Later, a laugh in the night. Traveling from the scene of crime, The Shadow found occasion for his mirth.
Peters Amboy had died through his own folly. By keeping secret the fact that the black box was stuffed, he and Wallace Norgan had made their great mistake.
Through that course they had not only lost the important protection of the law. They had also failed to keep the protection of The Shadow. That weird foe of crime had not met the Unseen Killer’s move purely because he had not expected a double game from Amboy and Norgan.
But The Shadow had scored to-night. As in the case of Melrose Lessep; as in the death of Nathaniel Hildon, he had once again gleaned facts that were bringing him closer to final combat with the Unseen Killer.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SQUAWKER
WHEN Commissioner Wainwright Barth had assured present safety for Wallace Norgan, he had spoken in the hope of playing a waiting game. Barth believed that the Unseen Killer would do as he had done before: deliver a new threatening message to the last of the three men whom he had cowed with statements of impending death.
The Shadow had divined the course that Barth would choose. Suiting his own action to the trend of events, he chose also to play a waiting-game. Let another threat come; let Barth prepare. The Shadow would be ready.
To The Shadow, the death of Peters Amboy had merely postponed the inevitable. The Unseen Killer wanted certain funds. Wallace Norgan, alone, could deliver them. This time, Norgan would not balk.
Hence The Shadow, too, was playing a waiting game. His stroke would come after the Unseen Killer received the wealth that he sought. Then would be the time to trap the crook with the goods in his possession.
As yet, The Shadow’s agents had been unable to find traces of any hideout where Miles Crofton might be located. Nor had they tracked Crazy Lagran, the missing stoolie. Those were further reasons why The Shadow preferred to wait until the climax that he knew would come.
But the next morning brought no message to Wallace Norgan. The expected blackmail note was absent from the survivor’s mail. The Unseen Killer, too, had decided to try a waiting game. He wanted to create an effect of suspense. That was a bit of subtlety that escaped Detective Joe Cardona.
Joe was out guarding Norgan’s home. He was the first to see the mail when it arrived. He put in a prompt call to Commissioner Barth, to tell him that no death note had been delivered. Barth fumed across the wire. Joe made a suggestion. It went through.
Commissioner Barth, at Cardona’s urge, ordered the dragnet into operation. The bad lands were to be scoured for all traces of Miles Crofton, branded as the Unseen Killer. The dragnet was seldom advocated by Joe Cardona. But this was one time that the ace sleuth felt it might bring results.
Joe felt that he was after an untraceable person, so far as the man himself was concerned. But it had struck him strongly that some one might know facts concerning Crofton. Why not quiz every crook that the net brought in?
Moreover, Cardona knew of one specific person whom he wanted to locate. That was Crazy Lagran.
The stoolie had handed him a prompt tip once. If Crazy could be located, there might be more coming.
So the dragnet started while the Unseen Killer waited.
EVENING. Commotion in the bad lands. Rats of the underworld were keeping out of sight. They were dodging cops and dicks, keeping away from the joints. Some, scared from their hideouts, had headed for parts of the city where they might elude the clutch of the law.
Those who remained within the scoured areas were furtive and skulking. They kept to alleyways. They dived for shelter on the slightest provocation. Even though they might be subjected to no more than a brief examination, they had no yearning for contact with the police. Quizzes were not to mobland’s liking.
Yet, amid the patrol of the underworld, a select crew of tireless workers still kept up a steady task.
These were the agents of The Shadow. Night after night they had been looking for Miles Crofton or Crazy Lagran. Even though the dragnet was at work, the aids of The Shadow kept at their job.
Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter; Harry Vincent, whom no cop would pick as a crook; Cliff Marsland, whose knowledge of the underworld made it simple for him to evade the law. These were three of the men who were working for The Shadow. They kept on, confident that the police would pass them by.
But among The Shadow’s reserve agents was a worker of another sort. This was “Hawkeye,” a cunning-faced, crafty little fellow who had once yielded to ways of crime. Those days were past.
Hawkeye was taking orders that came indirectly from The Shadow.
Hawkeye was the type of prowler whom the dragnet would pick up. He ran a risk, covering the districts where the police were hauling in the riffraff. But Hawkeye was smart enough to elude the ever closing mesh. His nickname was no misnomer. He could spot a bluecoat a mile away and a dick at half that distance.
Hawkeye was working on the outskirts of the bad lands. There was method in his process. Not only had he finished searching the depths of the underworld; he also knew that here he could rove more effectively while the dragnet was in operation. Hunch-shouldered, shifty of gait, Hawkeye had a way of slipping into alleys that made him as elusive as a prowling cat.
There were others of Hawkeye’s ilk; but he was far more clever than the average. On this night, Hawkeye spied several who were using his own shifty plan of fringing the Tenderloin. Stationed at the entrance of an alleyway, he watched various figures shamble past. Suddenly, Hawkeye became alert.
He had spotted a pasty-faced passer. The fellow looked like a dope; but he wasn’t. He was known in the bad lands as “Fox” Cullis. His nickname meant that he knew much and kept it to himself. Fox, apparently, was edging away from the dragnet’s range.
Hawkeye had spotted Fox twice within the past four days. On both occasions, he had tried to get hold of the fellow; but Fox had slipped from view. Hawkeye had a reason for wanting to talk to Fox. If any one knew where Crazy Lagran might be, Fox would be the person.
Hawkeye edged from his alley. He sneaked after Fox and saw his quarry duck into a narrow street.
Then, up ahead, he spotted Fox turn between two buildings. An artful dodge; but one that did not escape Hawkeye’s quick vision. Hawkeye followed Fox’s path.
He was closing in on the pasty-faced shambler. Calculating, Hawkeye wondered what method would be best to use when he overtook the man he wanted. Fox’s reputation for knowledge was equaled by his known capability for keeping matters to himself. Would Fox talk without persuasion?
Hawkeye grinned to himself. If persuasion proved necessary, he would use it. The job was to grab Fox before the fellow reached the next street. Hawkeye stole forward more rapidly. Then he stopped short.
The unblinking glare of a bull’s flashlight had opened up from the other end of the passage between the buildings.
DESPITE his native cunningness, Hawkeye was caught squarely in the searching beam. He dived into a protecting angle of the wall just as a shout came from up ahead.
Another call responded. It came from the street that Hawkeye had left. A second glare issued from that direction. Footsteps came from both ends of the passage. Hawkeye growled to himself. It was the dragnet.
With all his artfulness, the crafty agent had been trapped in a spot that the cops had decided to search.
They had caught a glimpse of his figure. They were on their way to drag him from the hole where he had found momentary shelter. It was a tight spot. One that Hawkeye did not like.