Death Clew

CHAPTER VIII. AGENTS AT WORK

FIVE days had passed. They were days that brought nights of strange activities. Man hunts were in progress. The police and The Shadow were at work upon their respective tasks.

Often had The Shadow sought in higher places while police had scoured the underworld in vain search after crime suspects. This time the situation was reversed. Commissioner Ralph Weston had belittled the suggestion made by Lamont Cranston.

Detectives were roaming through Manhattan, looking here and there for traces of Lester Drayson. They were supplied with photographs of the fugitive. Those pictures showed Drayson’s portrait — that of an elderly, gray-haired man with a placid face that showed no trace of criminal characteristics.

Meanwhile, stool pigeons were idle. The badlands were ignored by the law. It was The Shadow who was working there. The master sleuth was trying to place his finger upon some skulking messenger of coming crime.

Stalking the underworld The Shadow was at times a roving phantom. On other occasions, he appeared in notorious dives, disguised as a sweatered mobster. Frequently The Shadow had played the part of a denizen of scum-land. Yet he was not alone in his efforts.

Trusted agents were at work. Cliff Marsland, accepted by mobland as one of their ilk, was spending his time in the hangouts where crooks lingered. Harry Vincent, another capable agent, was a visitor at the flossy night clubs and old hotels which cash-possessing gangsters were wont to frequent.

Clyde Burke, roving reporter of the New York Classic, was patrolling both types of places; and at intervals, he dropped into police headquarters to chat with Detective Joe Cardona.

IT was evident to Clyde that a search was being made by the Manhattan police. Clyde knew, through The Shadow, that the dicks were after Lester Drayson. But Joe Cardona, wary and taciturn, was stingy with his information. The ace detective never once gave Clyde a tip.

The task which The Shadow had set for himself and his agents was no sinecure. The Shadow knew that any former pal of Strangler Hunn would certainly be laying low. The Shadow, as Lamont Cranston, had given Ralph Weston an idea which the police commissioner had not accepted. That duty performed, The Shadow was working on his own, and his course was preferable.

Weston, had he chosen to look for companions of Strangler Hunn, would have invoked the dragnet. The slowness of The Shadow’s present search proved fully that any pal of Strangler’s would have dodged that method of capture. The Shadow’s work, unhampered by police activities, offered better possibilities.

On this night, the fifth after the conference at Roscoe Wimbledon’s, The Shadow chanced to give a fleeting trace of his mysterious presence. Like an apparition, he appeared beneath the lamp light near an obscure corner on the East Side.

No peering eyes were there to see The Shadow’s passage. Like a being of a supernatural sort, The Shadow glided toward a darkened space beside a wall. From then on, his course was indiscernible.

The next manifestation of The Shadow’s weird presence came within the blackened walls of the sanctum.

A bluish light clicked on. The hand that wore the girasol appeared beneath the vivid rays. The other hand joined it. Long fingers handled typewritten report sheets.

These papers listed names and descriptions of the persons. They were memoranda that concerned half a dozen members of the scattered band to which Strangler Hunn had once belonged. They listed toughened mobsters; potential killers who had fled Manhattan.

Had one of these returned? That was the question which The Shadow sought to answer. To date, there had been no indication of the fact. Yet The Shadow was sure that when new murder was required, one of these crooks would arrive.

DOWN in an underworld dive, scattered groups of mobsters were chatting among themselves. Things were quiet in the badlands. This place, the Black Ship, showed very little trace of impending activities in the realm of crime.

Among the patrons was a keen-faced man who sat quietly in a corner. There was something in this fellow’s appearance that marked him as a member of gangdom’s elite. His features were clearly chiseled.

His square jaw showed him to be a fighter. This was Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow.

Cliff had once served time in Sing Sing. This had given him a high status in the badlands. Only The Shadow knew that Cliff had taken the rap to save the brother of the girl he loved. All crooks who knew Cliff thought that he had gone to the big house for a crime of his own commission.

Cliff had accomplished much through his reputation. He had become one of the most valued agents in The Shadow’s small but capable corps. Tonight, as on previous evenings, Cliff was alert in The Shadow’s service.

A scrawny mobster strolled into the Black Ship. His ratlike eyes spied Cliff Marsland. The arrival caught a gesture from Cliff. He approached and sat down at the table where Cliff was holding out alone.

“Hello, Bowser,” greeted Cliff. “How’re things going?”

“Lousy,” returned the scrawny mobsman. “There ain’t nothin’ doin’. I’m on my uppers.”

“Not like the old days, eh? Back when you were with the dock wallopers?”

“Nah. I shook that crew before the big fight. Lucky I did. I might have took a bump.”

“Or lost an arm?”

Bowser shifted uneasily. This was a reference to Strangler Hunn. Bowser had been but a hanger-on with the old mob. Cliff knew that Bowser could not be a potential killer. Yet the reference worried the scrawny crook.

“Don’t remind me of that stuff, Cliff,” pleaded Bowser. “I never did like Strangler. He was the bad egg of the outfit. There was more than one guy found with his throat gagged after Strangler had worked on him.”

“Yeah. Strangler was a killer.” Cliff’s tone was a casual one. “Even after he lost his right mitt, he could still do dirty work. Best gat handler in the outfit, wasn’t he?”

“Nah.” Bowser was emphatic in his protest. “There was other guys that could sling a rod better than Strangler.”

“But none of them had nerve enough to come back to town.”

“Yeah? That’s where you’re foolin’ yourself.” Bowser leaned over the table. “There’s one guy that ain’t worried about the bulls. He’s around here right now.”

Cliff leaned back and indulged in a quiet but contemptuous laugh. The action riled Bowser.

“You think that’s hooey?” questioned the scrawny mobster. “Well, it ain’t. I seen this guy a couple of hours ago, down by Red Mike’s place.”

“Maybe you were seeing things,” suggested Cliff. “That bum hooch down at Red Mike’s is enough to make a fellow see a dead man walk.”

“I wasn’t crocked,” snarled Bowser. “What’s more, I didn’t make no mistake. I’ll tell you who the guy was — Shakes Niefan.”

BOWSER spoke as though the statement settled everything. He poured himself a drink from a bottle that a waiter had brought him. He held the glass in his hand and began to wiggle his wrist. Drops of liquor plopped over the glass rim.

“See that?” demanded Bowser. “That’s the way Shakes Niefan is. Wobbly — all the time. But that don’t mean nothin’ when he handles a rod. When he gets tough, he steadies. I’ve seen him.”

Bowser paused to gulp his drink. Then, as he set the glass upon the table, he added:

“There ain’t no mistakin’ Shakes Niefan when you see him. He’s here in New York; an he ain’t yellow. He didn’t want to talk much; an it’s a sure bet he’s hidin’ out somewhere. But that ain’t nothin’ against him. The best of ‘em hide out when they’ve got some job on.”

“You win, Bowser,” laughed Cliff, as he arose from the table. “If Shakes Niefan is back, I give him credit.”

“Don’t say nothin’ though,” warned Bowser, clutching at Cliff’s arm. “I told Shakes I’d keep mum.”

“What do you think I am?” growled Cliff. “A stool?” Then, with a laugh, he added: “Say — maybe you think I’m working for The Shadow! Go on, Bowser. Finish your bottle” — Cliff took a friendly jab at the scrawny gangster’s ribs — “and forget it. What do I care about Shakes Niefan?”

Bowser was satisfied. He poured himself another drink when Cliff had left.

But had Bowser followed the man who had left, his qualms would have returned. Cliff Marsland, directly after his departure from the Black Ship, headed for an obscure store a few blocks from the dive.

There Cliff found a corner telephone. Unnoticed, he dialed a number. In a low tone; The Shadow’s agent informed Burbank of what he had learned. After that, Cliff hung up and waited. A return call came through in a few minutes. Cliff acknowledged new instructions.

Word had been relayed to The Shadow. In his sanctum, the master who battled crime had learned the news. He had sent back orders. Now his hands were at work. They had put aside all papers except one.

That was the sheet which carried data concerning “Shakes” Niefan.

The light clicked out. A hollow laugh sounded in the blackness. It died; echoes faded. Then complete silence. The Shadow had departed. His plan had brought results.

Somewhere in New York was the potential murderer who could fill Strangler Hunn’s place. The Shadow had fared forth to begin his own hunt for Shakes Niefan’s hideout.