The Key

CHAPTER XIII CLUES IN THE DARK

“WHERE’S Cardona?”

“Out.”

Clyde Burke was the man who asked the question at headquarters. The one word answer was all that he received from a laconic detective who was sitting in the acting inspector’s office.

Something was in the wind, but Clyde could not uncover it. Cardona had been absent all afternoon. It was nine o’clock in the evening, still the acting inspector had not returned. Clyde strolled from headquarters, wondering where Cardona could be.

Clyde’s supposition that Cardona was engaged in special sleuthing was not an idle one. At the very moment when the reporter was leaving headquarters, Acting Inspector Joe Cardona was alighting from an elevated train at a station near the Bowery.

Descending the steps, Cardona assumed a shuffling gait. Coat collar up around his chin, the acting inspector headed toward a narrow street. He followed the thoroughfare for several blocks, turned his course and reached an alleyway. Here he paused to light a cigarette.

The night was windy. Each match that Cardona used seemed to flicker automatically. With a disgusted grunt, the ace sleuth stepped into an opening between two dilapidated buildings. When he had reached this vantage point, however, he made no new effort to light a match. He waited until a whispered voice came from behind a broken barrel by the house wall.

“Joe!”

“O.K., Gummy. What’ve you got?”

“Nothin’ much.” A hunched figure shifted in the darkness. “Whitey Calban is the guy you want; but I ain’t been able to spot his hideout.”

“Seen any of his gorillas?”

“No; but they’ve been around. Listen, Joe. Calban’s the only guy that could’ve pulled those jobs the way they was done. He wasn’t seen nowhere three nights ago; the next day the guys in his mob ducked out.”

“But they’ve been back—”

“Not enough for me to spot ‘em.”

“All right, Gummy. Scram.”

Joe Cardona waited until footsteps had shuffled back toward the barrel. Lighting his cigarette, the sleuth emerged from between the buildings and resumed his progress. He slouched past the entrance to an underworld dive known as the Pink Rat. Joe did not enter.

The acting inspector had no desire to be seen in this locality. He knew that “Gummy” had covered the Pink Rat. Of all the stool pigeons in Manhattan, Gummy was the most dependable. The man had been a find. Cardona had kept him under cover. When Gummy spilled information, it was always at meetings somewhere within the confines of scumland.

Gummy had attributed two murders to a gangleader named Whitey Calban. Joe Cardona felt sure that the reliable stool had gained the facts. But there was no way of tracking Whitey to his present lair. Cardona’s face showed grimly in lamplight as the sleuth neared the borders of the underworld.

This would mean the dragnet. Tonight, from headquarters, Joe would have to pass the word for a complete search of the underworld. Skulking criminals would be hauled before the law. Those most liable to suspicion would receive the third degree. Some one, Joe felt sure, would squawk on Whitey Calban, even though the gangleader might himself escape the mesh.

JOE CARDONA had passed the Pink Rat. Even had he entered the dive, he would not have learned more than Gummy the stool had told him. For the Pink Rat sheltered a cagey lot of ruffians. Little of importance was spilled within its walls.

Rat-faced mobsters — men who had managed to dodge suspicion of the police — were assembled in the smoke-filled room that formed the chief portion of the Pink Rat. Bottles were pounding upon tables. Glasses were clincking. Oaths came in gnarling, raspy tones.

The Pink Rat was not a healthy place for strangers. Not more than three stool pigeons outside of Gummy would dare to enter its portals. But hardened, recognized denizens of the underworld were welcomed in this dive. It was the hangout for the toughest.

A fellow with a chiseled-face came sauntering through the door. Hands were raised in greeting as this newcomer — better dressed than most of the other patrons — sauntered to a table by an inner door.

This was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent was regarded as a killer by those of the underworld. He belonged to a class of supergorillas. He was a fighter whom any gangleader would have chosen for a lieutenant.

No one suspected Cliff’s real mission in the badlands. None of the denizens of the Pink Rat would have believed that Cliff was working for The Shadow. They did not know that Cliff, tonight, had just completed an intensive tour through the tenderloin, searching for Whitey Calban’s hideout.

The Shadow’s agent had learned as much as Gummy — no more. His discoveries, however, had been shared by another. The Shadow had also been sojourning in scumland. He, like Cliff, had picked Whitey Calban as the probable killer of Hugo Verbeck and Clark Durton.

THE waiters in the Pink Rat were an odd lot of aproned ruffians who looked as tough as the patrons. Every one was a capable bouncer. All were ready to pounce upon stools, battle with police or mix it with unruly mobsters should occasion demand. New faces constantly appeared among their number. The waiter who thumped a bottle on Cliff’s table was a long-faced fellow whom The Shadow’s agent had never seen before.

The waiter was apparently left handed. As his fingers still encircled the bottle, Cliff Marsland stared. Upon the third finger of the left hand, The Shadow’s agent spied the flashing sparkle of a strange gem that flickered changing hues beneath the light. It was The Shadow’s girasol — the strange fire-opal that was an unmatched jewel.

Cliff had been instructed to report here to The Shadow. With him, Cliff had the data that The Shadow needed. It was in a small envelope — a list of the places where Cliff had been in search of Whitey Calban.

Moistening his thumb upon his tongue, Cliff followed the action by placing his hand in his pocket. He found the flap of the little envelope; dampened it; then pressed it against the flabby surface of a banknote. Drawing a roll of currency from his pocket, Cliff peeled off the bill that held the envelope. He stared straight at the bottle as he laid the banknote — a ten spot — on the table, with the envelope beneath.

The girasol glimmered as the waiter’s hand moved from the bottle. The hand crunched the ten-dollar bill. Cliff, glancing upward, saw a stoop-shouldered form shambling through the opening at the back of the Pink Rat.

Five minutes later, the waiter reappeared. His hand laid bills and change upon the table. Grasping the crinkling one-spots, Cliff could feel a little envelope among them. He thrust the money in his pocket.

Cliff knew that The Shadow, like himself, had been searching this district. Cliff had gone to certain places at The Shadow’s order, which Cliff had gained through Burbank. Both searches had been futile. Hence this rendezvous at the Pink Rat.

The Shadow had added Cliff’s list to his own. Striking off the places that had proven worthless, The Shadow was ordering a new search. The Shadow would go to certain spots; Cliff to others.

Cliff’s new list had reached his pocket with the money. Watching, Cliff saw the stoop-shouldered waiter nearing the door that led outside. That barrier was at the opposite end of the Pink Rat. Cliff knew that The Shadow was leaving.

Cliff’s gaze wandered. It would be his turn to depart shortly. The Shadow’s agent pushed bottle and glass aside. He was about to rise from his chair when he heard a sharp challenge from the other end of the room. Buzzing conversation ended as mobsters stared toward the other end of the smoke-filled dive.

Two regular waiters had blocked the path of the one who had neared the outer door. They were arguing with him. They did not recognize him as one of the regular waiters at the Pink Rat. They were not satisfied with his explanation that he had come on the job tonight.

“Yeah?” a beefy-faced waiter was demanding. “So you want to scram, do you? Well, you ain’t goin’ to. There’s been too many stools around this joint lately. We ain’t lettin’ nobody like you get out.”

In response, the stoop-shouldered waiter released a sudden jab to the beefy face before him. The challenger collapsed as the sock reached his jaw. The other challenger let out a yell as he pounced upon the false waiter. With one accord, the patrons of the Pink Rat were leaping to their feet to join in the fray. As the brawlers struggled by the door, burly mobsmen sprang to block the barrier.

THE Pink Rat was lighted by three sets of ceiling lights. Those at each end of the basement dive were clusters. The central illumination came from a single frosted bulb set in the middle of the ceiling.

Each set operated from a different circuit. One switch was by the outer door, the other was close to the table where Cliff Marsland sat. The third — the central switch — was in back of an improvised bar.

As mobsters, anxious for strife, were leaping to their feet, the false waiter sent his second antagonist sprawling from a vicious wallop. The challenger rolled across the floor.

The fake waiter did not pause. His left hand shot to the light switch near the outer door. Before mobsters could stop him, he had pressed the switch. At the same instant, his right hand came from the side of his smudgy apron. An automatic boomed; the aim was perfect. The bullet shattered the big light in the center of the dive.

Cliff was acting as The Shadow fired. No eyes were in his direction. With a quick grasp, Cliff yanked the switch by the inner door. The smoky dive was plunged in darkness; with it came the jeering, strident tones of a weird laugh.

The Shadow! Mobsters knew with whom they had to deal. The odor of powder mingled with the aroma of tobacco as revolvers barked wildly toward the spot where the enemy had last been seen. Flashlights glimmered; they dropped as booming shots from an automatic picked the hands that turned lights toward the door.

The mobsters at the entrance were pouncing in the dark. Fierce hands were grasping for the invisible quarry. The Shadow, close to the wall by the door, was eluding them. He had drawn a second automatic in the darkness. Swinging this weapon, The Shadow was clearing the path.

His adversaries were at a hopeless disadvantage. They were gripping for one among several; but to The Shadow all forms were those of enemies with whom he could deal.

Slugged gangsters staggered. Others, in the middle of the dive, blazed shots toward the door, unmindful of the fact that others of their kind might receive the bullets. Shooters were out to get their enemy at all cost.

It was Cliff Marsland who provided prompt diversion. Springing to the side wall of the room, Cliff was knocking tables from his way while he punched through the darkness toward the outer door. He had drawn a pair of automatics; with these weapons, Cliff delivered quick shots across the darkened dive.

Wild shots stopped the men who were aiming toward the door. This attack from their very midst sent gangsters dropping for the cover of tables. The Shadow had thrown aside the last blockers. Cutting in by the wall, he had kept them between himself and the interior of the dive. Bullets intended for The Shadow had clipped the intervening mobsters.

As Cliff’s fire spelled an interval; as mobsters turned in the dark to aim for the unseen henchmen, The Shadow loosed shots from his second automatic. These bursts came from the door itself. The rapid fire ended as quickly as it had begun. Gangsters, dispatching slugs toward the door, were shooting only at the spot where The Shadow had been.

CLIFF had ceased fire. A light came on. Some one had pressed the switch at the inner door. Chaos showed in the Pink Rat. Groaning mobsmen and crippled waiters were lying on the floor. A cluster of crumpled forms showed by the exit to the alley.

Oaths rang through the joint as mobsters saw that their quarry had escaped. There was no sign of the stoop-shouldered waiter. Some one shouted the suggestion of following to the street. Half a dozen ruffians sprang toward the exit.

Cliff was among this throng. His smoking automatics marked him simply as participant in the fight, not as The Shadow’s aid. Battering past tables, Cliff had traveled well toward the outer door. He was at the heels of those who sought The Shadow’s trail.

Flashlights showed the alley empty. Swiftly, The Shadow had traveled from the outside street. Shrill whistles were sounding, less than two blocks away. A policeman had heard the gunfire. He was summoning other officers to the scene.

“Scram,” came a growled suggestion.

Grunts of acknowledgment. One mobster leaped back to the Pink Rat to pass the word to those within. The others began to scurry along the alley. Cliff joined in the departure.

Staring back from the corner, The Shadow’s agent witnessed a general exodus from the Pink Rat. Whistles — distant sirens — told that the police were closing in. Cliff darted for another alleyway and made good his escape.

FIVE blocks away, Cliff pulled the envelope from his batch of bills. Near a street lamp, he read the names of four localities that The Shadow had chosen for investigation. Cliff knew that The Shadow had taken other places for himself.

The nearest was an old, deserted house on the border of Chinatown. Cliff knew the place well; but he had not figured it as a hideout. Nor had The Shadow, until after more likely spots had proven barren.

Cliff lost no time in heading for this first place on his list. He felt that success was improbable. When he reached the dingy building, he saw no lights among its broken windows. The back door offered possible entry. Cliff found the rear entrance in the darkness. Suddenly, The Shadow’s agent dropped beside a pair of battered steps.

Footsteps were coming toward the back of the house. They mounted the steps; a soft knock sounded on the door. Cliff could almost feel the swish as the door opened inward.

“That you, Steve?” came a voice from inside the house.

“Yeah,” was the cautious response from the man on the steps. “What’s the lay, Hunky?”

“Stick here,” ordered the inside man. “Whitey’s coming up with the mob. They’re all in the cellar.”

“We’re startin’ out?”

“Yeah.”

“Where to?”

“Jake’s joint, where we’ve got the cars parked. Then up to Eighty-fifth Street, in back of the old Budwin Garage. We’ll get together there. The job’s near the place.”

“O.K., Hunky. I’ll mooch over to Jake’s. I’ll be waitin’ there.”

“We’ll be along in ten minutes.”

Footsteps descended. The door closed. One minute passed. Cliff Marsland arose and moved stealthily from beside the steps. Reaching the street, Cliff traveled one block and reached a dilapidated drug store where he found a battered phone booth.

The agent was calling Burbank. Through the contact man Cliff would get much-needed word to The Shadow. There was no time to stop men of crime from leaving on their mission; but there was a chance to meet them at their goal.

Cliff Marsland, following The Shadow’s tip, had located the hideout of Whitey Calban, five minutes before the murderous mobleader and his crew of killers were leaving to deliver another stroke of death!