“Maybe they’re giving you the run-around.”
“Nobody knows anything about the appointment. Sounds like he has half a dozen servants out at the house.”
“Well, I guess Royce just forgot the matter, Burke. Why don’t you postpone the interview.”
“It’s my assignment for tonight. I’ve arranged it; and I’m going to keep calling until I locate Royce.”
With that statement, Clyde lifted the receiver to make another call to Royce’s club.
WEST of Broadway, Moe Shrevnitz was seated behind the wheel of his reclaimed cab. The shrewd-faced taxi driver was parked outside the apartment that was topped by Weldon Wingate’s penthouse. It was Moe’s job to watch for Wingate.
Some one came out of the building. Leaning forward, Moe recognized the white-haired lawyer. Wingate was looking for a cab. Moe, parked at the hack stand, was ready. He stepped on the starter.
At that instant, another cab whisked by. Its driver saw Wingate. The cab cut in hard ahead of Moe’s.
Brakes ground as the driver opened the door. Wingate stepped aboard.
Moe Shrevnitz fumed. This was against the ethics of the taxi drivers. Had a doorman been on duty, Moe could have made a protest. But there was no doorman. Wingate was already aboard the rival cab.
Moe followed the cab ahead. This was his only way to keep tabs on Wingate. When it came to trailing another cab, Moe had no rival. He made a science of the game.
The first cab swung around a corner; Moe slowed for a moment, then made the turn and cut behind a truck to avoid notice as he continued on the trail.
It looked like an easy task, but Moe was not counting on what was to come. Wingate’s cab shot suddenly forward as it came to a corner. Hardly had it passed the crossing before Moe, a hundred feet behind, heard the clangor of a fire truck, accompanied by sirens.
A motorcycle policeman sped by. A patrolman sprang out into the avenue and spread his arms to block traffic. Moe was forced to stop. A fire engine roared across the avenue. Moe jammed his cab into gear; the cop barked an order to remain stopped. Ten seconds later, a hook-and-ladder truck clattered by.
Another siren was wailing. The patrolman still held traffic. Twenty seconds more; an ambulance came into view, clanged across the avenue, and kept on in back of the fire apparatus. The cop made sure that no more vehicles were coming; then motioned for traffic to proceed.
Moe muttered angrily. He had lost fully a minute and a half. Wingate’s taxi had turned off the avenue.
Traffic was thick about Moe’s cab, with cars cutting in from the opposite direction. No chance of regaining the trail. Moe could do nothing but return to Wingate’s apartment and watch for the lawyer’s return.
THE Gray Room of the Hotel Goliath was a place reserved for small banquets. Situated on the mezzanine of the hotel, it occupied a corner just beyond the stairway to the lobby.
Tonight, the Gray Room was in use. Thirty surgeons were holding a banquet in honor of a prominent physician who had returned from the Orient, bringing new data on tropical diseases.
Invitations to this dinner had been difficult to obtain. Among the lucky guests was a young physician who was seated at a corner table. His name was Rupert Sayre and his invitation had come unexpectedly, only an hour before the banquet had begun.
Among his friends, Doctor Sayre numbered Lamont Cranston. It was through Cranston that Sayre had gained the invitation here. And Cranston had requested a favor on the part of Doctor Sayre. In accordance with Cranston’s wish, Sayre was watching a physician who was seated at a table near the door.
Sayre knew the man by sight and by reputation: Doctor Raymond Deseurre, a keen-faced man of middle age: Sayre could not help but wonder why Cranston had requested a close observation of this reputable physician.
For Sayre — through circumstances which he had encountered — had long since identified Lamont Cranston with a strange personage called The Shadow.[1] Sayre knew that those whom came under The Shadow’s vigilance were apt to be men of crime.
Sometimes, though, they were persons who needed protection.
Which was Deseurre? Was he a plotter, or a threatened victim? What could he do here; or what might happen to him?
As Sayre considered these questions, an attendant entered the Gray Room. Sayre saw the hotel employee speak to Doctor Deseurre.
The middle-aged man arose and quietly left the room. Sayre watched the doorway, expecting his return.
Several minutes passed; then came the ring of a telephone near Sayre’s corner. A waiter answered it; Sayre heard the man take the message.
“Very well, sir,” said the waiter. “Yes… I’ll tell the speaker… Yes, I understand, sir. Doctor Deseurre has had a call from a patient and will not be able to return…”
Another agent of The Shadow — for Rupert Sayre was serving in that capacity pro tem — had lost the trail of a man whom he was supposed to watch. Coincidences were running strong tonight. In no case was there any indication of the unusual.
DOWN in the underworld, two aids of The Shadow were on duty together. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye formed a competent team as they stalked the badlands. They had received a tip through Burbank, a few hours previously. They were making good use of it.
Neither Cliff nor Hawkeye had found out any worthwhile facts regarding the gorillas who had fallen at Tobold’s. All of those thugs had been free-lance mobsmen of lesser consequence. Some one had hired them, perhaps; but the “grapevine,” that secret telegraph of the underworld, disclaimed the fact.
According to the whisper, the thugs had been on their own. The grapevine, however, was sometimes wrong. Evidence, though, supported it, for no connection could be found between the dead thugs and any known band of hoodlums.
The tracking of Homer Hothan had proven a hopeless task. The man had never been heard of in the underworld. There was no starting point from which to trace him. Thus Cliff and Hawkeye had been blocked until this new tip had come from Burbank.
“Trace Flick Sherrad.” That had been The Shadow’s order. Cliff and Hawkeye, separating, had started work with determination. Meeting, they had compared notes. Together, they had something.
Cliff had heard two dips talking about a hideout, not far from the Bowery, a place that was guarded by a fake blind peddler. The faker was back on his old stand. He had hired out his lodging to some one who wanted to keep under cover.
Hawkeye had talked with a hophead whom he had met in an underworld dive. In the course of conversation, the hophead had mentioned cautiously that he had seen Flick Sherrad two days before. He had named the locality where he had spied the missing mob-leader. Hawkeye had made a mental note of it.
Added facts brought results. Cliff and Hawkeye, telling each other their findings, agreed that the occupied hideout might well be Flick Sherrad’s. It was close to the place where the hophead had seen Flick.
Going along the Bowery, The Shadow’s agents reached the street that they wanted. This thoroughfare was fairly well lighted. A good spot for a peddler.
Strolling along, they passed the fake blind man standing in front of a building that bore a “for-rent” sign.
The door of the building was almost in darkness.
CLIFF and Hawkeye separated. Cliff came back along the street. Though roughly dressed, he looked like a man who might have money. There was nothing unusual in a chap of his type stopping to look in pitying fashion at the blind peddler.
Cliff reached in his pocket. He brought out some coins and held them in the light. He noted pencils in the peddler’s hand. Cliff reached for them.
“How much?” he queried, as he tapped the pencils.
“Five cents each,” returned the peddler, in a wheezy tone. “Or whatever you want to pay for them.”