As they sped along through twisting streets where traffic was light, Hawkeye gave the news that he had heard pass between Cardona and Markham. Moe Shrevnitz nodded his understanding.
For these two men were yoked in a common cause. Hawkeye and Moe were agents of The Shadow, that strange, mysterious fighter whose long, far-reaching fingers kept touch with every pulse beat of impending crime.
Callard’s cab had reached an elevated structure and was speeding northward beneath the pillars. Moe was half a block behind, keeping hard on the trail.
Streets passed in rapid succession. Suddenly, the cab ahead swung to the right. Hawkeye, his face almost in the front seat, uttered a sharp ejaculation to Moe.
“He’s spotted us!” was Hawkeye’s hoarse exclamation. “Must have seen us tailing him at the start. That’s why he’s turning off!”
Moe had swung the corner while Hawkeye was speaking. They roared through a narrow street. Callard’s cab had increased speed; it was turning right again at the next avenue, doubling back beneath another elevated railway.
Moe stuck to his task and kept up a threading trail as the cab ahead took to side streets.
It soon became apparent that Callard must have given his driver a new address. The fleeing cab was keeping in and about a section near Twenty-third Street, twisting back to streets that it had traveled before. Spurting to a lead of a full block, it rounded a corner. Moe Shrevnitz spied a motion of the door as Callard’s cab took the turn.
“He’s dropping off,” informed Moe. “That’s what he’s doing. Going to leave me an empty hack to follow—”
“I’m dropping, too,” broke in Hawkeye. “Hit the corner slow, Moe.”
MOE complied. Hawkeye pushed open a door and sprang to the curb. Moe opened up around the corner; Hawkeye reached the edge of a building and peered along the darkened side street.
He could see Callard’s cab less than a block ahead, with Moe speeding after it. Hawkeye took to the side street, ducking from doorway to doorway as he moved forward.
Suddenly the spotter stopped. A man was coming cautiously in his direction. Hawkeye waited a few moments, then sneaked in pursuit. He saw Dave Callard come beneath the light of a corner street lamp.
The man turned to the right. Hawkeye trailed him, keeping up a crafty course for a full block. Callard was reaching a lighted district. Hawkeye crouched by a large rubbish can as the man stopped and looked about.
Lingering, Hawkeye saw Callard enter a lighted doorway. Hawkeye moved forward and reached the spot himself. Looking up, he saw an electric sign and made out its name despite the fact that a third of the incandescents were unlighted:
WUHU CAFE
Hawkeye slid across the street and observed the restaurant from that perspective. Chinese characters showed against the dull light of grimy windows. The Wuhu Cafe was obviously a Chinese restaurant of mediocre quality.
Hawkeye headed for a neighboring cigar store. He entered the place, found a telephone booth and dialed a number. Across the wire came a quiet, steady voice:
“Burbank speaking.”
Hawkeye was in communication with The Shadow’s contact agent. Burbank, posted at a secluded spot, was the man who kept in touch with active agents. Briefly, Hawkeye told of watching Cardona and Markham; then added what had followed.
“We trailed Callard to a chop suey joint,” concluded the wizened-faced spotter. “Place called the Wuhu Cafe. Looks like he’s in there now.”
“Report received,” came Burbank’s calm reply. “Move farther away from the district. Call for instructions in ten minutes.”
Hawkeye hung up and left the cigar store. He shuffled along for two blocks; then loitered as he neared a drug store. He had picked the drug store as the place from which he could make his next call. Idling, Hawkeye moved away from a street lamp and lighted a cigarette.
The flicker of the match showed a pleased smile on the crafty lips of the little spotter.
From now on, the watching of Dave Callard would be continued by one far more proficient than Hawkeye. The Shadow would soon assume the duty that his agent had begun.
CHAPTER II. THE SECRET MEETING
FIFTEEN minutes after Hawkeye had put in his first call to Burbank, a blackened shape emerged from the darkness just below the street entrance of the Wuhu Cafe. There was something sinister in that shrouded pall that glided from obscurity. Phantomlike, it clung close to a wall, avoiding the revealing glow of the nearest street lamp.
The Shadow had arrived at the point where Hawkeye had last seen Dave Callard. Promptly informed by Burbank, the master sleuth had taken up a new quest.
The splotchy light of the restaurant entrance was the one barrier that remained to The Shadow’s immediate progress. That was why he peered so keenly through the night, ready to detect hidden watchers should they be present. One figure alone attracted The Shadow’s gaze.
It was Hawkeye. He had made his second call to Burbank; he had been instructed to post himself in this terrain. Keenly, The Shadow watched his agent shift from one doorway to another. Swishing from the darkness, The Shadow swung swiftly into the street door of the upstairs restaurant. His figure showed in spectral outline as he passed a single light and moved upward on the gloomy stairs.
So well timed had The Shadow’s action been that Hawkeye did not catch a glimpse of his chief’s quick entry into the watched doorway.
Gaining a new post, Hawkeye was about to resume his duty when he spied the glimmering lights of a taxicab stopping half a block away. Hawkeye caught a quick blink as the lights were extinguished. It was a signal meant for him. He knew that the cab was Moe’s.
Hawkeye edged up to the cab. He spoke cautiously; a low reply came from the driver’s seat. Briefly, Moe explained how he had come here.
“Trailed the empty,” stated the cabby. “Stuck close to it for twenty blocks. Got up alongside at a red light. Asked the hackie what was his big idea.”
“Did he spill anything?” queried Hawkeye.
“Sure, he did,” returned Moe, with a grin in the darkness. “I told him I’d had a dick riding with me. Said I’d come along to tip him off so he could lay low in case of trouble.”
“You ask him about Callard?”
“Sure. The guy was going to a house in Talleyrand Place. Number twenty-eight. Changed his mind when he spotted us following. Told the hackie to forget it and drop him off near here. He slipped the hackie a fin and said for him to keep going.”
“Where’s Talleyrand Place?”
“Uptown. Swell sort of a layout over by the East River. I put in a report about five minutes ago. Burbank told me to join you here.”
Hawkeye grunted his understanding. The Shadow must already be on his way to the Wuhu Cafe.
Hawkeye had a hunch that The Shadow might by now have entered the gloomy portals of the Chinese restaurant.
This guess of Hawkeye’s was more than correct. The Shadow had ventured far in his progress. Arriving at the head of the stairs, he had found a little entry that afforded a view of the restaurant’s interior.
Just beyond, The Shadow had spied the opened front of an unused cloakroom. He had moved forward to that vantage point. Hidden in a blackened look-out post, he was studying the limited scene that the Wuhu Cafe afforded.
There were only three patrons in the restaurant. They were seated at different tables, busy with chop suey and chow mein. A solitary waiter was in view; he was an aproned Celestial who stood by a doorway to the kitchen, keeping an eye upon the wants of the diners.
The Shadow watched this Chinaman. The Celestial’s face was expressionless. One minute passed; then the waiter edged toward the kitchen door. Watching, The Shadow saw him dart one quick glance toward a row of curtained booths that began just beyond the cloakroom. Then the waiter went into the kitchen.