Birdy found his voice.
“Honest,” he whimpered, “I wasn’t tellin’ nothin’. I was pullin’ a stall— that’s all—”
“Yeah?” Marsland showed sudden shrewdness as he put the question. “Well, if you can stall Joe Cardona, you’re the first stool that ever was able to do it.”
“I ain’t no stool, Cliff,” whined Birdy. “Honest, I ain’t. Say— let me go ahead wid dis. I’m tryin’ to fool Cardona. Honest, I am!”
“To fool Cardona?” snorted Cliff. “You mean you’re trying to fool me. How’re you going to prove that sort of stuff?”
Birdy, cringing, tried to catch some idea to follow up his statement. Seeing the stool pigeon’s effort, Cliff cagily supplied the bait.
“I’ll give you a break, Birdy,” he offered. “Come clean; tell me what you know about Pug Hoffler. Then I’ll let you meet Cardona. I’ll pick a place for you to take him to. I’ll be there — with others — and we’ll hear what you tell him.
“If you stall him — O.K. But if you squeal — it’ll be curtains. You know me well enough. I’ll give you the bump while Cardona’s looking on, if I feel like it.”
The threat seemed certain to Birdy Zelker. The stool pigeon had no suspicion that Cliff’s reputation as a killer was largely synthetic, built up by hearsay so that The Shadow’s agent might rove the underworld in high repute. To Birdy, Cliff was a redoubtable menace. The chance of a life-saving break was something that the stool could not ignore.
“I’ll give you de whole lay, Cliff,” blurted Birdy. “You can check it on me. Honest. Pug is goin’ after a big-money guy named Dorand. Goin’ to grab off a pile of dough to-night—”
“Dorand?” queried Cliff sarcastically. “That’s a phony name, Birdy.”
“Yeah,” admitted the gangster. “I know it. But Pug knows who de guy really it. He knows where he is—”
“Who is Dorand?” asked Cliff Marsland coldly.
Birdy hesitated. Cliff’s glower worried him. The stool knew that he could stall no longer.
“He’s a guy named Satruff,” whined the cornered rat. “Got a funny first moniker. Folsom. Dat’s what Pug told me. He says de guy’s full name is Folsom D. Satruff.”
“And Satruff lives—”
“Out on Long Island. At a place called Garport. I never heard of de joint before. But Pug’s startin’ out dere to-night—”
“At what time?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know, Cliff.” This time Birdy’s whine was begging. “Honest, I don’t know. You can croak me, if I do. Pug told me to slide out ahead an’ wait dere until he an’ de mob showed up.”
CLIFF saw that the stool had told the truth. The problem, now, was what to do with Birdy. Cliff considered. Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed. A call to Burbank would be in order. There would still be fifteen minutes before Birdy’s set time of meeting with Joe Cardona.
Birdy could not remain here while Cliff called. Nor could The Shadow’s agent trust Birdy out in the large room. Cliff was sure that the stool would slide out; and that if Cardona happened to come along, Birdy would squeal to the detective.
The best plan was to lead Birdy out immediately; to get away before Cardona had a chance to show up.
Then Cliff could stow Birdy in a safe place, under threat, and make his call to Burbank.
It required less than a minute for Cliff to come to his decision; but the seconds, as they passed, were anxious ones to Birdy. Before Cliff had an opportunity to give his orders, the stool suddenly resumed his plaintive whine.
“Don’t tell nobody,” he whimpered. “Don’t let ‘em know I’m Joe Cardona’s stool. De’d put me on de spot sure, Cliff. Dey wouldn’t believe nothin’ I told ‘em. You ain’t goin’ to put ‘em wise, are you, Cliff?”
The stool’s voice had risen piteously. Birdy was staring, terror-stricken, into the muzzle of Cliff’s automatic. Once again, he repeated his shaky plea.
“Don’t tell nobody I’m Cardona’s stool! Don’t tell ‘em I was phonin’ him from here. Don’t tell ‘em I was double-crossin’ Pug Hoffler—”
Birdy’s voice broke off. The stool pigeon’s eyes were glassy. Those transfixed optics were staring straight past Cliff Marsland as Birdy suddenly altered the direction of his gaze.
The whimper died into a gasp. Cliff Marsland, wheeling, saw the reason for it.
The door, previously ajar, had been pushed open. Standing there, his brawny arms akimbo, was Red Mike. Behind the proprietor of the hangout were two tough-faced mobsters.
The three had heard Birdy’s plea. Like Cliff Marsland, they were wise. Red Mike and his pals had listened to Birdy Zelker’s own confession of perfidy.
Whatever chance of mercy Birdy might have gained from Cliff, was ended now that this trio had arrived.
Death was the only sentence the cringing stool could expect.
Birdy Zelker had talked — too much!
CHAPTER IV. FACTIONS FIGHT
CLIFF MARSLAND, startled though he was by the sudden arrival of Red Mike, was quick to realize the position in which he stood. He knew, immediately, that the proprietor and the two gunmen with him had heard only the last words spoken by Birdy Zelker.
To these men of the underworld, the situation was plain. Cliff Marsland, gangster of repute, had caught a stool pigeon in the act of squealing. He had done the right thing by cornering the rat.
Contempt showed on Red Mike’s ruddy features. The big-fisted proprietor stepped into the room and Birdy Zelker cringed against the wall. After a surly, threatening glance at the stool, Red Mike turned to Cliff.
“These fellows just came in from the Black Ship,” he explained to Cliff. “Said that Duster Yomer ain’t down there to-night. He’s over at the Pink Rat. I came back to tell you so you could call there.”
“Thanks, Mike,” returned Marsland calmly.
“And this guy?” Red Mike nudged a thumb toward Birdy.
“He was phoning when I walked in,” answered Cliff. “I didn’t put in my call to the Black Ship after I heard what he was saying.”
“Calling Joe Cardona?”
Cliff nodded.
The gangsters around Red Mike growled. They looked approvingly at Cliff. One of them walked up to Red Mike.
“Leave the rat to us,” suggested the gangster. “We’ll take him for a ride. You don’t want no one shooting up this joint, Mike. Leave him to us.”
“Wait a minute.” Cliff was cold as he interposed. “Where do I come in on this party? Who do you gazebos think you are? I heard this squealer double-crossing Pug Hoffler. I’m the guy who’s going to fix Birdy Zelker. Outside, bums.”
“Cliff’s right, boys,” growled Red Mike.
The gangster whom Cliff had challenged proved surly. He was falling back on the code of the underworld. His companion showed the same expression. Like hounds, they wanted their chance to join in the kill that had been uncovered.
Cliff knew this and his challenge had been gruff on that account. He had no desire to see Birdy Zelker die. Much though he despised stool pigeons, he knew that those of Birdy Zelker’s ilk were tools of the law. The Shadow seldom protected stools, for they were offshoots of crime; but Cliff, through practical consideration of this case, knew that it might be advantageous to let Birdy Zelker live. Hence he had tried to bluff the mobsters who wanted Birdy’s death.
RED MIKE, by arguing in Cliff’s behalf, had strengthened the case. He had served almost as a judge, so far as the customs of gangdom were concerned.
With no more hesitation, Cliff shoved his automatic into Birdy’s ribs and ordered the stool to move along.
Birdy obeyed. Cliff, seeing him in motion, dropped his gun hand and followed the cringing stool to the outer room. Red Mike and the pair of surly mobsters brought up the rear. It was when they reached the outer room that Cliff saw trouble brewing.