cliff spoke plainly.
“Can you hear me now,” he asked.
There was a pause. Then came a reply.
“Not very well. We must have a poor connection. I’m busy at present. I’ll call you back.”
A click came over the wire. Cliff grinned as he hung up the receiver.
Softly, almost to himself, he repeated the words that he had said, accenting two of them.
“Can you hear me now.”
He had sent his first concealed message by The Shadow’s secret method. He had been informed of it in one of his letters of instruction.
“In reporting,” the letter had said, “phrase an innocent sentence in which accented words will give your message. Expect replies of the same nature.”
Cliff had sent his message. By accented words, he had conveyed the information, “Here now.” It could mean but one thing to the recipient — that Ernie Shires was at present in the hotel, visiting Killer Durgan.
Shires was the man whom Cliff was awaiting. There was only one place where Shires would be. All that would be understood.
IT was now only a few minutes after nine. Exactly twenty-four hours ago, Cliff had left Madge Benton near the hotel, and had come in, after she had entered, to resume his vigil in the lobby.
He had used his own initiative when he had gone with Madge. He had run the risk of missing Shires if the man had made a quick visit to Larchmont Court. But he had gained much by the hour which he had spent with Killer Durgan’s moll.
He had found out that the girl knew what was going on in Durgan’s business; and she had mentioned the name of Ernie Shires. Cliff had expressed an interest in the gangster, ostensibly because Shires had been a henchman of Tim Waldron. He knew that he could count on Madge for further information.
In that one brief hour, the girl had expressed a world of hate and contempt for Killer Durgan, whose mastery she detested. Such hatred had increased her desire to win Cliff.
Now Shires was in the hotel. Cliff had seen him come in, ten minutes ago. He had suspected the man’s identity. He had passed the desk while Shires was announcing his name to the clerk.
He knew that Ernie would be in Durgan’s apartment for a considerable length of time. He had taken this opportunity to report to The Shadow, through some intermediary — the man who had answered the phone.
Cliff waited quietly. The darkness was soothing; it gave him a feeling of security. Like The Shadow, he enjoyed the dark. He scented mystery and adventure looming ahead.
There was a light tap at the door. Cliff pressed his hand against the pocket of his coat and felt the automatic beneath. He stepped across the room.
“Who’s there?” he questioned softly.
“Cliff!” The name was spoken breathlessly by a feminine voice.