The Ribbon Clues

CHAPTER I. FROM THE WATERFRONT

MURKINESS lay thick above the river piers. Blanketing night, accompanied by a gathering fog, had lowered a pall upon this portion of Manhattan. The lights of passing ships gleamed halolike from blackened waters, while the still, chilled air quivered with the husky blares of steamboat whistles.

Two men were standing at the entrance of a decrepit pier. Overcoats muffled about their throats, they were watching the grimy hulk of an old freighter as chugging tugboats warped the ship in beside the dock.

The two men, themselves, were well obscured by darkness. They were close beside stacked boxes that had been unloaded from a truck. They considered themselves unseen; were positive that they remained unheard.

“Watch for the gangplank, Markham,” spoke one, a stocky individual, whose growled voice sounded like an echo from a deep-throated river whistle. “When it lowers, we move on.”

“We’re going aboard?” queried Markham.

“I am,” informed the first speaker. “But you’ll stay on the dock.”

“All right, Joe.”

A PAUSE followed; yet in their brief conversation, the two had given clues as to their respective identities. The stocky man who had spoken first was Detective Joe Cardona, ace sleuth of the New York force. At present, Cardona was serving as acting inspector; his companion was his most reliable subordinate: Detective Sergeant Markham.

Dock hands were busy with hawsers. The freighter had been nosed well in beside the pier. Dull letters against its scarred bow showed the name Tamalpais. Delays in the mooring held back the lowering of the gangplank. Cardona delivered an impatient growl.

“A crack-pot idea in my opinion,” expressed the ace detective. “Coming down here to quiz a mug who’s got no record. But you can’t argue the commissioner out of anything. We’re here to have a talk with this fellow Dave Callard, whether it amounts to much or not.”

“You said that Callard was pinched in China,” reminded Markham. “Served time there, didn’t he? That gives him a record, doesn’t it?”

“Not to my way of thinking,” retorted Cardona. “If I was the commissioner, I’d concentrate on crooks who’d done something in the U.S.A. But the commissioner has gone goofy over this international stuff, ever since he came back from that trip to South America.”

“It sounds sensible enough, Joe. There’s some pretty smart eggs that come in on those boats.”

“Sure they do. But this Dave Callard isn’t in their class. It was adventure that got him into trouble; not crime. He landed in a mess in China and got a one-year rap for it. The American consulate fixed it so he was let loose at the end of about six months.”

“Why didn’t they get him off in the first place?”

“A lot of complications. He took a boat up the Yang-tse River and cleaned out a bunch of river pirates. He must have done the job too strong; anyway, he pulled it in Chinese territory and they jugged him in Canton. Grabbed his boat and all his property.”

“Commissioner Weston had all the details, Joe?”

“Pretty much. Some official down in the Canal Zone found out that Callard was aboard the Tamalpais when it came through the locks. Sent word up to the commissioner. That’s why we’re here. Just to find out what Dave Callard intends to do in New York.”

As Cardona finished his statement, a clatter came from the side of the docked ship. The gangplank was being lowered. Cardona nudged Markham. The two strolled forward. Their footsteps died upon the timbers.

Up from behind stacked boxes popped a white, wizened face. Shrewd eyes watched the detectives; then a stoop-shouldered figure moved from its hiding place. Cardona and Markham would have been astonished had they realized that this listener had overheard their conversation.

Particularly so, because they would have recognized the face of the hidden spy. The stoop-shouldered man with the crafty visage was known as Hawkeye. He was one of the smartest spotters who had ever prowled the badlands of New York. Tonight, he had chanced to see Cardona and Markham heading for the waterfront. Hawkeye had taken up their trail. Sneaking to the cover of the boxes, Hawkeye had learned the mission that had brought the two detectives here.

UP by the side of the Tamalpais, Cardona and Markham had stationed themselves near the gangplank.

They were watching, ready to accost the first person who came from the freighter. Members of the crew were in view; but they were busy and did not notice the two men on the pier.

The first man who walked down the gangplank was a rugged, square-shouldered fellow who looked like anything but an ordinary crew member. On the hunch that this was Dave Callard, Cardona stepped up and blocked the lower end of the gangplank.

“You’re a passenger on this ship?” queried the detective, flashing his badge.

A hard smile showed on the man’s rugged face. The expression was a sour one, followed by a chuckle and a headshake. The man drew back his own coat to give a momentary flash of a badge that he himself was wearing.

“Customs inspector,” announced the man from the boat, identifying himself in a gruff tone. “You’re from headquarters?”

Cardona nodded.

“Who are you looking for?” questioned the man on the gangplank, speaking in a low tone.

“Fellow named Dave Callard,” informed Cardona. “Thought maybe he was a passenger aboard.”

“None on this ship. But I think I know the fellow you want. He shipped aboard as a crew member. Listen” — the informant stepped from the gangplank and buzzed in Cardona’s ear — “slide aboard and go to the captain’s cabin. Tell him you want to talk to Cady. Have him summon Cady from the forecastle.”

Cardona nodded and stepped aside. The square-shouldered man strolled toward the shore end of the pier. Apparently his duty on the Tamalpais was ended. Cardona told Markham to watch the gangplank.

That arrangement made, Joe went aboard to find the captain’s cabin.

It was Hawkeye, crouched by his stack of boxes, who made the next observation.

Hawkeye saw the man slip one hand beneath his coat and pluck away a glittering object which he dropped into his pocket. It was the customs inspector’s badge. Hawkeye heard a harsh chuckle of satisfaction as the man strode by the boxes. Hawkeye knew the answer.

This was Dave Callard. The man from China had pulled a bluff at the gangplank. He had been ready for the watchful detectives. He was already increasing the speed of his pace.

Hawkeye waited, sure that Callard would glance back. The man did so; then kept on ahead. That was Hawkeye’s cue. The stoop shouldered spotter scudded out from behind the boxes and took up the trail.

CALLARD was heading for a street that led away from the waterfront. Hawkeye saw him edge rapidly by a corner light. Quickly, the trailer made for that spot; paused there and waved an arm to signal someone in the darkness. Lights clicked on from a taxicab parked against a building front. A starter responded; the cab shot forward. Catching a new signal from Hawkeye, the driver swung up and rounded the corner to follow Callard. Hawkeye slouched rapidly after the cab.

The move was too late. Halfway up the block, Callard was stepping aboard a cab that he had found there. The door slammed; the farther cab pulled from the curb. The cab that Hawkeye had summoned stopped short; the driver peered from the window. Hawkeye arrived on the run and clambered aboard.

His driver took up the trail.

Crouched at the front window, Hawkeye’s hands were clamped just above a license holder that bore a photograph of the driver and also listed the man’s name: Moe Shrevnitz. Like Hawkeye, Moe was determined to keep Callard’s cab in sight.

As they sped along through twisting streets where traffic was light, Hawkeye gave the news that he had heard pass between Cardona and Markham. Moe Shrevnitz nodded his understanding.

For these two men were yoked in a common cause. Hawkeye and Moe were agents of The Shadow, that strange, mysterious fighter whose long, far-reaching fingers kept touch with every pulse beat of impending crime.

Callard’s cab had reached an elevated structure and was speeding northward beneath the pillars. Moe was half a block behind, keeping hard on the trail.

Streets passed in rapid succession. Suddenly, the cab ahead swung to the right. Hawkeye, his face almost in the front seat, uttered a sharp ejaculation to Moe.

“He’s spotted us!” was Hawkeye’s hoarse exclamation. “Must have seen us tailing him at the start. That’s why he’s turning off!”

Moe had swung the corner while Hawkeye was speaking. They roared through a narrow street. Callard’s cab had increased speed; it was turning right again at the next avenue, doubling back beneath another elevated railway.

Moe stuck to his task and kept up a threading trail as the cab ahead took to side streets.

It soon became apparent that Callard must have given his driver a new address. The fleeing cab was keeping in and about a section near Twenty-third Street, twisting back to streets that it had traveled before. Spurting to a lead of a full block, it rounded a corner. Moe Shrevnitz spied a motion of the door as Callard’s cab took the turn.

“He’s dropping off,” informed Moe. “That’s what he’s doing. Going to leave me an empty hack to follow—”

“I’m dropping, too,” broke in Hawkeye. “Hit the corner slow, Moe.”

MOE complied. Hawkeye pushed open a door and sprang to the curb. Moe opened up around the corner; Hawkeye reached the edge of a building and peered along the darkened side street.

He could see Callard’s cab less than a block ahead, with Moe speeding after it. Hawkeye took to the side street, ducking from doorway to doorway as he moved forward.

Suddenly the spotter stopped. A man was coming cautiously in his direction. Hawkeye waited a few moments, then sneaked in pursuit. He saw Dave Callard come beneath the light of a corner street lamp.

The man turned to the right. Hawkeye trailed him, keeping up a crafty course for a full block. Callard was reaching a lighted district. Hawkeye crouched by a large rubbish can as the man stopped and looked about.

Lingering, Hawkeye saw Callard enter a lighted doorway. Hawkeye moved forward and reached the spot himself. Looking up, he saw an electric sign and made out its name despite the fact that a third of the incandescents were unlighted:

Hawkeye slid across the street and observed the restaurant from that perspective. Chinese characters showed against the dull light of grimy windows. The Wuhu Cafe was obviously a Chinese restaurant of mediocre quality.

Hawkeye headed for a neighboring cigar store. He entered the place, found a telephone booth and dialed a number. Across the wire came a quiet, steady voice:

“Burbank speaking.”

Hawkeye was in communication with The Shadow’s contact agent. Burbank, posted at a secluded spot, was the man who kept in touch with active agents. Briefly, Hawkeye told of watching Cardona and Markham; then added what had followed.

“We trailed Callard to a chop suey joint,” concluded the wizened-faced spotter. “Place called the Wuhu Cafe. Looks like he’s in there now.”

“Report received,” came Burbank’s calm reply. “Move farther away from the district. Call for instructions in ten minutes.”

Hawkeye hung up and left the cigar store. He shuffled along for two blocks; then loitered as he neared a drug store. He had picked the drug store as the place from which he could make his next call. Idling, Hawkeye moved away from a street lamp and lighted a cigarette.

The flicker of the match showed a pleased smile on the crafty lips of the little spotter.

From now on, the watching of Dave Callard would be continued by one far more proficient than Hawkeye. The Shadow would soon assume the duty that his agent had begun.