Maxwell Grant
The Silver Scourge
CHAPTER I
CRIME BREWS
THE lobby of the old Hotel Spartan had more than its usual quota of loungers tonight. Cliff Marsland noted that fact as he sat in one of the broken-down easy-chairs, and carelessly studied the faces of the others who were present.
To Cliff Marsland, it was evident that crime was brewing. A man of keen intuition, Cliff could scent such indications. His business here was to watch for them. A week’s residence in this dilapidated hotel had finally brought results.
The loungers in the lobby could see Cliff Marsland as well as he could see them, but his presence excited no comment on their part. They took Cliff for what he pretended to be — a mobster de luxe, one who was in the money.
Cliff Marsland’s face was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. He possessed firm and well-molded features. His light hair and flashing blue eyes gave him the look of an athlete rather than a gangster.
It was Cliff’s square jaw and his poker-face expression which earned him the respect of the hoodlums who frequented this place. Cliff Marsland looked dangerous, and he minded his own business. Those two qualities placed him among gangdom’s elite.
Cliff Marsland was the type of man whom one would expect to find living at the Hotel Spartan. This decrepit lobby, where the dull rumble of the elevated constantly penetrated from the front street, was a regular meeting place for tough customers, who had cash, and who possessed a clean bill of health with the New York police.
Small-fry hoodlums and toughened gorillas shied away from the Hotel Spartan. Smooth racketeers preferred uptown night clubs and more pretentious lobbies than the one which this old East Side hotel afforded. The lesser chieftains of the underworld, the strong-fisted lieutenants who served the big shots, such men chose the Spartan because its location enabled them to keep in close contact with their underlings.
Gangsters who received real money for their work — the kind who could afford to lie idle until big jobs came along — found the Hotel Spartan a profitable place to be.
When a guest of the establishment quietly checked out, it was accepted as a sign that he had received a bid from some big shot who wanted expert service. When that same guest returned, it was assumed that he had performed his required duties with sufficient precision to avoid suspicion on the part of the police.
CLIFF MARSLAND had, for a long time, appeared as an occasional resident of the Hotel Spartan. He was known here, and he possessed a reputation as a man of crime.
The suggestion that he might be a detective or a stool pigeon would have brought a laugh. Nevertheless, Cliff Marsland was actually engaged in a service which was opposed to crime.
He was a secret agent of The Shadow!
Maintaining his calm composure as he eyed another man who was entering the dingy lobby, Cliff Marsland found his thoughts reverting to the first time that he had met his mysterious chief. The strange event had taken place in this very hotel.
Out of Sing Sing, where he had served time for a crime committed by another man, Cliff had been made the goat for the murder of a racketeer. In that emergency, when Cliff had faced death at the hands of the dead man’s henchmen, The Shadow had appeared.
A being garbed in black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat, a mysterious personage who spoke in a weird and sinister whisper, The Shadow had offered Cliff Marsland safety. In return, Cliff had promised to serve The Shadow.
Guided by The Shadow, Cliff had fought his way free, while an invisible hand from darkness had shot down each gangster who aimed to take Cliff’s life.
That episode had given Cliff Marsland a reputation as a fighter. With his enemies gone, he roamed the underworld. Recognized by mobsters, he constantly gained information of coming crimes. Such word went from Cliff Marsland to The Shadow.
Who was The Shadow?
Cliff Marsland did not know. There were other agents besides Cliff — but all served The Shadow in a capacity that was purely subordinate. A lone wolf, one who kept his secrets hidden even from his chosen aids, The Shadow remained a phantom of the night who ceaselessly warred against crime.
Cliff Marsland possessed the happy faculty of engaging in reminiscent thoughts without losing his ability to observe present happenings. He noticed that there were half a dozen strangers in the lobby, and that all of them appeared to be gunmen of a subordinate type.
Two of them were standing close together; Cliff was positive that all were associates. They had probably been hand-picked as men on whom the police had nothing, and were here because some gang leader planned to use them in crime tonight.
The situation presented Cliff Marsland with a problem. There were several persons living in the Hotel Spartan who might have use for such a band as this. Soon, the leader would join his henchmen; crime would then be under way. Before that time, it was Cliff Marsland’s job to notify The Shadow, and when he sent his message, Cliff would be doing best if he could name the man in back of this activity.
The pair of mobsters in the corner of the lobby! They were the ones upon whom Cliff planned to concentrate. They were talking together now. Cliff arose from his chair, stalked over to the cracked marble desk, and purchased a package of cigarettes.
Cliff’s next actions were deliberate. The Shadow’s agent opened the pack, crumpled away the cellophane wrapping, and flipped it toward an ash stand. He strolled toward the spot where the two gangsters stood. There, he paused to extract a cigarette. He lighted a match and applied it.
The action was well-timed. Cliff had moved just far enough past the two gangsters to escape their notice. He was still close enough to catch any words that might be uttered. A low growl came to his ears.
“Think this is all the outfit?” spoke one mobster to the other.
“Maybe a couple more,” was the reply.
“Just as good. There ain’t nothin’ to gain by too many.”
“Leave it to Duffy. He’s wise. He knows what he’s doin’—”
“You bet he does. He ain’t tipped nobody to his lay—”
Cliff Marsland kept on. He strolled from the lobby, smoking his cigarette. He reached the street and turned left, passing by the gloomy, grimy front of the Hotel Spartan. He crossed the street beneath the rumble of an elevated train, and headed for a cheap restaurant, half a block away.
WHEN he left the Hotel Spartan, Cliff usually went to that eating house. Hence, there was nothing suspicious in his present action. Behind his steady face, Cliff curbed the elation that he felt. In those snatches of conversation, The Shadow’s agent had learned all that he needed to know.
During his present stay at the Hotel Spartan, Cliff had learned the names of the small establishment’s principal guests. He had located their rooms. He knew whom the mobsters had meant by Duffy. Among those in the Spartan was a hard-boiled gang leader who kept very much to himself. The man’s name was “Duffy” Bagland.
Reaching the restaurant, Cliff Marsland entered. He went past a long lunch counter and arrived in a back room. There were tables here, but few occupants. A clock showed that the hour was eight, and the time for the cheap dinner special was past.
Cliff Marsland sat at a table and gave an order to the sad-faced waiter. The man plopped a glass of water on the table, and wiped his hands upon a greasy apron.
When the waiter had gone, Cliff arose and strolled to a doorway at the back. Here he stopped in an improvised telephone booth, where a pay box jutted from the cracked stone wall.
Methodically, Cliff dropped a nickel and dialed a number. The response came in a quiet voice which Cliff immediately recognized.
“Burbank speaking.”