Cliff was holding the man’s attention. He knew that behind those dark glasses were eyes that could see.
But the faker was turned away from the doorway. He could not observe what Cliff was noticing.
Hawkeye had sneaked up to the door, to find it unlocked. Hawkeye was entering the house.
“I’ll take three pencils,” decided Cliff. “Here’s a quarter. You keep the change.”
Drawing away the pencils with his left hand, Cliff pushed a twenty-five-cent piece between the thumb and forefinger of his right. He flipped the coin for the peddler’s cup. The quarter fell short, as Cliff had intended it. The coin struck the outside of the cup and clinked to the sidewalk.
The peddler dropped to his knees and began to feel around for the money. Cliff urged him away.
Stooping, The Shadow’s agent began a search of his own.
“I’ll find it for you,” he promised. “Here — hold the pencils while I look.”
The quarter was lying in a crack of the sidewalk. Cliff pushed it farther away as he pawed about. The peddler started to help again. Cliff motioned the man upward and arose to his own feet.
“Guess it’s lost,” he said. “I’ll have to strike a match to look for it. But here — I’ll pay you for the pencils in the meantime. I have another quarter.”
Cliff produced the second coin. The peddler was stooping again. Cliff withheld him and plunked the new quarter in the cup. At the same moment, he slid his foot over so it covered the quarter on the sidewalk.
Cliff wanted time to make his next search. He intended to keep the peddler occupied while Hawkeye scoured the hideout. Thus he would be present if Hawkeye needed him; and he would also be able to cover Hawkeye’s departure if no trouble should occur while the little man was searching.
Three or four minutes had already passed. Cliff struck a match. It blew out. He lighted another. It also failed. More trouble with matches. Another minute had gone by.
At last, Cliff held one burning. He stooped and looked about by his right foot, the one that covered the coin. His match burned out in the hollow cup of his hand. Cliff started to light another.
A flicker of flame showed a slow motion of the peddler’s right foot. Something in the action warned Cliff.
It was the way a man would move before dealing a blow. Cliff looked up. He shot his left hand toward a descending wrist.
The peddler had yanked a blackjack and was starting a short swing for Cliff’s head.
CLIFF caught the man’s wrist; as he twisted it, the fellow lost his hold on the implement. The blackjack thudded on the sidewalk. With a snarl, the fake blind man leaped for Cliff’s throat.
Cliff was rising too late. The man had the advantage. As they grappled, Cliff’s feet slipped. Cliff fell back upon his shoulders and clutched wildly to stop his attacker. The faker grabbed Cliff’s throat.
The man’s idea was to pound the back of Cliff’s head on the sidewalk. Cliff resisted with full force; but his arms were pinioned beneath the faker’s knees. Only by shifting his head from side to side could Cliff escape the inevitable.
Choking fingers gripped Cliff’s throat. The Shadow’s agent wrenched his neck away from the beggar’s grasp. Then the fingers clutched again. Cliff gurgled; the peddler issued a triumphant snarl.
Then, at this crucial instant, a bunched-up form came hurtling downward from the wall above. A doubled body landed squarely on the peddler’s shoulders. The faker went down into a heap and rolled from Cliff’s body. Fingers left Cliff’s throat.
As he rolled over to gain his feet, Cliff saw his rescuer gripping the peddler. It was Hawkeye who had made this timely attack. From the second floor, Hawkeye had seen the fight. He had plunged from a front window to put an end to it.
Hawkeye was half lifting the peddler. The man’s dark glasses were gone as Hawkeye backed him against the wall. Helpless, he was coughing answers to questions that Hawkeye was giving him.
“Whose hideout is it?” Hawkeye was demanding. “Come on — spill it!”
“Flick Sherrad’s,” gasped the peddler. “Flick—”
“Flick’s not in town,” snapped Hawkeye. “Come on — who’s the mug that’s got you working as lookout?”
“It’s Flick — Flick Sherrad. Honest it is—”
Half sagging as his voice broke, the peddler loosed a sudden, lucky jab to Hawkeye’s chin. Hawkeye staggered; as Cliff sprang forward, the peddler made a dive away from him. He kicked over the cup that he had laid upon the sidewalk. Coins went scattering as the peddler took to his heels. Pencils dropped along the man’s trail.
Cliff stopped Hawkeye as the little man was about to pursue. Together, they hurried along the street and took temporary cover in a doorway; then, satisfied that the coast was clear, they headed toward the Bowery.
“No use chasing him,” grunted Cliff. “We muffed it — that’s all. We found Flick’s hideout, right enough, but he won’t head in here now that the lookout’s missing.”
“Anyway, I bluffed that guy,” remarked Hawkeye. “He’ll think we were after somebody else, the way I talked to him. I didn’t make out that we wanted Flick.”
“Good headwork,” complimented Cliff. “But it won’t bring Flick back. He’ll be off the place after this. What did you find upstairs?”
“A room that looked like a hideout. But there wasn’t anybody there.”
“All right. Stick here while I make a report.”
They had neared a cigar store on the Bowery. Hawkeye remained outside while Cliff went in to make a call to Burbank. Agents of The Shadow had again struck ill luck.
IN the reading room of the exclusive Cobalt Club, a rotund, chubby-faced man was reading an evening newspaper while he smoked a fat cigar. This individual was named Rutledge Mann. By profession, he was an investment broker.
Mann was pleased with his surroundings. He had been admitted to this swanky club through the recommendation of an important member — Lamont Cranston. Mann spent much of his leisure time here.
A smile showed on Mann’s chubby face as he noted an item in the newspaper. It was a dispatch from Philadelphia, stating that Professor Tyson Morth was delivering a speech in that city this evening.
Mann smiled because he had read a similar item in a Philadelphia morning newspaper, earlier this very day. The report in the Philadelphia journal had stated, in addition, that Professor Morth was leaving for New York directly after his dinner speech. That meant he would take a train at eight o’clock, arriving in New York before ten.
Mann had clipped that item from the Philadelphia newspaper. He had placed it in an envelope, had carried it to Twenty-third Street, and had left it in The Shadow’s post box. By this time, it had reached The Shadow.
Rutledge Mann had cause to smile. Action was not his forte; his was a passive part. But on this occasion, he was the only one of all The Shadow’s agents who had experienced no setback in the moves against impending crime.
CHAPTER XII. THE ROOM OF SKULLS
LISTED first among the names of old Hildrew Parchell’s associates had been Channing Tobold. Crooks had raided the pawnbroker’s shop; they had failed to get the wealth they sought. The silver skull ring had been a blind.
The Shadow had anticipated the criminal move; but he had been too late to stop the evil thrust. Chance had tricked The Shadow. Channing Tobold was dead. But tonight, The Shadow was playing for better luck.
Knowing that wealth was still missing, The Shadow had picked the name of Hildrew Parchell’s second associate. That was Professor Tyson Morth, the well-known anthropologist. The Shadow had sought for information concerning Professor Morth; he had learned that the man was out of town. Morth’s house was closed.