The Golden Grotto

CHAPTER XII THE SHADOW LISTENS

AT eight o’clock the following evening, Maurice Traymer entered the magnificent apartment house where Anthony Hargreaves lived. Traymer was a lone visitor tonight. No lecture was scheduled until the morrow.

Maurice Traymer was a frequent and welcome visitor at the Hargreaves apartment, for the young society man represented the elite. What he lacked in wealth, he made up in social position. It was Traymer’s close association with Hargreaves that had inspired Professor Sheldon’s derogatory remarks concerning the self-made millionaire.

It was nearly an hour afterward when Traymer came from the apartment house. He summoned a taxicab, and gave the driver an address. Within a few moments the vehicle was rolling southward along Park Avenue.

Traymer threw a glance from the rear window as his cab passed the first corner. He saw that the street was clear behind him, and he settled back upon the seat with a suave smile. He did not, however, notice what occurred just after the cab had passed the corner. Another taxi started from the curb. It had been waiting there.

Several blocks along, Traymer’s cab turned eastward. The other taxi followed some distance behind. When Traymer alighted from his vehicle, the second cab had stopped in the rear, and the society man did not observe it as he stepped to the curb.

The rest of Traymer’s progress was made on foot. His destination was an old hotel east of Park Avenue — a building which had long since lost its prestige. The dilapidated lobby was a lounging place for idlers who were easily recognized as men of the underworld.

Maurice Traymer approached the desk and spoke a few words to the solemn-faced clerk. The man picked up a telephone and uttered a few low monosyllables. He nodded, and Traymer ascended the stairway. The elevator was not in operation.

TRAYMER’S destination was the second floor. He stopped before a closed door and knocked. The door opened inward, and Traymer found himself confronted by a stocky, beefy-faced man, who was attired in a garish dressing gown.

Recognizing his visitor, the man stepped aside, and Traymer entered. The door closed behind the pair.

“Hello, Norbin,” said Traymer quietly.

“Hello, Traymer,” growled the fat-faced man.

Traymer and Norbin took chairs. The society man drew a cigarette from his case and lighted it. He looked about for an ash tray in which to deposit the burned match.

“Throw it on the floor,” said Norbin.

Traymer complied. He noticed that the floor was strewn with cigarette and cigar stumps as well as burned matches. This was a contrast to the furnishings of the room, for there was nothing cheap about those arrangements.

Fine items of furniture, expensive Oriental rugs — these constituted the appointments of Norbin’s abode. The arms of mahogany chairs were nicked where careless persons had scratched them with knife blades. The beautiful rugs were scruffed and marked with many burns.

“Looks funny, eh?” questioned Norbin, as he saw Traymer’s moving gaze of inspection. “Well, it doesn’t bother me. This swell layout was the wife’s idea. She and I broke up three or four months ago. So I just let the junk lay. She used to fuss so much about scratches on tables, and cigarette butts laying around, that I just let things ride after she went.”

With this brief expression of his sentiments, Norbin arose and kicked a light table across the room. He grinned as he saw the ornamental piece of furniture smash against the wall; then he strode to the door, opened it, and peered into the hall. Satisfied that no one was outside, he returned to his seat.

Maurice Traymer smiled suavely as he witnessed the outburst. It was characteristic of the man whom he was visiting. “Beef” Norbin — the fat-faced ruffian disliked the nickname — was a gang leader of the most vicious type. What he lacked in cleverness, he possessed in determination. He ruled mobsters with an iron hand, and his methods were marked with gross brutality.

Beef Norbin was one of several gang leaders who made their headquarters in this decadent hotel. They were wolves of the underworld, who had their own particular purposes, and who never interfered with each other. Allied with big shots, they waited until called upon to act.

Maurice Traymer thought of the lobby through which he had come. Those loungers were mobsters — and woe betide any one who might try to enter without the permission of the clerk. The guardians of the lobby worked in a common cause. Different gang leaders contributed to their maintenance.

TRAYMER’S picturing of the vigilant watchers was curiously incorrect at that precise moment. Down in the lobby, the impossible was happening. Some one was entering the place unobserved!

One could not have said that a man had walked by the scattered watchers; for the unseen visitor was virtually invisible. The only sign of his presence was a shadowy blotch that moved across the tiled floor. The person, himself, did not come in view. His tall figure blended perfectly with the dim, unlighted wall away from the center of the lobby.

The Shadow had entered the old hotel. He had passed a handful of mobsters, unseen, unheard, and almost unnoticed. Only one man had an inkling of his presence. The clerk, glancing toward the bottom of the stairway, caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy silhouette moving upward on the bottom steps.

The clerk blinked; then shrugged his shoulders. He fancied that his imagination had been at work. Caution, however, predominated. He beckoned to one of the lounging mobsters, and pointed toward the stairway.

“Better make the rounds, Doc,” he said. “Thought I saw a guy going upstairs.”

“You’re goofy,” grumbled “Doc.”

Nevertheless, the summoned gangster headed upward. He reached the top of the stairway, and peered toward Beef Norbin’s door. He turned, suddenly, fancying, like the clerk below, that he had seen a fleeting shadow on the floor.

Drawing a revolver from his pocket, Doc went along the corridor and stopped as he neared the half-opened door of a hall closet.

If a man had been in the corridor, this would be his logical hiding place. Doc, the gangster, had a way of dealing with hiding places. He placed one hand upon the knob of the door, gave a quick yank, and at the same time set his finger against the trigger of the gun. Shots meant nothing in this hotel — and a quick one was the easiest way to deal with any skulker.

The shot was never fired. A black-gloved hand acted with greater speed than did Doc’s trigger finger. A swift fist shot from the darkness of the closet and cracked the gangster’s chin with the force of a trip hammer. Doc crumpled.

A black-cloaked figure came from the closet. A minute later, the gangster lay bound and gagged, stowed away in the closet. The Shadow picked up the gleaming revolver and gave a whispered laugh as he slipped the weapon beneath the folds of his cloak.

The Shadow moved along the corridor and paused at the door nearest to the entrance of the room where Norbin and Traymer were in conference. A black-gloved hand applied a tiny keylike instrument to the lock.

An almost inaudible click followed. The door opened, and The Shadow stepped into a darkened room, where only a thin shaft of light showed from a partly opened door at the end of the wall.

Gliding silently through the darkness, the black-cloaked figure reached the lighted spot, and became invisible against the wall of the room. This was another room of Beef Norbin’s suite. Through the half-opened door, The Shadow could hear what went on in the next room.

THERE, Beef Norbin and Maurice Traymer were commencing a low-voiced conference. The fat-faced gang leader was chewing on the end of a cigar, and mouthing his comments with an angry snarl.

“I’m telling you, Traymer,” he said, “there’s going to be trouble if we run into another mess like last night. I’m going through with my bargain — but I’m thinking of all concerned.”

“I quite agree with you,” responded Traymer suavely. “There is certain to be a change in plans, because of what has occurred. It was very unfortunate that you encountered trouble. The newspapers are filled with the account of the kidnaping. Fortunately, only dead servants and gunmen were found. This is the first case in which we have encountered notoriety. However, Norbin, I feel that you were much to blame.”

“Yeah?” questioned Norbin. “Why!”

“Because when you encountered resistance,” declared Traymer, “you should have been more efficient in dealing with it. Why did you abandon the stolen car upon the dock?”

“You ask me that?” growled Norbin. “Listen, Traymer. I’ll tell you why. You don’t know what happened out there. Do you know who it was that started that gang fight?”

“Who?” quizzed Traymer.

“The Shadow!” asserted Beef. “The Shadow! That’s who!”

“The Shadow!”

Traymer’s echo came in a tone of amazed understanding. This was his first direct contact with the man who had been in charge of operations at the Cathcart estate.

“That makes it different, eh?” Beef Norbin could see the effect of his statement upon Traymer. “You don’t need to answer that one. You know it makes it different. You want to hear the whole story?”

Traymer nodded.

“First of all,” said Norbin, “it was lucky that you knew I was out in Jamaica with the mob. That made us close to the place where we were going. I figured that getting there ahead of the girls was better than waiting until after they got home. So we slid in and bumped off the two servants for a starter.”

“Was it necessary to kill them?” questioned Traymer.

“Why not?” retorted Beef. “They can’t squawk now. You know how his nibs thinks about it. There were plenty of knock-offs aboard the Patagonia, weren’t there?”

“Go on with the story,” suggested Traymer, in a noncommittal tone.

“We were waiting for the car with the girls,” resumed Norbin. “All of a sudden, shooting starts in the house. I didn’t know what it was about, and I didn’t have time to find out. The car with the two girls was coming up the drive.

“So I made for the car with some of my men, figuring the rest could take care of whatever happened in the house. The chauffeur would have got away, if he hadn’t been yellow. I bumped him off, and we began to climb aboard.

“But the trouble in the house was The Shadow! How he got there, I can’t tell you. Anyway, he knocked off the mob like they were clay pigeons. Not only that — he got loose and began firing at us. I saw my men dropping off the running boards. He’d have got me in another minute. I shot away with the car.”

“Didn’t The Shadow fire after you?” questioned Traymer, in a surprised tone.

“No,” rejoined Beef, with a pleased grin. “That’s where I guessed it right. I took a chance that he’d be thinking of the girls, and I let that old bus ride. If he’d plugged me, we’d all have been killed. So The Shadow let me get away — and two of my gorillas with me. But I knew that wasn’t the end of it. He’d be coming after me.”

“So that’s why you left the car on the dock!”

“Sure thing. I had a head start, and the boys back at the house made enough trouble to slow up The Shadow, even though he got them instead of them getting him.

“When we got to the dock, I wasn’t taking chances. The old scow was there, and we shoved the girls aboard and followed. We got going plenty fast. I saw The Shadow come up — but by that time we were half a mile out in the Sound.”

“And then?”

“I dropped off the boat with my gorillas. We weren’t suppose to be on it at all. I didn’t want the boys to know where the boat was going. The guy that was running it handled the job. We had the girls tied up — it was easy enough for him to make the trip by himself.”

A LONG pause followed. Maurice Traymer was reviewing Beef Norbin’s account. When the society man made no comment, the gang leader put in a few remarks of his own.

“The other jobs were easy,” declared Beef. “We went haywire on this one. That’s why I don’t want to see any more like the ones plans were made for. I’m not the boss, but I’d like to see it quits. If this keeps on—”

“The police are in it now,” agreed Traymer.

“Phooey for the cops,” returned Beef Norbin. “It’s The Shadow I’m thinking about. Once he’s on the job, it’s curtains if you don’t think quick. I’m wondering how he wised up.”

“There can only be one more job,” remarked Traymer quietly.

“Yeah?” The news seemed good to Beef. “How’s that?”

“I stopped in to see Hargreaves,” explained Traymer. “Naturally, he was all upset about this notoriety in the daily newspapers, because the reporters found out that the girls had been attending a lecture at his apartment.”

“It don’t hook him up with the mess,” objected Norbin.

“No, certainly not,” agreed Traymer, “but it will hang a gloom over the lecture program. Hargreaves is going to urge every one to come to the lecture tomorrow night; but that will be the last event on the program.

“He intends to ask Professor Sheldon to end the course — or at least to postpone it indefinitely. He’s going to take that cruise that he was talking about, and he’ll invite every one to go with him.”

“How soon?” asked Norbin.

“As soon as possible,” explained Traymer. “You see, his plans for the cruise had been very vague, and he had issued no invitations. Talking with me, however, he decided that it would be a good idea to invite the entire group.”

“Say” — Norbin was enthusiastic — “if Hargreaves puts that through, it’s going to be sweet! No need for any more work around here. There won’t be any one left to go after—”

“If it goes through,” interposed Traymer, “matters will be just as you say, unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless certain members of the lecture group decide not to go on the yacht cruise.”

“There’s some that aren’t going to be touched, anyway.”

“Certainly. They do not matter. But suppose that three — or two — or even one — should decide not to go along. That would mean work for tomorrow night.”

Beef Norbin settled back into his chair.

“That’s easy enough,” he said. “I’m ready. You’ve got it doped right, Traymer. Polish off the loose ones tomorrow night — if there are any of them. Then a duck for cover, and go ahead with the big job as planned.”

“With two objectives,” said Traymer, with a smile. “The capture of the persons who are still required and—”

Norbin nodded; then his face showed a frown.

“It’s good, but is it O.K.?” he questioned. “You aren’t running this racket, Traymer, any more than I am.”

“Think it over, Norbin,” responded Traymer, rising from his chair. “The more you figure it, the more you will see that it’s the only logical plan. It is sure to be the final decision.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Norbin. “Well, Traymer, I’ll hear from you tomorrow night.”

Three minutes later, Maurice Traymer made his exit through the lobby of the old hotel, with no one questioning him. Shortly after his departure, a shadowy blotch glided across the floor of the same lobby, unnoticed by the clerk or the lounging gangsters.

A TALL, vague figure appeared momentarily beside the glow of a street lamp. Then the grotesque form disappeared into darkness, and the low mockery of a whispered laugh sighed through the silence of the night air.

Tonight, The Shadow had listened. Like Maurice Traymer and Beef Norbin, he would be ready tomorrow night!

Last night, two girls had been kidnaped. Elise Cathcart and Gale Sawyer were prisoners — held for some unknown reason. The police knew of their disappearance; but the law had no cognizance of others who, The Shadow believed, had also fallen into the same snare.

Were Muriel Hastings and Joan Foxcroft actually in Bermuda? Had Roy Darwin and Clayton Peale taken the trips which Anthony Hargreaves had stated?

If six members of the group that assembled for Professor Sheldon’s lectures were gone — two following each function — it was logical to suppose that others might be sought. The Shadow had heard plans discussed tonight, by two men who were concerned with sinister schemes.

Tomorrow night would be The Shadow’s turn. He would see where new danger threatened. Then would he learn the source of crime. New battles were brewing, and The Shadow was forearmed!

The chain of evidence was growing stronger. East Point, where Harry Vincent was still carrying on his investigations silently, was the starting point of this complex situation. Ensuing events tended to disclose nothing more to lead to it.

Yet, despite the promise of action elsewhere tomorrow night, Vincent’s work, too, seemed to be bearing fruit.