Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER V THE SCHEMER PREPARES

WEEKS had passed since Mark Tyrell’s meeting with The Shadow. During that interval, the schemer had seen no further sign of his mysterious antagonist. No advertisement had appeared in the New York Classic. While Tyrell waited for his schemes to ripen, The Shadow, apparently, was waiting also.

Pug Halfin, alias Bates, had checked out of the Paragon Hotel the morning after the meeting. The tough-faced mobleader had dived to the cover of the underworld. Mark Tyrell, choosing the opposite course, had stepped into high society.

On this particular night, the suave promoter was donning evening clothes in the dressing room of a sumptuous apartment. Tyrell was residing at the Esplanade, newest and most fashionable of Manhattan’s exclusive apartment hotels. A smug, shrewd-faced valet was waiting on his master.

“What time is it, Wellington?” questioned Tyrell.

“Precisely eight o’clock, sir,” returned the valet.

“Call Miss Munson’s apartment,” ordered Tyrell. “I shall be ready to speak to her by the time you have obtained the number.”

Wellington departed. Tyrell surveyed his reflection in a full-length mirror. He smiled; then went into the living room and took the telephone from Wellington. The valet had already obtained the number.

Seated by a window that commanded a glittering view of Central Park, Tyrell spoke in smooth response to the tone of a girl’s voice that came over the wire.

“Hello, Doris,” was his greeting. “Will you be ready in an hour?… Good. I shall be there… we can reach Dutton’s by half past nine…

“Yes, it will probably be a rather stodgy evening… Yes, old Dutton will show the tapestry, I suppose… It’s his prize possession… However, we may meet some interesting people…

“Thank you for the compliment, Doris… It’s quite flattering to know that you regard me as the most interesting person whom you have ever met… No, no. There are other chaps quite as likeable as I am… Perhaps I’ll introduce you to some of them to-night… You’ll be pleasant? Good… I like to see people admire you, Doris.”

Tyrell hung up the receiver. His suave smile was at its best as he turned to Wellington. The valet returned a smug grin when he observed his master’s expression.

“Bring my coat,” ordered Tyrell, “and the derby. I’ve got to be going.”

Wellington produced an overcoat; also a scarf. Tyrell donned the coat and bundled the scarf about his neck so that his white tie and upright collar were no longer visible. He put on the derby and looked in a mirror. His fashionable appearance had been completely modified.

“All right, Wellington,” remarked Tyrell. “You’re sure that nobody has been snooping around this apartment; but I’m taking no chances to-night. I’ve been traveling in high places, behaving myself nicely. I don’t want to spoil it on the first night that I have to do business.

“I’m going down into the lobby. Put on your hat and coat. Follow me in five minutes. You know the taxi trick; we’ve worked it before. It goes again to-night.”

Wellington nodded his understanding.

MARK TYRELL strolled from the apartment. Five minutes later, he appeared on the sidewalk outside the pretentious lobby of the Esplanade. He hailed a cab and entered. The taxi pulled away. Half a minute later, Wellington, strolling from the lobby, hailed a second cab and followed.

Tyrell’s cab took an eastbound street. Wellington’s followed a block behind. Seeing that no other vehicles were moving along between his cab and Tyrell’s, the valet ordered his driver to stop. Alighting, Wellington paid his fare. He walked along until he reached an avenue. Looking back, he waited until the street was temporarily deserted. He walked one block south and stopped by a cigar store. Tyrell came out to meet him.

“Nobody following, sir,” informed Wellington.

“Good,” decided Tyrell. “Go back to the Esplanade. I’m going alone.”

He hailed another taxi and entered it. Wellington grinned smugly as he saw his master ride away. This trick of a second cab watching the first was one that allowed a sure check-up on any trailers.

FIFTEEN minutes after he had entered the new cab, Mark Tyrell alighted on a side street near The Bowery. He dismissed the taxi and walked to the busy thoroughfare that stretched beneath the structure of the elevated line. Jostling through an indiscriminate crowd, Tyrell entered a doorway beneath a sign that read: Morocco Hotel.

This place was even more disreputable than the Paragon Hotel in which Tyrell had met The Shadow. It was not much better than some of the twenty-five cent flop houses found in this district. Hard-faced rowdies were parked in the wooden chairs of the lobby. No one, however, paid any attention to Tyrell as he headed for a flight of dingy, cracked stairs.

This was due to Tyrell’s foresight in covering up his formal attire. Dress suits might be appropriate in the lobby of the Esplanade; they were not common, however, in the Morocco. Overcoat and derby rendered Tyrell sufficiently inconspicuous.

The visitor ascended two flights. He stopped at a door and rapped in quick, rat-tat fashion. The floor swung inward; Tyrell met the challenging gaze of Pug Halfin. The gangleader stepped aside to let him enter.

“All set, Pug?” questioned Tyrell.

“Sure,” returned the gangleader. “I’ve got two men planted as servants at Dutton’s. Chopper Hoban and Muff Motter. They’ve been layin’ low an’ they ain’t no dumb guys, neither. Dutton took on extra help for this swell party he’s throwin’ an’ they grabbed the jobs.”

“They’ll do,” decided Tyrell. “The outside is all arranged. Slug Bracken and his crew will be ready there.”

Pug Halfin grinned in pleased fashion. Tyrell, however, became thoughtful. His shrewd countenance clouded as he opened his coat and drew his cigarette case from a pocket of his white vest.

“All is well to-night, Pug,” declared Tyrell. “Two men on the inside — as servants — will be sufficient. We can use the same ones — or others if necessary — when we pull the next job. But we’ve got to have some one who can play a better part. We’ll need a phony guest at some of these coming affairs; and none of those mugs of yours can fill the bill. Slug’s outfit has the same limitations. Can’t you dig up the type of man I need? I put the proposition to you long ago.”

“I told you I had the man you wanted,” broke in Pug. “You know I’ve been keepin’ him on tap. Cliff Marsland—”

“You told me about him,” interposed Tyrell, quietly. “You said he was a mobster who looked like a gentleman. But you added that he has served a term in Sing Sing. That eliminates him.”

“Maybe it does,” admitted Pug, “but it don’t mean that he can’t be used—”

“For one of Slug’s mob—”

“I don’t mean that,” Pug spoke triumphantly. “I’ve been usin’ him already.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you. I figured it like this. Marsland looks like a silk hatter. As soon as I let the word slip aroun’ that I was lookin’ for a bird that didn’t have an ugly pan, he shows up. Then you said that he was out because he’d been in the big house.

“But when I couldn’t locate no other bozo like him, I doped it out that maybe he’d be able to locate some guy himself. He don’t stick around the joints all the time, Marsland doesn’t. So I told him what I wanted — a bird that could handle a rod an’ had guts — an’ he said he’d get the guy.”

“Not an ex-prisoner?”

“Of course not. I told him that. He said he’d find some bird who wouldn’t even know what the big house was; an’ he said the guy would have the goods.”

“Did he succeed?”

“You bet. He’s bringin’ his pal aroun’ here to-night. I thought it was them comin’ when you showed up. Stick aroun’, Tyrell. You’ve got time to take a squint at ‘em.”

“I can wait a few minutes,” decided Tyrell, glancing at a heavy watch that he drew from his pocket. “Marsland sounded like the man I wanted, except for his penitentiary record. If this other chap is of the same caliber—”

Tyrell paused. Quick raps were sounding at the door. Pug stepped over and opened the portal. Two men entered. One was Cliff Marsland; the other, Harry Vincent.

Mark Tyrell, ever observant, picked Cliff from Pug’s former description of the man. Pug had said that Cliff was a gorilla who looked like a gentleman. The statement fitted Cliff’s firm, chiseled face; his set, determined expression gave him an appearance that savored of knowledge in the underworld. At the same time, he had the bearing of an educated man. His quiet ease of entry marked him as a person who could pass inspection in any group.

HARRY VINCENT, as Tyrell examined him, was a fellow who lacked the hardness of Cliff Marsland. He seemed to have some of his companion’s determination; at the same time, his gentility predominated.

“Hello, Pug,” greeted Cliff. “Meet Vincent — Harry Vincent — friend of mine. Chap I told you about.”

“This is Mr. Tyrell,” returned Pug, introducing the man in evening clothes. “He’s been waitin’ to meet you fellows.”

Tyrell shook hands with the newcomers. A pleased smile appeared beneath his short clipped mustache. He turned to Pug Halfin and nodded.

“He’s wise?” questioned Pug, nudging a thumb toward Harry, while speaking to Cliff.

“Yes,” responded Cliff. “You can count on him. My recommendation stands good.”

“Talk to Tyrell,” declared Pug.

Harry and Cliff turned toward the man in evening clothes. Tyrell had finished his cigarette. He was drawing his case from his pocket for the second time. Suavely, he addressed both men as one.

“I can use you chaps,” he asserted. “I need a man to work with me. I had you in mind, Marsland; but frankly, we both might run a risk because of your unfortunate record. However, you have produced Vincent. He is the type of man that I require.”

Tyrell turned to Harry and studied him closely. Harry met his gaze squarely. He was ready for any question that Tyrell might ask. One came.

“You’re a New Yorker?” questioned Tyrell.

“Only for the past few years,” returned Harry. “Michigan is my home state.”

“Ever mixed in any rackets?”

Harry shook his head.

“But you wouldn’t mind getting in the game?” quizzed Tyrell.

“I’m ready for anything,” announced Harry, coldly. “Jobs are scarce and I wouldn’t mind some easy money. Cliff Marsland is an old friend of mine. He’s helped me out with cash when I’ve needed it. I want to pay him back; and any work that is good enough for Cliff is good enough for me.”

“Can you handle a revolver?”

“I was runner-up in the Michigan small arms championship when I was home last summer. I prefer a .45 when I shoot.”

“Good. Well, Vincent, I don’t expect you’ll have to use a gun, unless” — Tyrell paused thoughtfully — “unless a certain emergency arises. Despite your preference, you will have to carry a revolver of smaller caliber under the dress-suit that you will be wearing.

“I won’t need you to-night. It is too late and it is just as well that you wait for another occasion. Keep in touch with Pug here. He will tell you when you are needed.”

“Where do I come in?” questioned Cliff. “You said you had work for both of us.”

“Keep in touch with Pug also,” ordered Tyrell. “Maybe you will stay with him; perhaps you will join Slug Bracken’s outfit. I can’t use you to-night, either.”

“You make the terms Pug” — Tyrell turned to the hard-faced mobleader — “because I shall be late if I remain here longer. Good night, gentlemen.”

Tyrell shook hands with his new minions and turned toward the door. Pug inserted a suggestion as Tyrell was stepping into the hallway.

“Keep them glad rags covered,” he said. “Like they was when you came in here. Some of those mugs downstairs wouldn’t never get through talkin’ if they spotted a soup an’ fish aroun’ this dump.”

Smilingly, Mark Tyrell tightened his scarf around his neck. He buttoned his overcoat and closed the door behind him. He walked down the stairs and passed quietly through the lobby. On the street, he waited for a few minutes; then was lucky enough to spot a passing taxi.

TYRELL ordered the driver to take him to Times Square. He planned to change cabs there; then go to keep his appointment with Doris Munson. But it was not the anticipation of the meeting with the society girl that made the shrewd schemer smile.

Tyrell’s plans were already outlined for to-night. Doris Munson was merely a minor factor. Tyrell was looking ahead to new episodes in the career of crime that he was beginning. He had needed an aid like Harry Vincent. He had gained the man that he required. Cliff Marsland, too, would fill in handily.

Pug Halfin had done good work, so Tyrell thought. For weeks, the mobleader had stalled about trying to get the type of henchmen that Tyrell needed; at last, Pug had come through. Even though Cliff and Harry might price their services high, they would be worth it.

So Tyrell supposed. In fact, he was positive that both of these men would play an important part in the events of the future. His assumption was a true one; but Tyrell did not suspect the real story that lay beneath the surface.

The schemer did not know that after to-night’s crime, all his moves would be reported from the inside. Not for an instant did he suspect that his two new henchmen were agents of his archenemy — The Shadow!