Hidden Death

CHAPTER XI AN INTERRUPTED WARNING

HANK FARLEY had been right when he had declared that The Shadow would be prepared to meet Homer Briggs at the Black Ship.

Early the next evening, a poorly dressed man sauntered into that notorious dive, and sat at a table in the corner of the main room.

While the man was apparently one of the riffraff who assembled nightly in that place, he was actually a person of a different sort.

The face beneath the pulled-down visor of the ragged cap was that of Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s trusted agents.

Tonight’s work was no new experience for Harry. He was one of the eyes with which The Shadow pried into secrets of the underworld.

When he had first done duty for The Shadow, Harry had encountered trouble more than once. But now, a veteran of these adventures, he had learned the art of acting the part of a small-fry crook.

There were many places — dangerous locations — to which Harry had never gone. To those, The Shadow alone could penetrate. But in a gathering place like the Black Ship, Harry had often appeared with impunity, and aided his master.

The Black Ship was a dangerous spot for a stool pigeon. None dared to come there, for various police informants had been waylaid in that dive.

There were numerous stools in the bad lands who had avoided suspicion, but they were superstitious about the Black Ship, and all refused to go there.

Harry had no fear. The fact that stools did not frequent the place made it safer, in a way. Moreover, he was known only to The Shadow, and not to various detectives.

Harry was the operative of a man whose very identity was an unfathomable mystery. The veil of blackness that shrouded The Shadow was a mighty protection to his agent, Harry Vincent.

Last night, Harry had been at the Black Ship. He had caught the subdued buzz that had traveled among snarling mobsters.

Sitting with half-closed eyes, staring blearily at the wall before him, Harry had paid no attention to what was said around him.

When word had been whispered that Homer Briggs would show up on the next evening, Harry had shown no interest. Homer Briggs, the murdered man’s ex-valet, wanted by the bulls!

There had been no talk about The Shadow. That was where Hank Farley had been crafty. Hence, when Harry had reported his evening’s work, he had sent just one message.

He had said that Homer Briggs would be at the Black Ship tonight.

From Burbank, The Shadow’s quiet-voiced contact man, Harry had received instructions to watch, and to report developments.

It was early in the evening, but there was no telling when Homer would arrive. Harry expected a long vigil.

He was slouched low in his chair, affecting the sightless stare of a man overdosed with dope.

The door of the Black Ship opened, and a man sidled in. One glance made Harry alert, in spite of his feigned disinterest.

He felt sure that this man was Homer Briggs. The man looked frightened, but he was making an effort to appear at ease.

A couple of gangsters waved to him in greeting. The man nodded and sat down at a table.

A grizzled gunman walked over to join him. The two began a mumbled conversation.

It was known in the underworld that Homer Briggs had met the St. Louis yegg, Max Parker, here. The death of Silas Harshaw was a subject of discussion in the bad lands.

Many had speculated on the matter of Max’s death. None had any particular desire to muscle in on the opportunity, no matter what it might be. The death of Max Parker had curbed all enthusiasm for any one to test out an unknown enterprise.

The police were on the watch, which made it worse. But whatever the lay might be at Harshaw’s apartment, Homer Briggs was the one man who could tell. Hence he was due for questioning.

In a short while, Harry Vincent discovered that his surmise was correct. He heard the name of Briggs whispered behind him.

Now, Harry’s task was to learn where the man was hiding out. That meant that he must follow Briggs if necessary. He must manage to slip from the Black Ship when a good opportunity presented itself.

ANOTHER gangster joined Homer. The first one arose and strolled to a table near Harry. He buzzed a few words to the men sitting there.

His statement was inaudible to The Shadow’s operative. Briggs had finished a drink and was nervously rising.

It would not do to follow him immediately. Homer had proven to be too much the center of interest here.

A chance remark behind him made Harry prick his ears in hope of unexpected information. A moment later he heard the news he wanted.

“Briggs is a nervy guy,” a voice was saying. “Comin’ here dis way — wid de bulls all trackin’ him. He’s hidin’ out — an’ he oughta keep his mouth shut. But he ain’t.”

“He ain’t been blabbin’ where his hideout is?” came a question.

“That’s just what de guy has been doin’,” said the first voice. “Briggs must be dopey, because it ain’t no phony steer, neither. You know de old hockshop — de one dat Moose Glutz used to run? Dat’s where he is.”

“Where? Upstairs?”

“No. Down in de basement. Moose used to use de place for a storage joint. No windows — nothin’ but a door. It’s a good place for a hideout; but it ain’t sensible to give away his lay like that!”

“Mebbe he’s got his own reasons,” said the one gangster.

Harry recognized the location. “Moose” Glutz’s pawnshop had been closed for several months. So that was where Homer Briggs was hiding!

That was all Harry needed to know. There was no necessity of following the man when he left.

Homer took another drink, then waved good-by to two acquaintances, and hurried from the dive.

It was obvious that he was bound back to his hideout.

Harry waited. He was willing to bide his time, now. The information must go to The Shadow as soon as possible, but there was no reason to excite suspicion.

Rising unsteadily, Harry shambled away toward the door. He continued his pretense of unsteadiness as he walked down the street.

He went into an alley and gradually quickened his pace. Ten minutes later, he reached a cigar store several blocks from the Black Ship. There, in a phone booth, he dialed a number.

“Burbank,” came the low response over the wire.

“Vincent,” said Harry. “Report on Homer Briggs. Hiding out in basement under old pawnshop, formerly run by Moose Glutz.”

“Were you there?”

“No. I saw Briggs at the Black Ship. He told some one where he was hiding. The news got around.”

“Good. Call again. Ten minutes.”

When Harry made his second call, Burbank had instructions. The man had evidently communicated with The Shadow in the meantime.

He told Harry to go back to the Black Ship. His return there would allay any suspicion that might arise later. It would also enable him to observe if Homer returned.

Harry followed the order that he had received. He wended his way back to the dive and resumed his wavering gait as soon as he approached the place.

He was tottering slightly as he took his place at the table.

A half hour passed.

There had been a stirring in the place during the evening. This increased by degrees.

Harry gradually realized that something was afoot. Usually, the Black Ship was crowded at this hour. Now it was virtually devoid of patrons. What was up?

A nondescript gangster settled on the other side of the table. He looked at Harry and grinned.

“Hopped up, eh?” he questioned.

Harry made no response.

“Guess you’re dead from the neck up,” was the man’s comment.

“Huh?” grunted Harry.

“There’s some life in you,” said the gangster. “Handle a rod, do you?”

“Sometimes,” said Harry.

He was staring ahead, answering the question in an odd voice as though he had heard the words through a dense fog.

“You ought to be out tonight, then,” was the next statement. “This is going to be a big night.”

“A big night?” echoed Harry.

“Sure,” said the mobsman, rising. “They’re going to get a big guy. I’m going to be there, too.”

“A big guy?” asked Harry dully.

“A big guy,” the man repeated, leaning against Harry’s shoulder. “A big, big guy. The Shadow! Ever hear of him?”

“The Shadow!”

THE gunman laughed at the startled tone in Harry’s voice. He did not take the exclamation as anything unusual.

The name of The Shadow was important enough to rouse any dope fiend from a state of coma.

“Yeah, they’re going to get The Shadow,” came the low, distinct words. “You picked a bad night to get hopped up. The smoke wagons are going to boom tonight!

“The Shadow is after a guy named Homer Briggs — and Briggs came in here and spilled the news that he was hiding out under Glutz’s old hockshop.

“The Shadow’s due to crash into a mess of gats, believe me — and my rod’s going to be waiting for him!”

The man was gone, and Harry was staring dead ahead with startled eyes. He saw it all, now!

The Shadow had been tricked. The man in black was trailing Homer Briggs. Harry knew that all too well.

The news had spread throughout the bad lands, and the hordes of gangdom had marked The Shadow for the spot!

The Shadow must be warned!

With this startling thought, Harry almost forgot the part he was playing. He rose steadily; then realized his mistake.

He shifted back into his tottering, uncertain pace. Two weasel-faced individuals — pickpockets — grinned as he went by their table.

“He’s goin’ to help ‘em get The Shadow,” said one, with a raucous cackle.

On the street, Harry staggered a few paces; then, seeing no one, straightened up and increased his stride. He turned down an alleyway and headed for the next street.

Reaching it, he hurried toward a spot where he could make a phone call.

As he reached another alley, he bumped into a man who was stepping toward the street.

“Hey, you!” The fellow seized Harry’s shoulder. “What’s your hurry?”

“Nothing,” mumbled Harry.

“No?” As the question was uttered, two other men appeared. “Well, it looks phony to me!

“We’re looking for stools around here tonight. Maybe you’re one. Let’s take a look at your mug!”

Harry thought quickly. These men were tough mobsters. A delay must be avoided. An encounter might prove disastrous.

He had reached the fringe of the bad lands. A quick dash would mean safety.

Without waiting to reply, Harry swung a clean, swift blow to the point of the man’s jaw. The fellow smacked against the pavement.

To have run at that instant would have left Harry open to gunshots. He knew it well, and so he adopted the opposite course.

He flung himself upon the nearer of the two men, and hurled the surprised mobsman upon his stunned companion. The third was pulling a gun from his pocket.

Harry shot a swift punch past the warding left arm, and caught his opponent in the face.

The second assailant was rising. The odds were impossible for Harry. But he had gained his chance. He dashed along the alley.

A revolver barked behind him. Harry took a zigzag course. More shots followed. A bullet zipped past his right ear. Then came a sharp pain in his shoulder. Harry had been clipped!

He staggered on; then he suddenly lost his footing, and sprawled headlong on the sidewalk of the next street.

He lay prone where he was. Numbed and half unconscious from his fall, Harry realized that his lack of motion might lead his enemies to believe him dead.

He heard the clatter of footsteps in the alleyway. They were coming, after all. Then he heard a shout beside him.

The footsteps stopped. They retreated up the alley. Harry understood that some one had come to his aid; that the gunmen had decided to make a quick departure.

Their encounter had been a chance one. It would have been a mistake for them to remain.

A MAN was bending over Harry. He lifted the motionless form.

Harry felt himself being helped into an automobile. Then his senses faded.

When he awoke, he was lying on a hospital cot. His arm was being bandaged.

The man who had helped him was standing there, watching. Harry noticed that he was a keen-faced chap.

Harry knew that the man had probably told the details of what had occurred.

“Thanks,” said Harry weakly. “Those fellows landed on me hard. Guess they thought I was somebody else.

“They looked tough, so I ran away from them. Never saw them before.”

“How many were there?” the man beside Harry asked.

“Three.”

“What did they look like?”

A sudden inspiration came to Harry. Here might be a chance to save The Shadow!

He rubbed his hand over his forehead as though recalling something.

“I think I know why they grabbed me!” he exclaimed. “They were talking when I bumped into them. I heard them say something about putting a fellow on the spot — tonight—”

“Where?” came the eager question.

“Glutz — something,” said Harry. “I remember now. Glutz’s hockshop. Did you ever hear of it?”

“No,” said the man, “but maybe the police have.”

He was gone for the telephone. Harry sank back, dizzy. His head was swimming. His shoulder pained.

He was incapable of action, and it would be impossible to communicate with Burbank. He had done the next best thing. If a squad of police arrived at the pawnshop, the mobsters would fade away.

Harry leaned his head sideways upon the pillow and half opened his eyes. A slight smile had been forming on his lips.

It disappeared now. A clock on the wall showed that it was more than an hour since he had left the Black Ship.

He had given the word too late. The police could not arrive in time to save The Shadow!