Jurling led the way into the Tolberc coffee shop. He and Cardona sat at the counter and gave their order. They talked but little as they waited. Joe Cardona had become laconic. Dale Jurling seemed to have gained some of the same tenseness that was gripping the detective.
For their mission tonight was an important one. As representatives of the law, these two were prepared to visit the man who well might hold the clue to the murder of Stanton Treblaw.
CHAPTER XVII
OTHER FACTORS ENTER
“MARSLAND speaking.”
Cliff Marsland was talking over the telephone to Burbank. Ensconced in a telephone booth in an East Side drug store, Cliff was delivering a nine-fifteen report. He caught Burbank’s response.
“Duster Shomak dodged again,” informed Cliff. “Hawkeye thought he had his trail… Yes, down at the Black Ship… Yes, Duster must have been looking for some helpers. Some smooth boys hang out down there…
“No, it doesn’t look like he’s barging around for a crew of dumb gorillas… I don’t get his game, but it looks like a foxy one… No chance of trailing him now…”
Cliff paused. Burbank’s voice spoke steadily.
“Instructions received,” announced Cliff.
Hanging up abruptly, Cliff left the booth and walked to the street. He started off at a brisk pace; at the entrance of an alleyway, another figure sidled along beside him. It was Hawkeye, a hunched-up, stoop-shouldered little man whose eyes glittered under the glare of a street lamp. Hawkeye was an agent of The Shadow. Cliff shot a look at his companion.
“You’ll do,” approved Cliff. “That new suit of yours will pass you where we’re going. Step on it, though. There’s no time to stall.”
“What’s the lay, Cliff?” piped Hawkeye.
“I’ll spill it when we’re moving,” returned Cliff abruptly.
The two reached a parked coupe. Cliff took the wheel. Hawkeye clambered aboard. The car shot forward, wheeled around a corner and swung along beneath the bulk of an elevated structure. Cliff was heading on a swift, northwest course.
IN Apartment 3 G at the Doswind, The Shadow, still guised as Cranston, was standing by the outer door. Watching through a narrow space, his keen eyes saw a melancholy man coming from the stairway. Kelk’s servant.
The fellow had gone out five minutes ago. He was returning now; with him, he was carrying some bulldog editions of the morning newspapers. The Shadow watched the man enter 3 F. Thin lips breathed a soft laugh. The Shadow had received Clyde Burke’s report, through Burbank. In return, he had sent instructions for Cliff Marsland. With ten o’clock as the zero hour, The Shadow had been counting on a break which he felt sure would come. That break had arrived.
Kelk must have seen the ad in yesterday’s Classic. Hence he had probably been waiting to see if a reply was given. He would find that reply within a few minutes.
A buzz from the corner of The Shadow’s room. It was the apartment telephone, a private line. The Shadow had muffled the bell with a silk handkerchief. He answered the buzz. It was Burbank, relaying Cliff’s report, adding that he had forwarded the required instructions.
As The Shadow hung up the receiver, his keen ears caught a stir from the hall. Easing to the door, The Shadow was in time to observe Tully Kelk going down the hall. The Shadow waited a few moments; then followed.
When The Shadow reached the street, he saw Moe Shrevnitz pulling up to the curb. Kelk was about to enter the cab. Moe, muffled, was scarcely recognizable. There was no chance that Kelk would remember him as the jehu who had driven to the ferry. Moreover, Moe had a trick of changing license cards inside his cab so that the same driver’s photograph never appeared twice for the same customer.
Kelk growled a destination. Moe leaned close to the window as though he did not catch it. Kelk repeated. Moe nodded.
“Hotel Goliath, eh?” Moe’s voice was a trifle loud. “All right, boss. We’ll make it quick.”
Moe’s repetition of the destination was for the benefit of the tall stroller who happened to be passing. The Shadow, pacing in leisurely Cranston style, caught the corroboration. Moe’s cab turned a corner.
The Shadow hailed a passing cab. Springing aboard, he gave the driver orders to take him to the Goliath. The second cab sped along. Resting back in the seat, The Shadow indulged in a soft, guarded laugh.
Moe Shrevnitz had been tipped off to his part tonight. Despite his assurance to Kelk, Moe did not intend to make a quick trip to the Goliath. Instead, he was heading for a detour that would bring him into traffic.
Thus The Shadow was riding ahead. With half past nine close at hand, he would arrive at the Goliath no later than twenty minutes of ten. But Kelk would not reach there until at least fifteen minutes before the hour; perhaps later.
Minutes were destined to be important tonight. By minutes only, The Shadow would get ahead of Tully Kelk. In turn, Kelk would be minutes ahead of Dale Jurling and Joe Cardona. A strange race was in progress — and only The Shadow knew it.
THE SHADOW’S cab pulled up in front of the Goliath. Peering across the street, The Shadow saw a parked coupe. He recognized it as Cliff Marsland’s car. The coupe was empty. Paying the cab driver, The Shadow lounged into the lobby of the hotel. He took an elevator and rode upward.
Two operators began to talk just after The Shadow’s car had ascended. One was leaning from his elevator to beckon to the other.
“See them mugs that went up with me?” questioned the first operator. “Looked like tough guys. I let ‘em off at the fifteenth. They said sixteenth first, then changed it.”
“Tough guys, nothin’!” retorted the second operator. “I’ll bet they was gumshoes from headquarters. Like a couple I took up to the fifteenth, too.”
“Yeah? What’re they doing here?”
“Don’t ask me. All I know is one of the house dicks got a call from headquarters, sayin’ there’d be some plainclothes men here tonight—”
The operator broke off as another man came through the hotel lobby. It was Duster Shomak. The mobleader strolled into a car. Well dressed, he passed as a guest, despite a roughness of his face. Duster gave no floor. He simply rode upward.
TEN minutes of ten. Outside the hotel, Joe Cardona had arrived with Dale Jurling. The two had stopped before entering. Jurling was finishing a cigarette.
“See anything of my men?” questioned Cardona.
“Not yet,” admitted Jurling, “but I’m not surprised.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe they’re already inside.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. They might be watching for us to go in. But don’t worry. They’ll be by the elevators when we go into Signet’s.”
“Then they must still be outside.”
Jurling spoke with assurance. He looked toward the corner and watched a slow-moving, clustered crowd, trying to discern faces that might strike him as those of plainclothes men.
Cardona had turned with Jurling. Hence neither saw Moe Shrevnitz’s cab pull up near the hotel entrance.
Tully Kelk was fuming at Moe’s slow trip here. Alighting, the mustached man thrust the exact change into Moe’s hand, then headed for the revolving door into the hotel.
Moe grinned. Pulling away, the taxi driver spied Joe Cardona. He wondered what the ace detective was doing here. For Moe knew Joe by sight. The detective’s business, however, was none of Moe’s tonight. Moe’s job was done. He had delayed Kelk.
As he parked, Moe saw Jurling fling away a cigarette; then turn toward the lobby door, with Cardona following. The two men entered. Still watching, Moe saw a couple of other men detach themselves from the crowd near the corner.