The odds?
Cliff Marsland again smiled grimly as he contemplated that phase of the situation. With The Shadow’s strategy as the guiding force, numerical odds meant nothing. Cliff was eager for the action which lay ahead tonight.
CHAPTER III
THE SILK-HAT CROOK
MANHATTAN’S lights made a glorious vista from the eighteenth floor of the Gargantuan Hotel. Through the open window of a lighted room in the middle of a luxurious suite, two men had an excellent opportunity to view the glittering sights. They, however, were concerned with other matters.
One man, tall and of medium weight, was standing before a full-length mirror. Immaculately garbed in a full-dress suit, he was surveying the set of his attire. Finally, he glanced at his own face, and gave himself a pleasing smile.
His countenance was a handsome one, well formed and featured. Dark-brown eyes peered from beneath thin black eyelashes. A trim, neatly pointed black mustache added to the man’s dapper look.
The other occupant of the room was a stocky, hard-faced fellow who was plainly dressed in street clothes. A depreciating grin showed upon this man’s lips as he watched the mustached man finish his fastidious preparations.
“Always playing the dude,” commented the watcher. “Well, it’s your business, Silky. Stick to it.”
The handsome man turned from the mirror, and spoke sarcastically as he viewed his heavy-set companion.
“It’s my business,” he declared, “and it shows a profit. Maybe you could get into better money, Tim, if you tried to play a part. But that mug of yours — say, I wouldn’t keep you as a valet two minutes if I didn’t need to have you around on this job. You’re a giveaway. Come over here!”
“Silk” grabbed the stocky man by the shoulder, and drew him to the mirror. Both were standing so that they could survey their own faces. The contrast was evident
“A fine pair,” jeered the man who wore the dress suit. “Silk Elverton and Tim Mecke. One a gentleman; the other a roughneck — if you go by appearances.”
“But both of us crooks,” growled the rough-faced man.
“Certainly,” retorted Silk. “You’ve hit it exactly, Tim. Appearances count, particularly when they are meant to deceive. Look at the situation we are in right now. I’m going where the swag lays — like a gentleman. I couldn’t take you along with me on a bet, even as a servant.”
“I got by as your valet when we came in here.”
“You did that. By keeping your mouth shut and managing not to laugh when I referred to you as my man. Well, I had to bring you along, and we’re checking out tonight.”
Silk Elverton slipped a cigarette in a holder. He applied a match; then picked up a light coat and a silk hat, which lay upon a chair. Dropping the coat over his left arm, Silk donned the hat and pointed toward the corner.
“Come, Timothy!” he said, in an affected tone. “You must be more prompt, my man. Bring me my walking stick! Be quick!”
TIM MECKE laughed as he picked up a gold-headed cane and handed it to Silk Elverton. The rough-faced fellow who posed as valet pro tem stared at the high hat which rested neatly upon Silk’s head.
“No wonder they call you Silk,” he commented. “That shiny topper — say, it’s nifty, all right. You’ve got the real idea, this smooth-crook business. You don’t have to convince me.”
“All right,” returned Silk, in a brusque tone. “Let’s get this straight, now, Tim. You opened up 2116 with that phony key. Duffy and his mob will get in there all right. The diagram I made is waiting for them, eh?”
“Right.”
“You stick here. I’ll fix everything. I’ll buzz you when it’s set. Then I’ll ring the room where they are. If there’s any hitch up at the convention, I’ll tip you off. Then you can slide up to 2116 and put Duffy wise.”
“You don’t think there’ll be any trouble?”
“Probably not. I looked over the lay last night. But I’m not taking any chances. Have everything packed so we can leave after I come back. Taking the steamship back to jolly old England, you know.”
“A good stall.”
Silk Elverton smiled at Tim Mecke’s last words. Putting his cane in his left hand, Silk tapped his right hip pocket, to make sure that he had a small revolver.
“Say,” he remarked, “I wish I could tell those goofs I was a duke or a baron or what not. But it would be too risky. I’m just Ronald Elverton to them, but that’s big enough. They’re all tickled to have a swanky Britisher at this convention. You ought to see the saps when I start to drawl about dear old London.”
“You look like an Englishman, Silk.”
“Why not? I wouldn’t pretend to be one if I couldn’t play the part. Listen, now when I come back, we move out with dignity. After that, you can scram and join up with Duffy Bagland. You’re the go-between, and I’ll lay low until I hear from you — with my cut out of the haul.”
“You’ll get it, Silk.”
Silk’s eyes flashed as he stared at Tim Mecke.
“You’re right I’ll get it,” he said coldly. “There’s nobody ever stopped me from getting what I worked for. Well” — Silk’s lips formed a smile, and his voice altered its tone — “I’m waggling along. Cheerio!”
Jauntily, Silk Elverton strolled from the suite. He adjusted a monocle to his right eye, and carefully arranged the ribbon which led from the glass to his pocket. He stopped at the elevators, and boarded an upward-bound car that stopped for him.
Nods of greeting came from several men who were in the elevator. These were staid businessmen of middle age, who, like Silk, wore evening clothes. The difference lay in the fact that Silk’s attire seemed natural to him, while the others gave the impression of being ill at ease in their regalia.
“Ballroom floor,” announced the operator.
The occupants of the car stepped out. Silk Elverton went to a checkroom and left his coat, hat, and cane. Still wearing his monocle, he placed a fresh cigarette in the holder, and strolled toward a room at the end of the corridor.
THE ballroom occupied the center third of this floor; tonight, it was closed. The corridor which Silk took opened into a long, narrow room that was adjacent to the ballroom. This was the first of several smaller connecting rooms.
All along were convention exhibits. Signs displayed in each room announced that this affair was conducted by the United Silverware Manufacturers’ Association. The exhibit booths contained many forms of table equipment, but now most of the exhibitors were packing. Silk Elverton continued through until he came to the third room.
Each of the rooms that the well-dressed man went through had a side door opening into the closed ballroom. But in the last room of the tier, there was another door that led into a small room, which had no other entrance. Above that door was a sign which read:
WINTER PALACE EXHIBIT
Silk Elverton strolled through the door. A gorgeous array of glittering tableware met his eye. Spread upon tables and shelves were plates of solid gold. Also on exhibit were knives and forks of the same precious metal.
Silver, too, had its place in this exhibit. There were white plates larger than the golden ones. Silver samovars, huge tureens, solid sets of cups and saucers — all combined to make a glorious display.
Detectives were on hand, guarding the valuable collection.
Silk Elverton knew the history of these articles, and he heard continued comments from other persons who were viewing the objects. This tableware had been carried from the Winter Palace of the Russian Czar, saved by trusted servants. It had been sold to aid the Royalist cause; a wealthy American had purchased the bulk of the gold and silver service.
As a special attraction, the collection had been put on display at this convention. Valued as gold and silver alone — eliminating the workmanship — the tableware was worth many thousands of dollars.