The Third Skull

CHAPTER XI. MOVES IN THE NIGHT

NINE o’clock. Manhattan was aglow. From the glittering area of Times Square to the lights along the water fronts, the great metropolis presented a man-made glare that cast a huge reflection against a sullen sky.

The illumination was deceptive. Manhattan was not one mass of blazing lights. There were spots where the brilliance equaled that of daylight; there were other places where darkness lurked. The island, itself, was actually a patchwork contrast.

Night was The Shadow’s habitat. This night, also, was important to his agents. Each man had an appointed task. Some were where lights glimmered; others where blackness dominated. From Broadway to the Bowery, workers were on the job.

A young man was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite. Keen of face, clean-cut of appearance, he was watching the elevators. This was Harry Vincent, returned from Ohio.

A man stepped from an elevator and approached the desk. It was Roger Parchell. Harry had been appointed to watch the man from California. He had learned Roger’s room number and had spotted him from a description sent by Burbank.

As Roger Parchell reached the desk, Harry sauntered up and waited near by. He heard the heir speak to the clerk. Roger was asking for any messages. There were none.

“I am going out,” stated Roger. “If any one calls, state that I shall be back by half past eleven.”

That word given, Roger sauntered from the lobby. Harry followed. The two joined a Broadway throng.

Harry had no difficulty in keeping close behind the man whom he was guarding. Roger Parchell was in no hurry. He stopped in front of a large motion-picture theater.

Reaching into a pocket, Roger produced a dollar bill; he stepped up to the box office and bought a ticket. Harry followed suit; by the time that he had made his purchase, Roger had walked to the entrance.

Harry followed.

This theater had no lighted, inner lobby. As Harry passed the ticket-chopper, he came directly into darkness. He saw people walking toward the aisles; it was impossible to distinguish faces.

Spying a man who looked like Roger Parchell, Harry followed him, only to discover, when closer, that he had picked the wrong man.

Harry went back to the entrance. He decided that the best plan was to remain in the theater until the program had made a complete round. The place was well filled; there would be no chance to spot Roger Parchell until the fellow went out again.

One bad point was that the theater possessed several exits, all of which were in regular use. There was no telling which way Roger would eventually go out. However, Harry decided that by staying, he might spy Roger; and by going out soon enough, he could at least reach the hotel and watch for Roger’s return at eleven thirty.

WHILE Harry Vincent was thus engaged, another of The Shadow’s agents was having more troublesome difficulties. Clyde Burke, enthroned at a telephone desk in the Classic office, was having an argument across the wire.

“What’s the matter, Burke?” inquired the assistant city editor, as Clyde hung up the receiver. “That’s the fourth call you’ve made. Missing out on something?”

“Yes,” returned Clyde. “It’s this fellow Royce. The Long Island millionaire. I made an appointment with him to go out and see his art gallery.”

“Can’t you locate him?”

“No. His club says he’s at home. His home says he’s at the club. What bothers me is that each time I call either place I get some one different on the wire. I have to explain the whole thing over — why I want to talk with Selwood Royce.”

“Maybe they’re giving you the run-around.”

“Nobody knows anything about the appointment. Sounds like he has half a dozen servants out at the house.”

“Well, I guess Royce just forgot the matter, Burke. Why don’t you postpone the interview.”

“It’s my assignment for tonight. I’ve arranged it; and I’m going to keep calling until I locate Royce.”

With that statement, Clyde lifted the receiver to make another call to Royce’s club.

WEST of Broadway, Moe Shrevnitz was seated behind the wheel of his reclaimed cab. The shrewd-faced taxi driver was parked outside the apartment that was topped by Weldon Wingate’s penthouse. It was Moe’s job to watch for Wingate.

Some one came out of the building. Leaning forward, Moe recognized the white-haired lawyer. Wingate was looking for a cab. Moe, parked at the hack stand, was ready. He stepped on the starter.

At that instant, another cab whisked by. Its driver saw Wingate. The cab cut in hard ahead of Moe’s.

Brakes ground as the driver opened the door. Wingate stepped aboard.

Moe Shrevnitz fumed. This was against the ethics of the taxi drivers. Had a doorman been on duty, Moe could have made a protest. But there was no doorman. Wingate was already aboard the rival cab.

Moe followed the cab ahead. This was his only way to keep tabs on Wingate. When it came to trailing another cab, Moe had no rival. He made a science of the game.

The first cab swung around a corner; Moe slowed for a moment, then made the turn and cut behind a truck to avoid notice as he continued on the trail.

It looked like an easy task, but Moe was not counting on what was to come. Wingate’s cab shot suddenly forward as it came to a corner. Hardly had it passed the crossing before Moe, a hundred feet behind, heard the clangor of a fire truck, accompanied by sirens.

A motorcycle policeman sped by. A patrolman sprang out into the avenue and spread his arms to block traffic. Moe was forced to stop. A fire engine roared across the avenue. Moe jammed his cab into gear; the cop barked an order to remain stopped. Ten seconds later, a hook-and-ladder truck clattered by.

Another siren was wailing. The patrolman still held traffic. Twenty seconds more; an ambulance came into view, clanged across the avenue, and kept on in back of the fire apparatus. The cop made sure that no more vehicles were coming; then motioned for traffic to proceed.

Moe muttered angrily. He had lost fully a minute and a half. Wingate’s taxi had turned off the avenue.

Traffic was thick about Moe’s cab, with cars cutting in from the opposite direction. No chance of regaining the trail. Moe could do nothing but return to Wingate’s apartment and watch for the lawyer’s return.

THE Gray Room of the Hotel Goliath was a place reserved for small banquets. Situated on the mezzanine of the hotel, it occupied a corner just beyond the stairway to the lobby.

Tonight, the Gray Room was in use. Thirty surgeons were holding a banquet in honor of a prominent physician who had returned from the Orient, bringing new data on tropical diseases.

Invitations to this dinner had been difficult to obtain. Among the lucky guests was a young physician who was seated at a corner table. His name was Rupert Sayre and his invitation had come unexpectedly, only an hour before the banquet had begun.

Among his friends, Doctor Sayre numbered Lamont Cranston. It was through Cranston that Sayre had gained the invitation here. And Cranston had requested a favor on the part of Doctor Sayre. In accordance with Cranston’s wish, Sayre was watching a physician who was seated at a table near the door.

Sayre knew the man by sight and by reputation: Doctor Raymond Deseurre, a keen-faced man of middle age: Sayre could not help but wonder why Cranston had requested a close observation of this reputable physician.

For Sayre — through circumstances which he had encountered — had long since identified Lamont Cranston with a strange personage called The Shadow.[1] Sayre knew that those whom came under The Shadow’s vigilance were apt to be men of crime.

Sometimes, though, they were persons who needed protection.

Which was Deseurre? Was he a plotter, or a threatened victim? What could he do here; or what might happen to him?

As Sayre considered these questions, an attendant entered the Gray Room. Sayre saw the hotel employee speak to Doctor Deseurre.

The middle-aged man arose and quietly left the room. Sayre watched the doorway, expecting his return.

Several minutes passed; then came the ring of a telephone near Sayre’s corner. A waiter answered it; Sayre heard the man take the message.

“Very well, sir,” said the waiter. “Yes… I’ll tell the speaker… Yes, I understand, sir. Doctor Deseurre has had a call from a patient and will not be able to return…”

Another agent of The Shadow — for Rupert Sayre was serving in that capacity pro tem — had lost the trail of a man whom he was supposed to watch. Coincidences were running strong tonight. In no case was there any indication of the unusual.

DOWN in the underworld, two aids of The Shadow were on duty together. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye formed a competent team as they stalked the badlands. They had received a tip through Burbank, a few hours previously. They were making good use of it.

Neither Cliff nor Hawkeye had found out any worthwhile facts regarding the gorillas who had fallen at Tobold’s. All of those thugs had been free-lance mobsmen of lesser consequence. Some one had hired them, perhaps; but the “grapevine,” that secret telegraph of the underworld, disclaimed the fact.

According to the whisper, the thugs had been on their own. The grapevine, however, was sometimes wrong. Evidence, though, supported it, for no connection could be found between the dead thugs and any known band of hoodlums.

The tracking of Homer Hothan had proven a hopeless task. The man had never been heard of in the underworld. There was no starting point from which to trace him. Thus Cliff and Hawkeye had been blocked until this new tip had come from Burbank.

“Trace Flick Sherrad.” That had been The Shadow’s order. Cliff and Hawkeye, separating, had started work with determination. Meeting, they had compared notes. Together, they had something.

Cliff had heard two dips talking about a hideout, not far from the Bowery, a place that was guarded by a fake blind peddler. The faker was back on his old stand. He had hired out his lodging to some one who wanted to keep under cover.

Hawkeye had talked with a hophead whom he had met in an underworld dive. In the course of conversation, the hophead had mentioned cautiously that he had seen Flick Sherrad two days before. He had named the locality where he had spied the missing mob-leader. Hawkeye had made a mental note of it.

Added facts brought results. Cliff and Hawkeye, telling each other their findings, agreed that the occupied hideout might well be Flick Sherrad’s. It was close to the place where the hophead had seen Flick.

Going along the Bowery, The Shadow’s agents reached the street that they wanted. This thoroughfare was fairly well lighted. A good spot for a peddler.

Strolling along, they passed the fake blind man standing in front of a building that bore a “for-rent” sign.

The door of the building was almost in darkness.

CLIFF and Hawkeye separated. Cliff came back along the street. Though roughly dressed, he looked like a man who might have money. There was nothing unusual in a chap of his type stopping to look in pitying fashion at the blind peddler.

Cliff reached in his pocket. He brought out some coins and held them in the light. He noted pencils in the peddler’s hand. Cliff reached for them.

“How much?” he queried, as he tapped the pencils.

“Five cents each,” returned the peddler, in a wheezy tone. “Or whatever you want to pay for them.”

Cliff was holding the man’s attention. He knew that behind those dark glasses were eyes that could see.

But the faker was turned away from the doorway. He could not observe what Cliff was noticing.

Hawkeye had sneaked up to the door, to find it unlocked. Hawkeye was entering the house.

“I’ll take three pencils,” decided Cliff. “Here’s a quarter. You keep the change.”

Drawing away the pencils with his left hand, Cliff pushed a twenty-five-cent piece between the thumb and forefinger of his right. He flipped the coin for the peddler’s cup. The quarter fell short, as Cliff had intended it. The coin struck the outside of the cup and clinked to the sidewalk.

The peddler dropped to his knees and began to feel around for the money. Cliff urged him away.

Stooping, The Shadow’s agent began a search of his own.

“I’ll find it for you,” he promised. “Here — hold the pencils while I look.”

The quarter was lying in a crack of the sidewalk. Cliff pushed it farther away as he pawed about. The peddler started to help again. Cliff motioned the man upward and arose to his own feet.

“Guess it’s lost,” he said. “I’ll have to strike a match to look for it. But here — I’ll pay you for the pencils in the meantime. I have another quarter.”

Cliff produced the second coin. The peddler was stooping again. Cliff withheld him and plunked the new quarter in the cup. At the same moment, he slid his foot over so it covered the quarter on the sidewalk.

Cliff wanted time to make his next search. He intended to keep the peddler occupied while Hawkeye scoured the hideout. Thus he would be present if Hawkeye needed him; and he would also be able to cover Hawkeye’s departure if no trouble should occur while the little man was searching.

Three or four minutes had already passed. Cliff struck a match. It blew out. He lighted another. It also failed. More trouble with matches. Another minute had gone by.

At last, Cliff held one burning. He stooped and looked about by his right foot, the one that covered the coin. His match burned out in the hollow cup of his hand. Cliff started to light another.

A flicker of flame showed a slow motion of the peddler’s right foot. Something in the action warned Cliff.

It was the way a man would move before dealing a blow. Cliff looked up. He shot his left hand toward a descending wrist.

The peddler had yanked a blackjack and was starting a short swing for Cliff’s head.

CLIFF caught the man’s wrist; as he twisted it, the fellow lost his hold on the implement. The blackjack thudded on the sidewalk. With a snarl, the fake blind man leaped for Cliff’s throat.

Cliff was rising too late. The man had the advantage. As they grappled, Cliff’s feet slipped. Cliff fell back upon his shoulders and clutched wildly to stop his attacker. The faker grabbed Cliff’s throat.

The man’s idea was to pound the back of Cliff’s head on the sidewalk. Cliff resisted with full force; but his arms were pinioned beneath the faker’s knees. Only by shifting his head from side to side could Cliff escape the inevitable.

Choking fingers gripped Cliff’s throat. The Shadow’s agent wrenched his neck away from the beggar’s grasp. Then the fingers clutched again. Cliff gurgled; the peddler issued a triumphant snarl.

Then, at this crucial instant, a bunched-up form came hurtling downward from the wall above. A doubled body landed squarely on the peddler’s shoulders. The faker went down into a heap and rolled from Cliff’s body. Fingers left Cliff’s throat.

As he rolled over to gain his feet, Cliff saw his rescuer gripping the peddler. It was Hawkeye who had made this timely attack. From the second floor, Hawkeye had seen the fight. He had plunged from a front window to put an end to it.

Hawkeye was half lifting the peddler. The man’s dark glasses were gone as Hawkeye backed him against the wall. Helpless, he was coughing answers to questions that Hawkeye was giving him.

“Whose hideout is it?” Hawkeye was demanding. “Come on — spill it!”

“Flick Sherrad’s,” gasped the peddler. “Flick—”

“Flick’s not in town,” snapped Hawkeye. “Come on — who’s the mug that’s got you working as lookout?”

“It’s Flick — Flick Sherrad. Honest it is—”

Half sagging as his voice broke, the peddler loosed a sudden, lucky jab to Hawkeye’s chin. Hawkeye staggered; as Cliff sprang forward, the peddler made a dive away from him. He kicked over the cup that he had laid upon the sidewalk. Coins went scattering as the peddler took to his heels. Pencils dropped along the man’s trail.

Cliff stopped Hawkeye as the little man was about to pursue. Together, they hurried along the street and took temporary cover in a doorway; then, satisfied that the coast was clear, they headed toward the Bowery.

“No use chasing him,” grunted Cliff. “We muffed it — that’s all. We found Flick’s hideout, right enough, but he won’t head in here now that the lookout’s missing.”

“Anyway, I bluffed that guy,” remarked Hawkeye. “He’ll think we were after somebody else, the way I talked to him. I didn’t make out that we wanted Flick.”

“Good headwork,” complimented Cliff. “But it won’t bring Flick back. He’ll be off the place after this. What did you find upstairs?”

“A room that looked like a hideout. But there wasn’t anybody there.”

“All right. Stick here while I make a report.”

They had neared a cigar store on the Bowery. Hawkeye remained outside while Cliff went in to make a call to Burbank. Agents of The Shadow had again struck ill luck.

IN the reading room of the exclusive Cobalt Club, a rotund, chubby-faced man was reading an evening newspaper while he smoked a fat cigar. This individual was named Rutledge Mann. By profession, he was an investment broker.

Mann was pleased with his surroundings. He had been admitted to this swanky club through the recommendation of an important member — Lamont Cranston. Mann spent much of his leisure time here.

A smile showed on Mann’s chubby face as he noted an item in the newspaper. It was a dispatch from Philadelphia, stating that Professor Tyson Morth was delivering a speech in that city this evening.

Mann smiled because he had read a similar item in a Philadelphia morning newspaper, earlier this very day. The report in the Philadelphia journal had stated, in addition, that Professor Morth was leaving for New York directly after his dinner speech. That meant he would take a train at eight o’clock, arriving in New York before ten.

Mann had clipped that item from the Philadelphia newspaper. He had placed it in an envelope, had carried it to Twenty-third Street, and had left it in The Shadow’s post box. By this time, it had reached The Shadow.

Rutledge Mann had cause to smile. Action was not his forte; his was a passive part. But on this occasion, he was the only one of all The Shadow’s agents who had experienced no setback in the moves against impending crime.