The Cobra

CHAPTER IX THE SHADOW ENTERS

WHILE Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona were following The Cobra’s lead to the dilapidated abode of Old Growdy, Cliff Marsland was on the job at the Black Ship.

The Shadow’s agent had picked a hot tip. When Heater Darkin and his crew forged forth on crime, the underworld invariably found much to talk about. Buzzing rumors usually preceded Heater’s expeditions; and it was one of these that had caused Cliff to report to The Shadow.

Heater Darkin, himself, avoided the Back Ship, but the notorious dive was a rendezvous for his henchmen. Cliff Marsland, seated near the side door, had spotted four gangsters whom he knew were with Heater Darkin. Nevertheless, as ten o’clock approached, the men remained idle.

This perplexed Cliff. It began to worry him. This quartet of mobsters represented less than half of Heater Darkin’s contingent. None of the others had appeared. Cliff wondered where they could be; and he decided to find out.

There was something in Cliff Marsland’s bearing that marked him apart from the crowd seen in the Black Ship. Cliff was as firm-jawed as any gangster; but there was an intelligence in his expression that placed him out of the gorilla class.

This had its effect upon the mobsmen whom Cliff Marsland met. They recognized him as a superior.

Hence when Cliff arose from the table where he was sitting and sauntered across the room, the men whom he approached looked up in greeting. Puffing at a cigarette, Cliff did not appear to notice any of them until a tough-faced rowdy gripped his arm and leered a welcome.

“H’ar’ya, Cliff.”

Cliff had anticipated this. Nevertheless, he turned with feigned surprise. The man who had caught his arm was “Bullet” Conray, one of Heater Darkin’s lieutenants. He was the very man whose attention Cliff had sought to attract.

“Hello, Bullet.” Cliff spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, “Didn’t notice you sitting here. How’s everything?”

“O.K.,” growled Bullet. “Sit down, Cliff. Have a drink. Wotcha been doin’?”

“Taking it easy,” returned Cliff, seating himself at Bullet’s table. “Looks like you’re doing the same.”

Bullet laughed. The man showed the effect of liquor that he had been drinking. Cliff’s reminder caused him to push glass and bottle aside.

“I’ve had enough,” he grunted. “So’ve the other boys sittin’ around here. I may get the word any minute now — an’ it ain’t good judgment to show up crocked when you’re workin’ for Heater Darkin.”

CLIFF made no comment. He was lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one. His silence seemed critical. Bullet Conray became apologetic.

“I lay off the grog,” he said, “when I go out on a job. But tonight’s kinda different. Me an’ these other guys — we’re just waitin’ here until we get a call from Heater. He ain’t usin’ a full crew tonight.”

Cliff nodded as though he understood. Bullet reached for glass and bottle; then pushed the articles aside.

“Had enough,” he insisted. “I don’t want Heater to be sore. Maybe he’s goin’ to call me — maybe he ain’t. It all depends on how much swag he gets. These gorillas here are waitin’ for word from me. They don’t know where Heater’s gone; but I do.”

“Raiding a warehouse, eh?” prompted Cliff. “Say — when you’ve got to call in a fellow to lug away the swag, it’s a big job.”

“Warehouse?” Bullet snorted. “Say, Cliff” — the tone was becoming confidential — “you ought to know that Heater Darkin don’t go in for rackets like that. He’s got somethin’ big on tap. I’m tellin’ you.”

Bullet was reaching for the bottle. Cliff, in matter-of-fact fashion, plucked it away to pour himself a drink. Bullet grinned. Cliff had saved him the trouble of denying himself another drink. Impressed by Cliff’s nonchalance, Bullet resumed his confidential tone:

“You know who Old Growdy is, don’t you?”

Cliff nodded in reply.

“Well, he’s the guy that Heater’s takin’ tonight.” Bullet’s grin widened as the gangster spoke. “Nobody ever thought of tappin’ Old Growdy, did they?”

“Why should they?” Cliff seemed unimpressed. “The old geezer’s got nothing.”

“Yeah?” Bullet laughed. “Well, that’s where you’ve been fooled, Cliff. Fooled like the rest of ‘em. It took Heater to get wise. Old Growdy’s got a gold mine in that shack of his. Heater’s goin’ to get it.”

A pause; then Bullet added:

“Gold hoardings, Cliff. A lot of silverware, that’s real stuff. Heater’s wise to plenty. Old Growdy’s got a regular mint in his cellar. When Heater finds the storeroom, he’s goin’ to call here — over Old Growdy’s own phone. I’ll bring the gang to help haul the swag.”

Licking his lips, Bullet reached for bottle and glass. This time he poured himself a drink. It steadied him for the moment. Bullet stared suspiciously at Cliff.

“You’re stickin’ around here, ain’t you?” he questioned.

“Sure thing,” rejoined Cliff. “Why?”

“Well” — Bullet was speculative — “maybe it ain’t wise to talk the way I just done. That’s all. I wouldn’t have talked, maybe, to nobody but you, Cliff.”

“Listen, Bullet.” Cliff’s tone was firm but low. “I didn’t ask you to talk. What you told me doesn’t mean anything to me. I work on my own — and I don’t go after tinware. Get me?”

Bullet nodded.

“I’m here for the night,” resumed Cliff. “If Heater’s job goes blooie, it won’t be on my account. But I’m giving you some advice. If you’re going out to haul swag, you’d better be sobered up. Take a walk — you and the rest of your crew.”

WITH this statement, Cliff arose. He clapped Bullet on the shoulder and laughed. Apparently, he and Bullet had been exchanging jests.

From the corner of his eye, Cliff noted the others who were members of Heater Darkin’s corps. Like Bullet, they were showing the effects of liquor.

Strolling across the room, Cliff neared the side door and sat down to chat with a flat-nosed mobster whom he recognized. This fellow was not one of Heater Darkin’s men. While he talked, Cliff watched Bullet Conray.

The gang lieutenant had remembered Cliff’s advice. He was on his feet. Staggering slightly, he was approaching the men who formed his crew. The group talked.

Bullet and two others arose and made for the side door. Cliff knew that Bullet must have instructed the fourth member of the crowd to be on hand for the phone call. Bullet and the other pair were going out for air.

Cliff’s right hand was in his side pocket. His fingers gripped a short, two-inch pencil and pressed its point against a tiny pad. Secretly, Cliff was writing a brief, coded report. He released the pencil. He pulled the top sheet from the pad and crumpled it into a pellet. Holding the tiny ball between his fingers, he arose from the table.

Bullet and his companions had gone outside. The last man was staring stolidly across the room. He was not noticing Cliff Marsland. Lighting a cigarette, Cliff strolled to the side door and opened it. He stepped into the darkness of an alleyway.

Bullet and his companions were forty feet away, Cliff could hear their voices down the alley; by peering from the edge of the doorway, he could glimpse the glowing ends of their cigarettes. To the right of the doorway was the blackened niche of a boarded window. Glancing in that direction, Cliff saw nothing but darkness.

Yet he sensed that a personage was waiting in that gloom. Cliff raised his cigarette to his lips with his left hand and gave short, quick puffs as a signal. In his right hand, he held the burnt match; with it the little paper ball. Reaching into darkness, he released both objects.

Beneath his hand, Cliff felt a slight swish of air. It was the only token of an unseen presence. Cliff knew that his coded message and the match had dropped into the hand of an invisible watcher. In accord with Burbank’s order, Cliff had passed the word to The Shadow.

Cliff swung back into the Black Ship. He dropped at the lone table which he had first occupied. He poured out half a glass from his bottle and held the little tumbler in his hand. Slowly, his shoulders began to slouch.

A few minutes later, Bullet Conray entered. The sojourn in the fresh air had steadied the gang lieutenant and his two gorillas. Glancing warily about the room, Bullet spied Cliff.

The Shadow’s agent was hunched in his chair. His left arm was stretched across the table. On it lay Cliff’s head, twisted sidewise. With outspread fingers, Cliff’s right was clutching its half-emptied glass.

Bullet Conray laughed.

“Look at that guy,” he snorted. “He told me a walk would do me good. He needs one himself — but he don’t look like he’d be able to take it.”

Ceasing his banter, Bullet drew his men to the table where the fourth member of the crew was sitting.

“Outside, Curley,” he ordered. “Time you sobered up, too. Lay off the booze, you guys. I’m waitin’ for a call — an’ we’re goin’ to move when I get it.”

Another glance at Cliff. Bullet leered contemptuously. To all appearances, Cliff was out. Bullet’s suspicions were completely ended. He believed that Cliff had probably forgotten all that he had heard; of a certainty, Cliff was in no condition to repeat or make use of anything that Bullet had told him.

If Heater Darkin should encounter trouble tonight, it could not possibly be of Cliff Marsland’s making. So Bullet Conray reasoned, totally oblivious to the fact that Cliff had already passed the word!

ONE block from the Black Ship, a fleeting patch of blackness passed beneath a blinking street lamp. A cloak swished as a living form sought the shelter of a doorway. A tiny flashlight gleamed upon a crumpled scrap of paper that lay in a black-gloved hand.

The keen eyes of The Shadow were reading Cliff Marsland’s coded message. The flashlight went out. A whispered laugh sounded while gloved fingers tore the slip into tiny bits.

Each lamp along that street showed a passing splotch of black. The Shadow, informed of the spot where crime was due, was on his way to Old Growdy’s.

It was a dozen minutes after ten o’clock when keen eyes peered toward a block of old and dingy buildings. Between these dilapidated structures was a passage of cracked cement. As The Shadow watched, he saw a square-set man pause at the entrance to the alley, then pass on toward the other side of the block.

The Shadow knew the identity of this watcher. A detective from headquarters. Some tip must have been received there that Old Growdy was in danger. The Shadow was unperturbed. The forming of a police cordon did not hamper his plans for the present.

Swiftly, the tall form glided across the street. It reached the cement passage. The Shadow moved noiselessly through the dark. He reached the back of a house which he knew to be Old Growdy’s.

A squidgy sound came from the wall. The Shadow, equipped with suction cups attached to hands and feet, was rising to the second floor. Crawling upward, The Shadow reached his goal. His form showed like that of a mammoth bat, clinging to the surface in the gloom.

Window fastenings yielded noiselessly. The Shadow’s form moved over the sill. From the second floor of Old Growdy’s obscure home, The Shadow was ready to begin his exploration in search of crime.

Somewhere in this house, Heater Darkin was at work. The Shadow was out to find the spot. He was planning a new and daring counter-stroke against fiends of crime.

Yet even The Shadow did not know the surprising events that were already in the making!