The Cobra

CHAPTER XIV CLIFF PLAYS HIS PART

ONE hour after The Shadow’s departure from the Blue Crow, Cliff Marsland entered an obscure cigar store and found a telephone booth in a deserted corner. The night was yet young. Cliff, despite the fact that he had learned nothing in the underworld, was putting in a routine call.

Cliff dialed a number. He heard the ringing over the wire. Then came a click; after that, a quiet voice:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Marsland,” replied Cliff. “No report.”

“Instructions.” Burbank’s tone was solemn. Cliff listened to the words that followed.

Orders from The Shadow!

As Cliff heard them come in Burbank’s quiet tones, he stared in amazement. In all his career as an agent of The Shadow, he had never received instructions such as these.

As Burbank continued, Cliff’s eyes brightened. He began to see the purpose behind it. His head was nodding instinctively. His jaw was set as Burbank concluded.

“Instructions received,” affirmed Cliff.

Walking from the cigar store, Cliff thrust his hand in his trousers pocket and brought forth a roll of bills. He had a good supply of cash with him tonight — sufficient to command respect at the Nugget Club, where only those with bank-rolls were received.

With his other hand, Cliff reached to his hip, where he had an automatic in readiness. Shoving the bank-roll back in his pocket, he strolled along to a busy street on the fringe of the badlands. There he hailed a passing cab. The driver blinked as Cliff gave an address.

The cab pulled up beside an old garage. Cliff entered. A watcher eyed him. Cliff paid no attention to the fellow. He strolled to the rear of the garage and reached a door. He pressed a push-button. A buzz sounded; the door opened to show a flight of stairs.

Cliff went up. He reached a door where a little peephole opened. An eye surveyed him. The door opened. Cliff entered to meet a stocky, sharp-eyed fellow in tuxedo.

“You’re Cliff Marsland,” stated this man. “Been here before.”

“Right,” declared Cliff.

“Go on in,” ordered the watcher.

CLIFF grinned as he entered a swanky, well-carpeted room with luxurious furnishings and hanging curtains. Despite the precautions here, this place could be easily entered if one used craft.

The Shadow, for instance, would have no trouble eluding the watcher in the garage and picking the locks on the two inner doors. Cliff’s smile denoted anticipation.

Voices were coming from an archway on the right. Cliff entered to find a dozen men assembled along a long mahogany bar. Some were attired in tuxedos; others in street clothes.

Two men who recognized Cliff waved a greeting. Cliff responded. He strolled to the far end of the bar and took his position there.

The Nugget Club was a gambling joint frequented only by mobsters of class. No ordinary gorilla could wander into these preserves. The passport was money. Cliff could see the barkeeper eying him. As Cliff pulled his bank-roll from his pocket, the man turned away, satisfied.

Slot machines were in operation at the end of the room. Silver dollars were in play. Cliff smiled to himself at the thought of these wise crooks trying to beat a game as crooked as their own.

While he stood at the end of the bar, Cliff took in the layout of the room. There was a door at the further end; that door was seldom used. It could be reached from the big room, close by the spot where Cliff had entered the door with the peephole.

After a brief study of the door, Cliff turned is attention to three men who were standing near the center of the bar. One was “Duster” Corbin, bodyguard and right bower of King Zobell, the big-shot racketeer. Despite the low growls of the conversation, Cliff could make out what it was about.

The two men to whom Duster was talking were applicants for the job that Duster wanted filled. King Zobell needed a new bodyguard. Duster was demanding qualifications. He was getting boastful replies.

“Say” — one of the men raised his voice — “who do you think it was that put away Crazy Louie? I was the guy that did it.”

“Crazy Louie?” The other applicant snorted. “Say — he was bugs. Listen, Duster. If you’re looking for a guy that’s worth a grand a week, you’d better talk to me. I’m worth twice that dough, easy — but because it’s you, I’ll listen.”

“Ease up,” ordered Duster. He was a stocky, heavy-browed fellow whose scowl was a warning. “I’m not figuring on what you’ve done. What I’m after is a guy that’s not scared of anybody. Get me? That includes all.”

“You mean The Shadow?” quizzed one of the applicants. “Say — that guy would be my ticket. Show him to me and I’ll—”

“Phooey,” interposed the other job-seeker. “The Shadow is a has-been. Nobody worries about him anymore. You mean The Cobra, don’t you, Duster?”

“I mean anybody,” asserted Duster, with a growl. “I want a guy that’s got nerve — like I’ve got. I passed a job to Diamond Rigler and I’ve got another job just like it — for the right guy—”

DUSTER’S voice broke off. With it came a lull throughout the room. To the ears of the dozen men assembled there came a chilling sound that broke with sinister foreboding.

It was a weird utterance long feared in the underworld; one that had been derided of late. But as that token of sardonic mirth manifested itself, Duster Corbin, along with the two behind him, dropped away from the bar in sudden terror.

The laugh of The Shadow!

Fierce mockery, delivered with a sneering whisper, it rose to a shuddering crescendo. All eyes turned toward the spot from which the laugh had come. That was the door at the end of the long barroom. With involuntary haste, these big fellows of the underworld raised their arms.

Guns lay ungripped in ready pockets. Not one man tried to draw. A dozen paling faces showed twitching lips while bulging eyes stared at the black-cloaked figure that had entered.

With burning eyes that peered from beneath the brim of his low-turned slouch hat, The Shadow was watching every man in the room. From his black gloved-hands projected huge automatics. The very sight of those guns brought fear.

The Shadow’s laugh ended. Weird echoes seemed to linger. Then came a sneering voice, in a tone that resembled a magnified whisper.

“You speak of The Shadow.” The words were mocking. “I am The Shadow! I am here to meet those who think they do not fear me.”

With this statement, The Shadow moved slowly forward. Boastful mobsters cowered. Braggarts were silent. Every man could see those gun muzzles looming toward himself.

Every crook felt the burn of The Shadow’s eyes.

“Who dares to meet me?” The Shadow’s tone was scornful. “Now is his opportunity. Let him speak for himself!”

As The Shadow paused, Cliff Marsland calmly edged one hand below the level of the bar. He drew his automatic from his pocket. He hunched his body backward as he rested the barrel on the woodwork. With steady, calculated aim, he pressed the trigger.

WITH the unexpected roar, The Shadow staggered. His gloved hands dropped as his tall figure broke toward the door. Rising to full height, Cliff Marsland flashed his gun and fired a second shot that burst with a long flame.

The Shadow leaped headlong through the door, swinging the barrier as he fled.

Cliff delivered two quick shots that splintered the woodwork of the door. Then, with a ferocious leap he cleared the bar, thrust the barkeeper aside and dashed in pursuit. He yanked open the door and emptied his gun down the passage which The Shadow had taken.

The room was in a clamor. Every petrified mobster was leaping to action. Revolvers were flashing. Men reached the spot where Cliff was on guard; others dashed through the archway that led to the head of the stairs. There they found the watcher groggy as he lay slouched against the wall.

Pursuit was too late. The Shadow, though obviously wounded by Cliff’s first shots, had made his escape. Would-be pursuers were returning to the barroom. There they found Cliff Marsland reloading his automatic.

“The Shadow!” jeered a gang leader. “He was trying a comeback. Say — here’s the guy that showed him where he stands. Give me your mitt, there, Marsland.”

Others were offering their congratulations. Cliff received them in indifferent fashion. Among those to shake his hand was Duster Corbin. King Zobell’s right bower turned his head toward the two men with whom he had been talking.

“Scram, you punks,” he ordered sourly. “Afraid of nobody, eh? Why didn’t one of you take a chance when The Shadow showed up?”

The rejected applicants sidled away. Duster gripped Cliff by the arm and drew him away from the congratulating throng.

“I’ve heard of you, Marsland,” declared the heavy-browed gun handler. “Now I’ve seen what you can do. You had me beat. I was standing there like a dummy while you took a plug at The Shadow!”

“I didn’t drill him,” commented Cliff, in a disappointed tone.

“You nicked him,” asserted Duster, “and you’re the first bimbo that ever beat him to a shot. Put it there — and listen” — Duster’s voice became a buzz — “how would a job with one grand a week suit you?”

“I could use it,” affirmed Cliff.

“It’s yours,” rejoined Duster. “You’re on — new body for King Zobell. You’re going over to his place with me tonight.”

FIFTEEN minutes later, Duster Corbin and Cliff Marsland sauntered from the Nugget Club. Acclaim from the men remaining was still ringing in Cliff’s ears.

The Shadow, jealous of The Cobra’s rising power, had attempted a comeback. Cliff Marsland had achieved the hitherto impossible. He had put The Shadow to flight.

Cliff grinned grimly as he clambered into a cab with Duster Corbin. He had reason. At The Shadow’s bidding, he had aided in the duping of a dozen witnesses. Cliff had played his part to perfection.

The carefully aimed shot that he had delivered was well calculated. Cliff had sent it a full foot wide of The Shadow’s body. The Shadow’s stagger had been a well-feigned pretense.

The second shot, delivered to the top of the door through which The Shadow was passing was another token of Cliff’s ability to miss the mark which others thought that he had hit. Again, The Shadow had made a deliberated plunge.

Tonight, The Shadow had deliberately arranged to injure the fame which he had gained. There had been method in his action. What The Shadow had lost, Cliff Marsland had gained. Through his sudden fame, he had gained the berth as King Zobell’s new bodyguard.

King Zobell would be The Cobra’s next prospective victim. Through some crafty plan, The Cobra would manage to meet King Zobell on his own ground, in the presence of his friends.

Two could play at that game. With Cliff Marsland working for King Zobell, The Shadow could match The Cobra by appearing when he chose. Cliff, as inside man, would pave the way.

What was The Shadow’s purpose? Why did he desire a direct meeting with this strange character whose purposes were apparently as just as The Shadow’s own?

Only The Shadow knew!