The Chinese Disks

CHAPTER II. GREEN LIGHTS

THRONGED mobsters crowded Red Mike’s. This dive was one of the most popular in the underworld.

It had changed location on various occasions, chiefly after police raids. But the name had traveled with it.

This was in deference to the brawny, red-haired proprietor who managed the improvised bar in the corner of the main room. Red Mike was a fixture in the Tenderloin.

One characteristic seemed to be the sole qualification that gained admission to Red Mike’s. That was toughness. Sluggers, dock wallopers, gorillas — these were the types that formed the habitues of the joint.

Red Mike’s was a meeting place for the hardest characters in slumland.

The aristocrats of the underworld avoided this dive. So did the weaklings. Petty thieves, hop-heads and other small fry were not wanted. Stool pigeons stayed away from Red Mike’s. That was a source of comfort to Duff Corley when he slouched into the underground den.

For although Duff was playing the part of a stoolie, he had no fear. Among the mobsmen assembled were a dozen whom he knew well. He grinned in twisted fashion as he pictured what would happen if any one challenged him as a stool. Pals would rally to his side. The accuser would be mobbed.

Duff knew that Cardona had evidence that he and “Spider” Mertz had met at Red Mike’s. That was proof that one of the detective’s stoolies must have been around. But as Duff recalled it, he and Spider had met outside the joint. That was where the stoolie must have spotted them.

It was inside that they had transacted their business. Over in the far corner, by the door that formed an emergency exit from the dive. Duff chuckled as he took a seat at the very table where Spider had given him the Chinese disk. It was far from the outer door. No wonder no stoolie had viewed the conference of the other night.

This table was Duff’s accustomed spot when he visited Red Mike’s. It was the logical place where the emissary would look for him. As he slouched at the table, Duff thrust a hand into his pocket. His clenched fist gripped the Chinese disk.

THOUGH as tough in appearance as any gorilla in the place, Duff was yellow at heart. The viciousness of his evil features offset the flimsiness of his frame; that was why he passed as a hard customer. But Duff knew his own limitations. He was a greenhorn with a gat. His punch lacked wallop.

So Duff relied on his face to get him into places like Red Mike’s. He used his cunning to gain an equal rating with his associates. When he worked with crooks, Duff supplied ideas; and usually managed to get himself appointed to some duty that would allow a quick getaway when the cops showed up.

Spider Mertz thought that Duff was foxy. That was why Spider had named him for a post with the unknown big shot. But Joe Cardona had called the turn. He had spotted Duff for a yellow rat. Duff had caved when Joe had began to question him. Right now, in his usual fashion, Duff was trying to keep on both sides of the fence. In so doing, he was acting in the very fashion that Cardona had hoped.

Here in his own bailiwick, Duff possessed a cunning grin; nothing like the sickly twitch that had adorned his face at headquarters. He intended to play the fox, so far as Spider was concerned. He would horn in with the big shot and pick up some easy mazuma. But at the same time, Duff intended to play straight with Joe Cardona. That, he figured would be the only way to save his yellow hide.

A newcomer strolled into Red Mike’s. Duff knew the fellow. Cliff Marsland. Here was a bird who rated a gang lieutenancy any day in the week. Yet he preferred the company of ordinary gorillas. The explanation — as Duff and others knew it — was that Cliff chose to play a lone wolf game in his dealings with the underworld.

Cliff Marsland was not of the gorilla type. Duff noted that as the arrival took a seat not far away. There was nothing uncouth or sordid about Cliff’s appearance. But his chiseled profile marked him a man of action. Tough guys edged away from Cliff Marsland. His manner meant business.

So did his rep. Cliff was known as a killer. Once he had gone gunning for The Shadow. The fact that The Shadow was still at large was no damaging factor to Cliff’s underworld reputation. In fact, it only made Cliff a figure of greater prominence. To Duff Corley, it meant that Cliff had the edge on The Shadow.

For The Shadow had a way of eliminating those who declared themselves his enemies. Yet Cliff had the temerity to roam the underworld at will. He, the avowed enemy of The Shadow. Among mobsters, Cliff was unique.

Little did Duff Corley realize that Cliff Marsland, like himself, was playing a dual part. Duff, recognized by gangsters, had become the secret informant of Detective Joe Cardona. His new role had begun to-night. Cliff Marsland, on the contrary, had been playing his part for a long while. Cliff Marsland was a secret agent of The Shadow.

More than that, he was here on a mission for The Shadow. He, too, had communicated with Burbank.

Clyde Burke’s information had gone to The Shadow. It had come back, in the form of orders, to Cliff Marsland. His task, here at Red Mike’s, was to watch Duff Corley.

EXPERIENCED at this game, Cliff kept his gaze away from the scrawny mobster. Sitting at his own table, The Shadow’s agent stared toward the clustered groups between him and the outer door. But every now and then he managed a sidelong glance that Duff did not observe. Those glances enabled Cliff to watch the mobster.

Bottles and glasses were clicking throughout the smoke-filled room. Ribald mobsters were loud with oaths and jests. Cliff was watching the crowd for the moment; so was Duff. Neither noticed the husky mobster who stepped in through the little-used rear door.

The fellow moved close to Duff and nudged the scrawny crook. Duff started to turn; a growl warned him to give no sign. Glancing downward, Duff saw a grimy fist by the level of the table edge. The fingers opened. In the palm, Duff observed a disk that was identical with the one he carried.

Fumbling, Duff pulled his hand from the pocket of his ragged coat. He showed the token which he carried. He saw the other fist close and move away. Duff thrust his own hand back into his pocket. He nodded as he heard gruff orders, coming in a tone just higher than a whisper.

This was the emissary of the big shot; the messenger whom Spider Mertz had promised. Head lowered, voice muffled, the arrival was passing the word while Duff Corley still stared straight ahead. Both thought they were unobserved. They were not.

Cliff Marsland was watching. He, alone, had noted the situation. But he could get no view of the new mobster’s face. He knew that the fellow was merely some underling; but he figured the meeting of consequence because of the signs that were exchanged.

The husky mobster was turned almost toward the door. The back of his right hand was toward Cliff. The Shadow’s agent caught no sign of the disk that the man displayed; but he did gain a trifling glimpse of the one in Duff’s hand. From where Cliff was sitting, the disk looked like an old half-dollar.

The newcomer turned. He chose the simplest action to go back through the rear door; hence his turn was away from Cliff’s direction. The only impression that Cliff gained was that of a big rowdy wearing a heavy sweater and a cap pulled down over his eyes.

That mattered little. Though Cliff would have liked to keep the messenger in mind for future reference, Duff was the man whom he intended to follow. The best plan of following, Cliff decided, was to go out ahead. One minute after Duff’s visitor had left, Cliff arose and strolled through the crowd until he reached the main entrance of Red Mike’s. He stepped up a short flight of stone steps and gained the street.

Duff would come out this way. Cliff felt sure of that. The other fellow had ducked in and out by the rear; Duff, who had come through the front, would naturally take the same mode of exit. Crossing the narrow street in front of Red Mike’s, Cliff lingered by the front of a battered, crumbling building.

Five minutes later, Duff appeared. With a quick look up and down the street, the scrawny mobster shambled away. Cliff followed. It was his job to learn Duff’s destination. He was hoping for a lucky break. One came.

DUFF ducked into an alleyway and cut through to an avenue. Here he entered an old cigar store. Cliff reached the front; peering through the grimy window, he spied a door that was closing. He figured that there was a telephone beyond. Cliff entered.

The proprietor was arguing with a panhandler who wanted him to crack a pack of cigarettes and sell him six for a nickel. Cliff strolled beyond until he reached the end of the counter. Listening, he caught the sound of Duff’s voice. A poor telephone connection was forcing the crook to talk loud.

“Yeah…” Cliff heard the tone. “This is Duff… Yeah, the guy showed up… Told me where to go… You know the block past Sobo’s hock shop… Yeah… Well, it’s in that block… House with green lights… No, he didn’t say which house, except that it had green lights… Yeah, I’m goin’ there… But listen, Joe. If you show up, it may queer the lay… All right… Yeah, I get you…”

Cliff swung away from the door. He was looking out through the front window when Duff passed. As Duff reached the street, Cliff turned back and approached the counter. The panhandler slouched out.

Cliff bought some cigarettes. He started to the street; a quick glance told him that Duff was gone. Cliff reentered the store and headed for the room where the phone was located.

Cliff put in a quick call to Burbank. He was told to await a reply. Hanging up the receiver, Cliff remained in the back room. In the minutes that followed, he sized the situation. The game was panning out as he had anticipated. Orders from The Shadow had indicated what might happen.

Clyde Burke had reported contact between Joe Cardona and Duff Corley. Cliff had been set to watch Duff; he had found him at Red Mike’s. Duff had contacted with a mobster; orders received, he had taken time out to call Joe Cardona.

Playing the part of a stool, Duff had pleaded with Joe to stay away. Evidently the detective had agreed not to approach too close. Duff had left in satisfied fashion. His destination — unquestionably the one ordered — was a house with green lights.

The bell of the pay telephone commenced to ring while Cliff was engaged in reverie. The Shadow’s agent seized the receiver. He heard terse instructions from Burbank. Cliff was to pick up Duff’s trail.

That was easy. Sobo’s pawn shop was only half a dozen blocks away. Leaving the cigar store, Cliff moved rapidly along the intervening thoroughfares. He was in the heart of the badlands, the district where danger lurked, despite the occasional presence of a bluecoat.

But Cliff knew this terrain. More than that, he was versed in the ways of the underworld. His pace slackened as he neared the block he wanted. Cliff lounged along as he passed Sobo’s corner hock shop.

He paused to roll a cigarette as he passed beneath a lamp light. Cliff was playing a part of a chance passer; but he kept his face turned downward. He lighted the fag as he moved along; as he flicked the burnt match to the gutter, Cliff stared shrewdly through the darkness.

Houses here were dilapidated structures. There were alleyways and openings between them. All looked alike as Cliff approached; then one — across the street — displayed the distinctive difference that he wanted.

The front of the house was black. But there were dull lights shining from gloomy windows at the sides. A chance observer would scarcely have noted those rays; for they were barely visible from the opening of a narrow alleyway. To Cliff, they were a signal; the same beacon that had drawn Duff Corley.

The lights in the windows were green. Heavily shaded, they gave no idea regarding the interior of the house. There was something ominous in that fact. The dweller in the house had lights showing; but the lights revealed nothing. Open, yet secret. That was the impression that Cliff gained.

In idling fashion, Cliff crossed the street. He chucked his cigarette as he reached the curb. Pausing in his slouching gait, Cliff swung into the alleyway beside the house. Above him, more than head high, he could see the glow from the dim green lights.

Then Cliff stopped short. Crouching against the moldy brick wall, he dug hand in pocket and drew an automatic. Tensely, he waited, unwilling to make another move. Somewhere ahead, deep in the darkness of the alleyway, some unseen enemy had made a false move.

A slight footstep — just enough to reach Cliff’s ears. That had been the warning. Instinctively, Cliff knew that his approach had been spotted. Danger was impending by the house with the green lights.