Harry heard the footsteps go across the cellar floor. Silence followed. Harry switched on his light.
This was a small cellar — a single room, yet it was entirely empty. There was an open bin in the corner. Harry investigated it. It was backed with wood against the wall.
Puzzling over the situation, Harry began to form a theory.
A man had disappeared from the cellar of Blair Windsor’s house. A man had disappeared here. The inference was that a passage lay between the two buildings.
Vernon was probably the person who had disappeared from Windsor’s home. He had come to visit the old man in the farmhouse. Now he had returned.
Harry was on the point of investigating the bin, when it occurred to him that an inspection of Windsor’s cellar would be more suitable. There, at least, he might have some excuse for prowling. Here he was a trespasser.
He turned out his light and climbed from the cellar window. As he arose to his feet something fell upon him from the darkness The quickness of the surprise attack overcame him before he could even gasp.
He received a stunning blow that rendered him almost incapable of motion. His arms were pinned beneath him; a cloth was thrust in his mouth.
Handcuffs clicked on his wrists. His captor was sitting on him so that he could not move his legs. Quick hands strapped Harry’s ankles.
Then the gag in Vincent’s mouth was securely fastened. He was half-lifted and half-dragged across the yard.
Harry thought for a moment that he was to be taken in the farmhouse. But instead, he was carried to an automobile.
The powerful man who had seized him thrust him into the back seat of the open car. They started along the rough road. Harry was jounced helplessly back and forth.
Who had captured him?
Where was he going?
Harry’s dazed mind could not answer either question.
Hopeless thoughts flashed through his mind. He had failed in his work. Harry was a prisoner. He had no way to notify The Shadow of his plight.
CHAPTER XVIII
TIGER BRONSON
It was midnight in Manhattan. There were very few customers in the Black Ship. Spotter, seated in a corner, knew every one of them. He had been here since nine o’clock, waiting for the moment when there would be no stranger in their midst.
Although he was so widely acquainted in the underworld, the crafty, beady-eyed little man did not know all the patrons of the Black Ship. Visiting mobsmen from other cities came there frequently. Strange faces were always present. Spotter knew every face at present, however.
Sure he was free from observation, Spotter went to the bar and spoke quietly to Red Mike, the proprietor.
“Let me out by the back way.”
Red Mike considered the request.
“What’s the idea, Spotter?” he asked.
“I’m going to see the big fellow,” whispered Spotter. “I promised him I’d fix it so no one could see me go out of here.”
“All right.”
The proprietor entered a room behind the bar, and Spotter followed. There was a locked door at the other side of the room. Red Mike opened it, and Spotter slipped through like a scurrying rat without even extending thanks.
Hastening through a passage, he emerged through a side door which locked behind him. He was in a deserted walk that led to an alley.
He chuckled as he reached the alley. Only a very few of the elite of gangland knew of this secret way out of the Black Ship.
Spotter now feared no pursuit. He knew that any one who might be watching for him would be at the front entrance of the dive. So he made great speed in leaving the vicinity.
He moved silently, with running gait, along the side of the alley; and continued his deceptive pace when he reached the street.
Spotter used the utmost precaution, and every wile, when he thought he was being followed. But when he was reasonably sure that no one was on his trail, he went forth rapidly, never looking behind. Hence, he did not notice a strange shadow on the sidewalk — a shadow that seemed to keep pace with him, moving without noise, as shadows always do.
Leaving the more disreputable neighborhood behind him, Spotter came to some old, large houses. Here he entered a space between two buildings, and rang at a side door. It was opened for him. He went upstairs, and entered a room at the side of the house.
Spotter always climbed stairs rapidly. Tonight, he should have remained outside the house. Had he been there, he would have seen what appeared to be a solid shadow moving up the side of the wall. It reached the lighted window before Spotter was in the room.
Perhaps that was why Spotter was startled when he entered. For on the floor he saw a shadow. He stared at it; but it did not move.
Sighing with relief, the little crook dropped in a chair, with his back partly toward the window.
A big, bluff-faced man came in. Spotter grinned and raised one scrawny hand in greeting. The little crook seemed to be doing his utmost to gain favor with the heavy, grim-visaged person whom he had come to see.
“What’s up?” demanded the bluff man, lighting a black cigar as he took his place in a chair opposite Spotter. “Give me the dope.”
“Doc Birch was raided last night,” said Spotter. He did not add that he had been there.
“What for?” came the question. “Booze, or stolen goods?”
“Neither. Phony mazuma.”
“Hm-m-m. Trying to pass counterfeit bills, eh? That’s a new one on me.”
Spotter licked his lips and looked at the big man. He was awed in the presence of this personage. For the man was none other than “Tiger” Bronson, an overlord of the underworld, whose word was law throughout crookdom.
No one knew where Tiger Bronson had gained his nickname. It might have been a reference to his former activity in Tammany politics; or it might have been applied to indicate the powerful and dangerous character of the man.
At any rate, Bronson gloried in the name. Tiger he was, and Tiger he was called.
Very few crooks ever visited Tiger Bronson’s home. Spotter was one of the few. Yet he, like the others, had nothing on Tiger Bronson.
He had come here before simply to report that Reds Mackin had wanted to find Birdie Crull, but that he — Spotter — was sure that the pretended Reds Mackin was none other than The Shadow.
The reason for the report was that Spotter was under orders to bring such information to Tiger Bronson. The big fellow wanted to know any unusual developments in gangland.
On the night that he had made the report, Spotter had mentioned the rendezvous that he had made with the false Reds Mackin. He had suggested that The Shadow be trapped there.
Tiger Bronson had made no comment; but Spotter had known that the words had made an impression. Also, he knew that he must not make any statement which might implicate Tiger Bronson.
“What else has happened?” demanded the overlord of gangdom.
“Nothin’ much,” replied Spotter casually. “A mob of gorillas tried to get Reds Mackin.”
“Why?”
“Because they thought he was The Shadow.”
Tiger Bronson knew all this. But Spotter understood the situation. He knew that he must refer to the event as though Tiger Bronson knew nothing about it.
“Who was in on it?” came the question.
“Maloney’s mob,” answered Spotter.
“What about you?”
“I was kinda in on it, too,” grinned Spotter. This was leading up to the subject which he wished to handle tactfully. “Say, Tiger, I’m kinda short on dough. Gave five hundred to an old pal of mine, Steve Cronin. I’d like to borrow that much money, if I could get it.”
Tiger Bronson said nothing. He went to a safe; opened it, and took out a package of bills. They were bound with a large red rubber band. The gang master took off the fastening and counted out fifty ten-dollar bills.