“Detective Cardona might find it essential to let the public know that I was Dorand. My desire in the matter would be of no consequence.”
“Put some Pinkerton men on the job,” suggested McEwen.
“Worse,” decided Satruff. “Hired detectives would not be satisfactory in a case such as this. What I need” — Satruff was appealing to Cranston — “is a man in whom I can rely; one who has a fresh viewpoint on this situation.
“Okum is getting old and useless. You saw how easily he was trapped by last night’s raiders. He can still take care of the methodical details which pertain to my philanthropies.”
“What about Riggs?” queried McEwen.
“A dullard,” responded Satruff. “I need a man of capability; one who could appear to be a private secretary relieving Okum of his heavy duties. At the same time, he must be a man who would prove quick in an emergency. Such a man as you, Cranston.”
A soft laugh came from Cranston’s lips. It bore no resemblance to the strange laugh of The Shadow.
“I should like to take the job myself,” stated Cranston. “However, that is impossible.”
“But perhaps you know of some one who—”
“I do.” Cranston’s tone was thoughtful. “When I have set forth on unusual expeditions, I have sometimes chosen men to accompany me. They frequently communicate with me when they learn that I am setting out again.
“I am planning, at present, to visit Easter Island, that odd volcanic patch of land west of the coast of Chile. I intend to make a study of the huge stone prehistoric monuments known as megaliths.
“I require no companion, as my Chilean friend, Pascual Cordillez, is providing his yacht and expects me to join him, alone, at the port of Antofagasta. That means that I must turn down a very deserving applicant who wished to accompany me on this trip. He is a young man from Michigan who possesses marked capabilities and who is at present in New York.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Satruff. “You would recommend him for this work that I require?”
“Absolutely,” stated Cranston. “He is most trustworthy and thoroughly reliable.”
“Is it necessary,” objected McEwen, “to bring in another person on this Dorand business?”
“The man would not have to know that I am Dorand,” declared Satruff. “Okum will still attend to my affairs. I want some one whom I can count upon in case of an emergency like last night’s. This man that you suggest, Cranston — can he handle a gun?”
“That,” smiled Cranston, “is the first requirement of any who accompany me on my travels.”
“And his name?”
“Harry Vincent.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“At the Metrolite Hotel.”
FOLSOM SATRUFF smiled and rubbed his hands together. He paid no attention to Tobias McEwen’s disgruntled expression. It was evident that the lawyer felt himself overruled, yet was afraid to make new expression through fear of his wealthy client’s displeasure.
“That clears my dilemma,” announced Satruff warmly. “Clears it for the time, at least. I shall call Vincent to-morrow, Cranston, and state that you recommended him for the post. I can give him active duties during the day— ones which will suit his nature. I have a speed boat in the Sound. I can place him in charge of it.
“At night, however, the outer door of the strong-room will be under my own supervision, and I shall have Vincent to back me in case of emergency. You have helped me greatly, Cranston, and I appreciate your aid.”
That ended the discussion. Tobias McEwen departed, in somewhat surly fashion, a half hour later. After that, Lamont Cranston made his exit. Within the low-built coupe, Folsom Satruff’s guest merged strangely with the darkness.
As the trim car crunched its way along the gravel drive, a whispered laugh emerged from its interior. It was a presaging laugh— a tone of mockery that showed token of the future.
The Shadow knew why Pug Hoffler had raided Folsom Satruff’s strong-room. He realized that the vault, with its hoard of wealth, would remain a lure to men of crime.
The identity of Dorand was known in the underworld. That meant that further events were due to happen at the home of Folsom Satruff.
From to-morrow on, The Shadow would be prepared to deal with such occurrences. Through subtle conversation with the man who called himself Dorand, The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, had made the necessary arrangements.
To-morrow, Harry Vincent, a trusted agent of The Shadow, would begin his stay within the walls of Satruff’s huge mansion.
CHAPTER X. FROM THE UNDERWORLD
CLIFF MARSLAND was back on the job. Once more The Shadow’s agent was abroad in gangdom.
Seated in Red Mike’s disreputable joint, Cliff was reviewing the events that had taken place but a few days before.
The raid on Folsom Satruff’s home had created a stir in the underworld. Rumor, supplied by Red Mike himself, had passed the word that Birdy Zelker was the stool who had tipped off Joe Cardona to Pug’s plan of burglary.
Red Mike, friendly to Cliff Marsland, had also added that Cliff was the one who had uncovered Birdy as a stool. This had increased Cliff’s repute. The two mobsters who had opened the quarrel with him, were dead. The survivors of the fray at Red Mike’s were wisely quiet.
The fact that The Shadow had come to Red Mike’s had been attributed to Birdy Zelker’s connection with Joe Cardona. It was generally conceded that The Shadow must spend much time spotting the stool pigeons who worked for the police. It was possible, even, that Birdy might have been working for The Shadow as well as for Joe Cardona.
Returned to Red Mike’s, Cliff was more than welcome. Hunched in a corner of the dive, he received occasional glances of approval from gunmen who entered. No questions were put to him. The whispered buzz which took Cliff as its intermittent discussion was reaching grand proportions.
Red Mike had intimated that Cliff Marsland, alone, had managed to get clear by the front door of the hangout before the police arrived. By doing so, Cliff had accomplished the feat of eluding The Shadow.
It was bruited — more than before — that Cliff was gunning for The Shadow; that he was seeking to meet in single conflict the lone warrior who had so long harried all gangdom.
In his own thoughts, however, Cliff was considering matters of a different sort. This was his first trip back to the bad lands. His shoulder — less badly wounded than he had first supposed — had healed sufficiently to enable him to take up his work in gangland.
Through newspapers and by listening to chattering crooks, Cliff had pieced the Pug Hoffler situation so far as police and criminals considered it. Pug had taken a chance on a profitable raid. He had formed a squad of gunmen. He had been killed; his gang had been captured.
IT was probable that Pug had picked Satruff’s on a hunch. Maybe the ex-convict had tried to raid the place prior to his term in Sing Sing. At any rate, he had shown a familiarity with the surroundings; how he had gained it, no one seemed to know.
There was idle talk of the possibilities that existed at Satruff’s; this was so speculative that there was no organized idea among bold gangsters concerning a future attempt to break in where Pug had failed.
Joe Cardona had evidently learned of this lack of spirit through reports received from stools. The ace detective, apparently, was making no endeavor to forestall a new attack at Satruff’s.
Cliff Marsland could well picture Cardona’s reasoning. Things were rather quiet in the bad lands; if any host of mobsters planned trouble anywhere, they would, doubtless, pick spots that had hitherto been ignored.