Cliff, however, was working on a lead — one which he was sure Cardona had not seen. Pug Hoffler had boasted a checkered career prior to his incarceration at Sing Sing. Joe had evidently considered Pug’s past purely as an indication of the dead gang leader’s criminal inclinations.
Cliff, recalling the conversation between Pug and Birdy, had learned facts which Cardona had missed.
The beginning of the conference between the now-dead mobsters had involved two names that Cliff had not forgotten.
Tex Lowner and Rabbit Gorton!
These men had been redoubtable gang leaders. Pug had served each of them in turn. He had been double-crossed by one — or by both. Pug had told Birdy that those two were out so far as he was concerned.
But had they been out?
Cliff knew the way of the underworld. He knew that Pug, back from Sing Sing, must surely have held a grievance against either Tex or Rabbit. Moreover, Pug, planning outlets for his own endeavor, might well have tried to muscle in ahead of one of these two mob leaders.
These thoughts were speculations; yet Cliff, himself, had not begun them. He had made a report to The Shadow. He had received return instructions. It was the order from The Shadow that had caused Cliff’s well-set chain of ideas.
The Shadow had instructed his agent to pick up the trail of either Tex Lowner or Rabbit Gorton. Through that tracing, either positively or negatively, the way might be found to learn facts that concerned Pug Hoffler’s attack at Satruff’s.
CLIFF realized that The Shadow must be watching the home of the philanthropist who called himself Dorand. That end would be covered— perhaps by an agent instead of The Shadow himself. Cliff’s work lay within the confines of the underworld.
So far as Tex Lowner and Rabbit Gorton were concerned, Cliff knew the pair by reputation.
Tex, a huge, two-fisted fellow, was reputed to have been a bank robber in the West. He had a habit of coming in and out of New York, and, although the underworld gave him credit for various jobs which had involved large hauls, the police had never gotten the goods on the big gang leader.
Rabbit Gorton was the antithesis of Tex Lowner. Rabbit, though dangerous, was the type of mob leader who knew when to scurry for cover. Time and again, he had gathered his cohorts, made a quick foray either in or out of Manhattan, and had returned to a hideout before he could be traced.
It was not odd that Tex and Rabbit should be sworn enemies. It was probable that they had crossed each other’s trail. Tex, who preferred the open, would logically hold Rabbit in contempt. Rabbit, who used more discretion, would regard Tex as a fool.
Yet both were crafty in their way, and to locate either would prove no sinecure. The hitch about finding Tex was that the big gang leader was probably absent from Manhattan. The trouble in discovering Rabbit was that the wary mob leader would probably be somewhere out of sight.
Cliff smiled grimly as he considered the situation. He was positive on one point only: that if he found either Tex or Rabbit, the place of discovery would not include the other. Those two champions of wrong stayed as far apart as the poles.
Tex was the best bet. If he had come into Manhattan, he could be located. If Tex were not in the bad lands, the job would be to search for Rabbit. Cliff had his instructions; upon him rested the preliminary work of locating one man and reporting to The Shadow.
SAUNTERING from Red Mike’s, Cliff wended his way to a more pretentious dive called the Black Ship. As soon as he entered the joint, he was greeted by a gruff-faced fellow who was seated in a corner. It was Duster Yomer, the mobster for whom Cliff had inquired on the eventful night when trouble had burst at Red Mike’s.
“Hello, Cliff,” growled Duster. “I hear that you’re out gunnin’ for The Shadow.”
“Yeah?” Cliff grinned as he sat down. “What you hear isn’t always so, Duster. I’m taking things easy right at present. Things are too quiet.”
“You bet,” agreed Duster. “Say, Cliff — when Tex Lowner barges into town, you can bet there’s nothin’ much blowin’. He don’t hang around when the bulls are chasin’ heavy. There ain’t been nothin’ doin’ much since Pug Hoffler got his—”
“Who says Tex Lowner’s in town?” broke in Cliff, in a doubting tone.
“I say he is,” retorted Duster. “Didn’t I see him? He’s hangin’ out at the Hotel Spartan.”
“Yeah?” Again Cliff’s voice was challenging. “Well, he’s welcome to stay there. That’s a softy joint. It’s one place you won’t see me.”
With this statement, Cliff arose and sauntered from the Black Ship. He headed along an alley, reached another street and threw a wary look over his shoulder.
Cliff’s contempt for the Hotel Spartan had been feigned. The Shadow’s agent knew well that the most formidable and affluent of gang leaders used that battered old hostelry as their headquarters. This was news for The Shadow — that Tex Lowner had come into town and was at the Spartan.
Stopping at a crumpling cigar store, Cliff entered and made a call to Burbank. He reported to the contact man and received an order to repeat the call in ten minutes. Cliff loitered in the store and made his second call.
This time he received instructions. He was to go to the Hotel Spartan, there to locate the number of Tex Lowner’s room and to learn if the gang leader were in. After that, Cliff’s stand should be made at the entrance to the rear alleyway behind the old hotel, to await new orders.
Cliff headed for the Hotel Spartan. He passed beneath an elevated structure and entered the grimy lobby of the place where Tex Lowner was staying. He strode up to the desk and nodded to the hard-faced clerk.
“Pinky Osgrove come back to town yet?” inquired Cliff.
The clerk shook his head.
“No?” Cliff’s tone was incredulous. “Say — he was figuring on getting in to-day — so he told me.”
Turning to go back through the lobby, Cliff paused as an afterthought. He whirled about and put a question that was a natural one, inasmuch as Cliff called occasionally on gang leaders who were staying at this hotel.
“Who has come in?” he quizzed.
“To-day?” The clerk scratched his head. “Bugs Malby is here — that is, he’s stopping here, but he’s out right now—”
“Where is he? I may want to see him later.”
“Up in 514. Then there’s Tex Lowner — he’s in 328. Want to see him? He’s in.”
“No.” Cliff shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll be back to-morrow to see if Pinky’s arrived. Maybe I’ll catch Malby in then.”
OUTSIDE the hotel, Cliff took the side street and reached the entrance of the rear alleyway. The place was grotesquely dark. Cliff remembered it, for this had been the scene of past adventures in which The Shadow had figured heavily.
Stepping into the darkness, Cliff lingered. He had the sensation that eyes were upon him. Hardly had he felt it, before a whispered voice hissed from the gloom.
“Report.”
It was The Shadow!
Invisible in the darkness, the black-garbed messenger of doom was awaiting the word that his agent had gained.
“Tex Lowner,” whispered Cliff huskily, “is in Room 328. He is there now.”
“Report received,” came The Shadow’s weird reply. “Off duty.”
The hissing voice could not be traced. It seemed to have been an utterance of the darkness itself. As Cliff moved away, he realized that The Shadow must, also, have taken some direction. Yet Cliff caught no sound whatever as he left the alleyway.
There was a sound, however. It was not that of footfalls. It was a squidgy noise, soft amid the darkness.
It marked the direction which The Shadow had taken. The invisible watcher was moving directly upward, against the side of the brick-walled hotel!