The Golden Quest

CHAPTER III. CROSS TRAILS

MANHATTAN’S dusk had become evening’s darkness. Times Square was again a mass of glitter that gave the false impression of a city widespread with light. For New York, despite the brilliance of its centers, harbored spots that were dark with menace.

Such was an alleyway within the borders of the underworld. There, darkness was jet. Shuffling forms were barely discernible as they headed into the little cul-de-sac. This alleyway was the entrance to a dive frequented by mobsters. A place called “Louie’s Joint.”

An opening door sent a wedge of light out into the alleyway. The door closed; darkness returned. Then came another arrival; again a brief flash of light. Louie’s Joint had gained another customer.

Inside that barring door was a smoke-filled room, where rowdies sat about at battered tables. The raucous gibes of hoodlums showed that some of the throng were merry. But in one corner of the room, hard-faced men were engaged in serious conversation.

Half a dozen in all, this group was discussing news that had come along the “grapevine.” One big fellow, a dock-walloper called Jeff, was making comment while the others listened.

“It don’t sound likely that Bugs Barwold is back in town,” commented Jeff. “You can’t count on the grapevine all the time. You know how it is — any heel can gum the works by starting off some hokum.”

“Yeah,” growled a listening mobster.

“But one thing’s sure,” continued the big dock-walloper. “If Bugs is around, he’ll be up to see that moll of his. The one that works at the Club Renaldo.”

Nods from the gang. One man alone did not join. He was a chisel-faced chap who sat directly opposite Jeff. The dock-walloper noted that this man had not nodded. He put a query to the chisel-faced listener.

“What about it, Cliff?” demanded Jeff. “Ain’t I right? Wouldn’t Bugs roll in to see the moll?”

“He wouldn’t go to the Club Renaldo,” returned the man addressed as Cliff.

“Right,” came a comment.

Jeff grinned. The dock-walloper had an answer to the statement. He looked at the chisel-faced man. Cliff Marsland was something of a hero in the bad lands. He was known as a killer; yet one on whom the bulls had pinned nothing. Jeff wanted to impress Cliff Marsland.

“Bugs don’t have to go to the Club Renaldo,” explained the dock-walloper. “All he’s got to do is stop off at the next street. There’s an alleyway through to the club. See? And he could send some mug in with a message to Trixie Lango — that’s the moll’s name — and Trixie, she’d come out, after her number. Get it?”

“I didn’t know about that alleyway,” admitted Cliff. “Do you think Bugs would risk it, though?”

“He might,” returned Jeff, “but it’s going to be tough if he does. He ain’t the only bird that knows about that back entrance.”

“You mean Chuck Haggart does?”

“Sure!” Jeff chuckled as he reached for a bottle and a glass. “Chuck’s wise. And he’s figuring the grapevine ain’t phony. He’s going to be there with his mob, to chop Bugs down.”

“Where’d you get the dope, Jeff?” inquired a mobster.

“Never mind,” returned the dock-walloper. “Just lay that to the grapevine, too. I’m wise, that’s all. Well, boys, here’s to Bugs Barwold — the guy that’s going to take it.”

NOT long afterward, Cliff Marsland strolled from Louie’s Joint. The little gathering had broken up. But Cliff had not forgotten Jeff’s comments. Cliff had been piecing facts. He had come to definite conclusions.

A feud existed between “Bugs” Barwold and “Chuck” Haggart. Both were rival mobleaders; thugs who would loose killers at the service of any high bidder. Some months ago, these two had engaged in open conflict.

The break had come when Bugs had put himself in wrong with the police as well as with Chuck. Pressed by the law, Bugs had taken it on the lam after pulling a job. New York had remained too hot for a return; but matters had simmered down since then. The law was sufficiently lulled for Bugs to risk a return.

But all the while, Chuck had been promising vengeance against the lamister. Bugs, in his final whirl of crime, had muscled in on a racket with which Chuck had been engaged. Chuck was the leader of a dozen gorillas. Every torpedo in his outfit had been instructed to hand death to Bugs Barwold, on sight.

Cliff Marsland was never too sure of the underworld rumors that came along the grapevine telegraph. But with doubtful reports, he had gleaned actual facts. He was sure that if Bugs Barwold did return to Manhattan, the mobleader would most certainly head for that street in back of the Club Renaldo.

That, too, was sufficient to mean that Chuck Haggart would have gunners in readiness. Mobsmen would be stationed in anticipation of Bugs Barwold’s return. Where mobsmen were on hand, trouble might break loose. That fact concerned Cliff Marsland.

For, despite his feigned part as a killer, Cliff Marsland was actually a man who battled crime. He was an agent of The Shadow, stationed in the underworld to watch the moves of mobsmen.

Though The Shadow frequently let mobster hordes fight their own battles, it was his policy to combat them whenever they ventured from their underworld dives. If Chuck Haggart had a squad up by the Club Renaldo, The Shadow would certainly ordain some measures to counteract the crooks.

As Cliff passed along a gloomy, deserted street, a stoop-shouldered man sidled suddenly into view. Cliff caught sight of a sharp, wizened face. It was “Hawkeye,” former denizen of the underworld, now in The Shadow’s service.

“Spot anything, Cliff?” came Hawkeye’s hoarse query, as the little man moved alongside.

“Yeah.” Cliff’s rejoinder was brief. “Bugs Barwold may be back in town. Chuck Haggart has it in for the guy.”

“Don’t I know it?” queried Hawkeye. “Listen, Cliff; Chuck’s torpedoes are on the move.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. But they’ve got some spot where they’re going to lay for Bugs.”

“Up in back of the Club Renaldo?”

“What makes you think that, Cliff?”

“That’s where Trixie Lango works.”

“The moll that used to pal with Bugs? Say, Cliff, that’s a sure tip! That’s where Chuck will post the crew. I heard one of the gorillas say something that fits with it.”

“Let’s have it, Hawkeye.”

“This was it. The guy said: ‘Bugs won’t go in there himself. He’ll send somebody. So whoever sticks outside is the bird we’re to get.’ That’s what I heard, Cliff, but I couldn’t figure what place they meant.”

“They mean an alleyway in back of the Club Renaldo, Hawkeye. Here — dodge out of sight. I’m going ahead to put in a report.”

AT the very moment when Cliff and Hawkeye were separating temporarily, a strange scene was beginning in another spot of Manhattan. From jet darkness came a click. A bluish light appeared above a polished table. White hands came into view. The Shadow was in his sanctum.

Long fingers opened an envelope. From it came a folded sheet of paper. Inked lines in vivid blue; coded words that faded as unseen eyes read them from above the light. A laugh came from darkness. The Shadow had perused the report from Rutledge Mann.

The hands drew Harry’s pad from the envelope. Marks were plain on its surface; but they were illegible.

The Shadow laid the pad on the table. A box came forward in his hand. The Shadow opened the lid. He sprinkled a black powder — fine graphite — over the surface of the topmost sheet.

Fingers rubbed powder into paper. Magically, the graphite found the depressions in the sheet. Like carbon impressions, words appeared. The Shadow read the notations that James Jubal had made. A telephone number; an address; the time of an appointment: 10:30.

Again a soft, weird laugh. The Shadow had linked these traces of Jubal’s writing. He had learned where the swindler intended to be tonight. There was time for The Shadow to go to the same destination.

A tiny bulb glowed from the far wall. The Shadow reached for earphones. A quiet voice came over the wire — that of The Shadow’s hidden contact man.

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Marsland—”

Steadily, Burbank gave information which he had just received. The rumors of the grapevine; the possibilities of killers being posted near the Club Renaldo — these demanded orders from The Shadow.

Instructions came.

In a strange, sinister whisper, The Shadow ordered Burbank to make a return call to Cliff. The underworld agent was to cover Chuck Haggart’s mob. With Cliff, Hawkeye was to take up duty. The pair would await The Shadow.

For The Shadow knew that if Bugs Barwold came to the vicinity of the Club Renaldo, his visit would be a late one. Probably not until after midnight, when the floor show would be ended at the Club Renaldo.

Thus The Shadow had ample time to look in on the doings of James Jubal.

Cliff and Hawkeye were going on duty that was no more than a precaution for the present. Should a gang feud, starting, jeopardize the safety of innocent persons in the neighborhood of the Club Renaldo, prompt work by The Shadow’s aids would scatter the trouble-making mob.

Should underworld hordes lie latent until after midnight, The Shadow, by that time, would be present in person to command the vigil of his agents. This might well prove to be one of those many incidents wherein The Shadow figured. A stroke to show evil rats that they should confine their own quarrels to the bailiwick where they belonged.

Instructions given to Cliff and Hawkeye, The Shadow paused. He was studying the situation as it concerned Bugs Barwold. The Shadow knew the repute of that missing mobleader. A crook with wild notions, Bugs had, nevertheless, indicated canniness in the past. Would he be fool enough to risk this trip back to Manhattan?

The Shadow laughed. He was thinking of Chuck Haggart. There was another cagey customer. Would Chuck be fool enough to think that Bugs would come back to see his moll? Or was Chuck, a mercenary killer, merely using Bugs Barwold as a pretext to cover up some job for which he had been hired?

The Shadow saw a significance that had escaped Cliff Marsland. A possibility that meant need for added precaution.

Taking the earphones, The Shadow called Burbank. This time he whispered instructions for Harry Vincent. He was putting a third agent into that beleaguered territory behind the Club Renaldo.

Earphones clattered to the wall. The bluish light clicked out. A swish denoted The Shadow’s departure from the sanctum. A strange laugh filled the room, then faded into awesome silence.

The Shadow had left one trail — Chuck Haggart’s — to his agents. He had taken a second — that of James Jubal — for his own duty. He had just time to reach Rex Brodford’s house before ten-thirty.