The Chinese Disks

CHAPTER VIII. TWO TRAILS

NIGHT covered Manhattan. Twelve hours had passed since Diamond Bert Farwell had left the clanging doors of the State pen. Swiftly and in expert fashion, the slippery crook had disappeared. He had headed, without question, for one objective: New York.

The metropolis, with its maelstrom of humanity, was Diamond Bert’s logical goal. There his hidden organization awaited his arrival. There, lost among the teeming multitudes, he could find a place of security as headquarters for the campaign of evil that he planned.

Like a pebble dropped into a lake, Diamond Bert was gone. After him had plunked another human pebble: Hawkeye. The man upon whom Slade Farrow relied as a trailer was also missing since early that morning.

A taxi was rolling along a side street north of Times Square. It came to a halt in front of a tall but antiquated building. A neon sign, two of its letters blank, proclaimed this structure as the Hotel Rotunda.

A passenger alighted from the cab, hoisted out a heavy suitcase, paid the driver and entered the hotel.

When he reached the desk, this arrival inquired for a room with bath. He scrawled a name on the register. The clerk read it as Horace Darnley. Glancing up, he viewed the new guest. The man was of squatty build; his face, though pleasant and rotund, carried a singular hardness that showed in the light.

A bellhop carried the newcomer’s bag into the elevator. The man removed his hat; and the clerk caught sight of a bald head. Darnley turned toward the door of the elevator; the clerk saw his face again. This time he noted the man blink his eyes as he looked toward the light. The door of the elevator closed. That was the clerk’s last glimpse.

There had been a certain oddity about Horace Darnley’s manner; but the clerk soon forgot the fact. The man had appeared as desirable as most of the guests who came to this decadent hotel. So the clerk took it for granted that he was actually Horace Darnley, from Boston. He would have been quite amazed had any one told him the true identity of the new guest.

The man who had just registered at the Hotel Rotunda was Diamond Bert Farwell. His choice of the name Darnley had been a haphazard one; but the use of Boston as his supposed home city had been governed somewhat by his day’s travels. After leaving the pen, the ex-convict had headed toward the Massachusetts metropolis; but he had finally branched off, boarded a train at New Haven, changed to bus at Bridgeport and come in from the Bronx by elevated.

In all these shifts, Diamond Bert had taken it for granted that some one might be on his trail. Crafty and alert the moment that he had retained his freedom, the smart crook had done his utmost to throw off any follower.

Yet he had failed in his endeavor. Five minutes after Diamond Bert had ascended in the elevator, another man approached the desk of the Hotel Rotunda. This arrival was a small, frail fellow, whose face immediately attracted the clerk’s attention.

WIZENED in countenance, the man seemed prematurely old. His skin was colorless; only his eyes gave him expression. They were sharp and beady; as quick and certain as the eyes of a dangerous snake.

This man picked up a pen and poised it above the hotel register. His shrewd eyes spotted the name of Horace Darnley. They also saw the number of the room that the man had taken. It was 1215. The man glanced toward the clerk.

“How about a room, bo?” he questioned. “Got any that end with the number 13? That’s my lucky number.”

“Eight thirteen,” responded the clerk.

“Not high enough,” snapped the little man. “Go up a few notches if you want me to sign up. I’m particular.”

“Eleven thirteen,” said the clerk. “Twelve thirteen—”

“Sold,” broke in the registering guest. “Twelve thirteen is my ticket. Let’s have it.”

He scrawled a name on the register. The clerk peered over the desk and saw that the man had no luggage.

“Two dollars for the room,” he said. “Payable in advance, for those who have no baggage.”

Before the clerk had finished, the new guest brought out a thick roll of bills. He peeled two ones from a batch of fives, tens and twenties. He threw the two dollars on the desk and picked up the key that the clerk presented. He headed for the elevator while the clerk was still trying to calculate the size of the bankroll that he had seen.

The clerk figured there was something unusual about the beady-eyed guest; and he was right in his assumption. This man who had talked his way into Room 1213 was a capable artist in his chosen line.

This was “Hawkeye,” the trailer whom Slade Farrow had put on the path of Diamond Bert.

When he reached Room 1213, Hawkeye unlocked the door with caution. He closed it softly behind him; then sneaked across the patched carpet of the floor. Already, he could hear the sound of a voice beyond the connecting door that joined this room with 1215.

Hawkeye’s room was dark, save for the glow that came in from the city lights. That illumination was sufficient to show the crafty grin on Hawkeye’s face. Judging from the tone of the voice that he heard, Hawkeye knew that he was close to Diamond Bert.

ALL day, Hawkeye had kept up his chase of the ex-convict. Twice he had tried to put in a long distance call to New York. Both times, Hawkeye had been forced to pass up such opportunity in order to resume the trail.

He had ridden in from the Bronx on the same car that Diamond Bert had taken in the el train. He had alighted at the same station; he had watched the ex-convict hop a cab. Hawkeye had caught the repetition of Diamond Bert’s order when the driver had repeated it. He had heard the name: “Hotel Rotunda.”

By rights, Hawkeye should have called Slade Farrow. But the trailer feared that the stop at the hotel might be a short one. So he had hot-footed it to the same direction. Playing hunches, he had gained the room next to Diamond Bert’s.

Hawkeye could not make out what the crook was saying. Diamond Bert’s call ended as he reached the connecting door. Then came another call, a mumbled number. A short interval; then Diamond Bert began to talk to some one. This time, Hawkeye made out words.

“Called an hour ago, eh?” Diamond Bert was questioning. “Wanted to know if you’d heard from me… Yes… Well, I guess he’s all right, whoever he is… Yes… When he calls again, tell him to go down to Howey’s…

“You know the place… Sure, the old house he used to live in, before he took it on the lam. Yes, he owned the place. I’ve been keeping it up for him… All right, Yocum. Tell that bird if he calls again…”

Yocum. Slade Farrow had mentioned the name to Hawkeye. He had spoken of an appointment with Diamond Bert to be made through Yates Yocum. Hawkeye had never heard of Howey; so he had no idea where the house might be.

Diamond Bert, apparently, would be going there. Perhaps not for a while yet. Hawkeye was counting upon an opportunity to slip out and call Farrow. Then the opportunity faded. Hawkeye heard footsteps in the next room. The outer door opened. Diamond Bert was leaving.

With Hawkeye, the keeping of the trail was vital. The little man moved to the door of his own room and went out into the hall. He gave Diamond Bert enough leeway to reach the elevators. Hawkeye arrived there just as a door was closing. Two elevators were in operation. Hawkeye was lucky enough to catch the second one half a minute later.

Reaching the street, Hawkeye spotted Diamond Bert half a block away. He took up the trail and followed the crook to a subway entrance. He boarded the same train that Diamond Bert took. He alighted at the same station.

The trail led eastward. Diamond Bert proceeded on foot, heading through a dilapidated district. All the while, Hawkeye followed, turn by turn, street by street. The trailer was determined to spot the crook’s destination.

WHILE Hawkeye was prowling through dingy streets, another personage was taking up the trail of Diamond Bert. A light was gleaming in The Shadow’s sanctum. The Shadow was awaiting news.

On his table lay reports; with them, notations that The Shadow himself had made. The Shadow had communicated with Slade Farrow through Rutledge Mann. His orders had been simple. Farrow was to remain where he was; to make no move whatever. His one duty was to report any word from Hawkeye, by telephoning his information to Rutledge Mann.

A light glimmered from the wall beyond the table. A tiny bulb, announcing a call to the sanctum. The Shadow plucked earphones from the wall. He spoke in a whisper that echoed through the gloomy room.

Burbank’s voice responded.

“Report from Vincent,” came the contact man’s voice. “Another call to Yocum. He has heard from Bert. Directions: first alleyway below the Elite Garage on Marwell Street. Door at the end of the alleyway. Come immediately.”

“Report received,” whispered The Shadow.

Earphones clattered. The little bulb went out; then a click extinguished the bluish lamp above the table. A swish; a whispered laugh. The Shadow had departed from his sanctum.

Marwell Street. A short, little-frequented thoroughfare on the fringe of an undesirable district. It would be easy to find the garage that Burbank had mentioned. The Shadow was going to the appointed destination.

Diamond Bert had made a rendezvous with Slade Farrow. The in-between contact was Yates Yocum, a man to whom Farrow had been required to give no name. So The Shadow had left the job of calling Yocum to his agent, Harry Vincent. Harry had gained the required information. He had called The Shadow, through Burbank.

TWENTY minutes after The Shadow had left his sanctum, a splotch of blackness glided beneath the dull light of a street lamp. Just ahead was the brick, windowless wall of the Elite Garage. Then came a faint swish in the darkness. Keen eyes peered into the entrance of an alleyway.

The Shadow had arrived at the location named by Yocum. Stealthily, he moved forward in the darkness.

As he reached the innermost portion of the blind alley, he stopped. Unseen, he stood against a wall.

Some one was entering the alleyway, stumbling through the dark.

Muttering curses, this arrival reached a spot near to The Shadow. He opened a door, the very one that The Shadow sought. A glimmer of light revealed a rough, unshaven face. It showed a sweatered figure as the man stepped through the opening. The door swung shut; but not all the way. A chink of light showed at the edge. The Shadow glided forward.

Peering through the crack, The Shadow saw the rowdy standing in a small, lighted entry. Straight ahead was a second door, sheathed with metal, that displayed a peephole in the center. The sweatered man was holding the palm of his hand toward the hole. A moment later, the inner door swung open. A second gangster joined the first.

The two spoke. The Shadow could hear their growled words. He also saw the arrival pass something to the man who had stepped out. A dull glint in the light revealed the object as a metal disk.

“The trick’s yours, Hunky,” said the man who had stepped from the inner door. “I’ll be back in the morning. If anybody shows up, make ‘em flash the coin.”

This was evidently a reference to the Chinese disk. It had been the token of admission for “Hunky,” the new arrival. He had given it to the man who was going off duty. That fellow would need it to identify himself in the morning.

“O.K., Luke,” said Hunky. “Say — has anybody gone in to-night?”

“Only Tam Sook,” returned Luke, as he moved toward the outer door.

“He shows up every night, don’t he?” questioned Hunky.

Luke paused to grin.

“Sure he does,” he returned. “Why shouldn’t he? This is his joint, ain’t it?”

“It’s supposed to be. But I can’t figure it. That Chink’s got a place of his own, down in Chinatown. What’s he want to come up here for? With guys like us watchin’ his place?”

“Search me. But what’s the good of talkin’ about it? You’re gettin’ your dough, ain’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Then don’t squawk. When Tam Sook comes down, keep your mug shut. He’s your boss. He goes in an’ out when he wants.”

“O.K. by me.”

The Shadow drew back into darkness. A moment later, the outer door swung open and Luke stepped into the alley. The Shadow waited until the gangster had blundered through the darkness, past the old garage.

Hunky was the new inner guardian. The Shadow wanted to allow time before entering. It would be a mistake to appear too soon after Hunky had gone. Meanwhile, The Shadow was considering the case of Tam Sook.

HE had heard of this Chinaman. Tam Sook was a prosperous Chinese merchant. One whose name had never been connected with crime. But it was plain now that Tam Sook had been a secret agent of Diamond Farley. As Wang Foo, Diamond Bert had gained contacts with Chinamen during his checkered past.

Tam Sook had provided this place. He had been making visits. He was inside at present. Those facts brought The Shadow to a single conclusion. This house, with dilapidated walls three stories high, could be the hideout that Diamond Bert had chosen. Herein, Diamond Bert would meet Slade Farrow.

The Shadow had come in Farrow’s place. With a reason. That would be apparent later. First, The Shadow must enter. Time had elapsed since Luke’s departure. The Shadow moved forward; then halted and quickly swung back to the darkness.

The door was opening again. A squatty figure blocked the light. The Shadow glimpsed a yellow face, bland above the American garb that the man was wearing. Only for a brief instant did the face show in the light. In that moment, The Shadow recognized the features of Tam Sook.

A frequent visitor to Chinatown, The Shadow had seen the Chinese merchant several times before. He waited while the door swung shut and Tam Sook made his way through the alley. New silence came; The Shadow’s laugh was a mere whispered echo.

Had Tam Sook completed final preparations for Diamond Bert’s arrival? Had Diamond Bert already reached this house? If so, had Luke been instructed not to tell Hunky; or had Diamond Bert come in by a secret entrance? What if Diamond Bert had not yet come here?

These were the questions that had brought The Shadow’s laugh. There was one way to answer them; to keep Farrow’s appointment for him. Whether Diamond Bert had arrived or not, The Shadow could deal with the situation. Three minutes after Tam Sook’s departure, the cloaked observer moved forward and opened the outer door.

The Shadow reached the inner barrier. He peeled the glove from his left hand. The girasol sparkled in the light; then the hand dipped beneath The Shadow’s cloak. It reappeared, holding The Shadow’s Chinese disk. This relic from the old days of Wang Foo was identical with the token that Diamond Bert had given to Slade Farrow.

The Shadow moved to the right of the door. He held the palm of his hand to the closed loophole. Only the disk showed, with its dull red character. The girasol was out of sight, behind The Shadow’s hand.

With his gloved right knuckles, The Shadow rapped sharply on the inner door. The loophole clicked open; an eye spied the disk in The Shadow’s palm. But Hunky, the inside observer, saw no more than the disk within the hand. The closeness of The Shadow’s palm blocked further vision.

The loophole popped shut. Bolts began to click as Hunky drew them. The Shadow’s left hand still remained at the center of the door. But his right hand had taken up another task. Swinging from beneath the folds of his black cloak, The Shadow’s gloved fist appeared with an automatic in its clutch.

His weapon ready, The Shadow was prepared to spring a prompt surprise the moment that Hunky opened the door. The disk had worked its charm. A .45 would do the rest.