The coupe pulled away. Cardona was still standing on the curb. The detective spoke a reminder.
“Remember, Burke—”
“I won’t forget, Joe. Nothing goes in the Classic.”
They separated. Clyde strolled off smiling. He intended to keep his news out of the Classic for the time.
But he had not promised more than that. Clyde Burke was already on his way to visit Rutledge Mann, there to deliver a complete report of Cardona’s conference.
The detective’s findings: his present theory; the reactions of those who had heard it — all would soon be in the hands of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVI. THE NEW TRAIL
THE meeting at Professor Morth’s had taken place at ten o’clock in the morning. Clyde Burke’s report had been forwarded to The Shadow at eleven. Noon passed; afternoon waned. Thick-clouded night descended on Manhattan.
A light burned in The Shadow’s sanctum. Those bluish rays had appeared previously today. On more than one occasion, The Shadow had reason to visit his mysterious abode where darkness ruled except when he was present.
All agents had reported further, regarding last night. Harry Vincent had remained at the motion-picture theater until after eleven o’clock; then he had decided to go back to the hotel, rather than trust to luck in finding Roger Parchell in the after-theater crowd.
Just before eleven-thirty. Roger had returned to the Hotel Metrolite. He had inquired for messages and had learned that there were none. He had left an eight-thirty call for the morning and had retired to his room.
Clyde Burke had not located Selwood Royce at all last night. The millionaire had not appeared at the club nor at his home. This morning, Clyde had received Royce’s apology. That was all.
Moe Shrevnitz had seen Weldon Wingate come in at midnight. The lawyer had returned in another taxicab. Moe had no idea where Wingate had been.
Doctor Rupert Sayre reported that Raymond Deseurre had returned unexpectedly to the Gray Room banquet one hour after he had left. Evidently, he had completed his emergency appointment in less time than he had expected.
MEANWHILE, The Shadow had allowed Cliff and Hawkeye but little time for rest. He had spurred those agents to new investigations in the underworld. All day, the pair had been taking turns in visiting underworld dives.
Cliff and Hawkeye were looking for new traces of Flick Sherrad. The mob-leader had not reappeared at his hideout. It was probably that he had another place of security. But in addition to the hunt for Flick, The Shadow’s aids were seeking trace of Homer Hothan.
For The Shadow had gained an important clue last night — one that he was outlining in inked words beneath the blue light. The Shadow had learned by observation that the supercrook who had hired Flick did not fully trust Homer Hothan.
The Shadows clue was the shot that a wounded gorilla had taken at Hothan. The mobster who had fired the bullet that had so oddly released the prisoner had not performed the action purely on his own initiative.
Gorillas, as a rule, were one-track thinkers. They took orders and obeyed them in spite of circumstances.
Ordinarily, a cornered mobster would have chanced a last shot at The Shadow, in preference to picking a squealing ally. There was one answer: The gorilla had been acting under strict orders from Flick Sherrad.
Unquestionably, Flick had posted his mob to drop Hothan on the spot if the sallow man showed signs of becoming yellow. Hothan knew too much. The big-shot who ruled Flick Sherrad had implanted that fact upon the mob-leader.
The Shadow saw Hothan as a pitiful tool in this game. One who had played a vital part; one who could still be used. Yet one who would be sacrificed the moment that he became a liability.
Reasoning from that point, The Shadow could visualize Hothan’s present circumstance. Hothan must be somewhere in the underworld, where he could be watched by Flick Sherrad’s henchman. The big-shot would not risk keeping Hothan in a respectable locality, where watching mobsters would be out of place.
Moreover, Hothan himself might be suspicious if he were thrown with thugs outside the confines of the underworld. Logic, of The Shadow’s keen sort, told that the master crook must have talked Hothan into believing that safety lay in the bad lands.
Not that Hothan was a prisoner. That would end his usefulness entirely. He would be blotted out before such necessity came about. Hothan was being allowed to move; to keep on working — but always under supervision.
Flick Sherrad’s new hideout would be hard to find. But not Hothan’s. Clustered mobsmen would be near it. That was why The Shadow’s aids were so busy in the underworld. They were filtering everywhere, looking for a clue.
SOON The Shadow would be with them. In these last few moments before his departure, he paused to study the list of names of those whom his agents had failed to follow the night before. A laugh came from The Shadow’s lips.
His long right forefinger touched the name he wanted. There was the man whom The Shadow had picked as the brain behind crime, the one who had urged Hothan to slay Hildrew Parchell; the man who, himself, had murdered Channing Tobold.
The same big-shot had been at Professor Morth’s last night. Without seeing him, The Shadow had guessed his identity. Agents had experienced difficulties last night. They were still in the dark. But The Shadow, knowing the parts of all concerned, with added information about the conference at Morth’s, had eliminated all but one of those who could possibly be suspected.
If all else failed, The Shadow could deal with that criminal direct. But it was better to give him rope; to let him move his pawns; to catch him when he made one last attempt to gain Hildrew Parchell’s wealth.
For The Shadow knew also where Hildrew Parchell must have stored his treasure. Tobold’s pawnshop had been eliminated; so had Morth’s residence. The list of old friends had narrowed down to one. The only other man who could have been guardian of Hildrew Parchell’s wealth was Thatcher Royce, the deceased father of Selwood.
A soft laugh that rose became an eerie, lingering whisper. The Shadow had started his agents on the move. He had picked the potential big-shot with whom he must fight; he had named the coming battleground. He wanted to anticipate the moves of underlings. He was on his way to that attempt.
FAR from Broadway’s glow, the shaded districts of the bad lands lay blanketed beneath a lowered sky.
This district, crime’s stronghold, seemed filled with skulking figures. Hoodlums and other riffraff were wending their nightly courses.
Here were the holes from which rats emerged to prey upon society, then scurry back to cover. This was the district where police hesitated to use the dragnet, because the grapevine invariably warned of its approach and let wanted men make for cover long before the law arrived.
In the heart of this district, two men were to meet again tonight: Cliff and Hawkeye, to compare notes.
The time for their meeting arrived. In the darkness of an alleyway, Cliff Marsland paused, to hear a hoarse whisper: Hawkeye’s.
“What’d you get, Cliff? Anything hot?”
“Yeah. Soak Burlow was down at the Pink Rat this afternoon. He ducked out; but I heard he was there. Nobody’s seen him since. Have you?”
“No. Say — Soak Burlow used to be a pal of Flick Sherrad’s, didn’t he?”
“He did. And today, he was talking with Scoot Zugg. That’s what I learned—”
“Scoot Zugg! Say, I’ve seen him, Cliff. Heading up past that blind alley in back of the Bowery Garage. Another mug was with him.”
“Did they come back?”