The Silent Death

CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW LEARNS

SLIPS HARBECK’S favored underworld resort was a notorious dive known as Red Mike’s. This place, which gained its name from its proprietor, was a meeting place for gangsters that existed under police tolerance. It was an underground speakeasy frequented by those members of the bad lands who were temporarily free from trouble with the law.

“Red Mike,” the owner of the dive, was not a gangster. On the contrary, he did not side with the police.

He knew his customers, and let them come and go, provided that they watched their actions while on his premises.

Hence the police preferred to let Red Mike run his joint; for it served as a constant attraction to mobsters who were wanted by the authorities; and on more than one occasion, observant detectives had picked up known criminals in that vicinity.

Slips Harbeck had chosen Red Mike’s as his hangout because it made an ideal headquarters for the work that he was doing. Slips knew Red Mike, and had access to the telephone that was tucked away in a side room. This enabled him to received frequent messages from Larry Ricordo.

Furthermore, at Red Mike’s, Slips had picked up the gorillas whom he had chosen as his henchmen; and now that his old squad was gone, he was in a position to assemble a new crew of workers.

Immediately after the encounter at Alfred Sartain’s, Slips had scrammed for the security of Red Mike’s.

Well did Slips know the narrowness of his escape. Although he congratulated himself on having evaded The Shadow, he still felt great alarm because he had incurred the enmity of the dread being who terrorized the underworld.

The telephone call which he had received from Larry Ricordo had calmed Slips somewhat. A further message the same night also had a lulling effect.

Since then, two days had passed; and Slips, once more within Red Mike’s portals, was feeling a sense of security and relief.

Fearless though The Shadow might be, Slips knew that the enemy of crime would hardly start a pitched battle in the heart of gangdom. Slips realized a thought that Larry Ricordo had suggested: namely, that he — Slips Harbeck — was certain of security because The Shadow knew he was nothing more than a minor player in the tragic drama that had occurred in Alfred Sartain’s penthouse.

In fact, Slips Harbeck had another worry which troubled him as much as his fear of The Shadow. He had read the newspaper reports of the affray at Sartain’s, and had learned that Duster Brooks had been identified. There was a chance that Detective Joe Cardona might trace Slips as a former pal of Duster’s.

If so, Slips could expect arrest.

ORDINARILY, Slips would have dived for a hide-out under the circumstances. But the complex factors now involved kept him here. He was living in a room above the speakeasy, quartered with Red Mike.

The fact that he never left the premises gave him a feeling of security from The Shadow.

The fact that neither Alfred Sartain, nor Hunnefield, the secretary, had been slain in the penthouse broil, made him belittle the detectives. Only gangsters had died that night. The police were not after a murderer.

Besides these reasons, Slips had another cause for remaining at Red Mike’s. He was still in the secret employ of Larry Ricordo, and the big shot was paying him well. To show a yellow streak and run for cover would automatically end his source of income.

Slips preferred to stay. But he wisely refrained from telling Larry Ricordo of his fears particularly those which concerned the police.

Larry knew that Slips had been a former pal of Duster Brooks; but the gang lord did not know how close that friendship had been. Slips could see no reason for informing Larry of it.

On this night, slouched at a table in a corner of the speakeasy, Slips was playing the part that had been allotted him.

Larry Ricordo had assured him that he would not encounter trouble with The Shadow if he obeyed instructions. At the same time, the gang leader had warned his lieutenant that he might be under observation of an agent appointed by The Shadow.

Slips had two jobs to do: to mislead that agent, and also to learn the man’s identity.

This was a task that Slips had forced himself to accept. He had managed to quell the growing notion that perhaps The Shadow — and not an agent — was watching him. Slips thought of his position, and had gradually convinced himself that he was reasonably safe from The Shadow’s dreaded toils.

Where was Larry Ricordo? Slips Harbeck did not know; moreover, he did not care to know. Ignorance, at times, might prove a protection.

What was Larry’s scheme? That was something which Slips was anxious to learn. He was hoping to hear from Larry tonight.

The patrons of Red Mike’s establishment were constantly under Slips Harbeck’s inspection. It was no breach of speakeasy etiquette to glance at those who entered and left. At the same time it was poor gangland policy to pay too much attention to the business of other people. Therefore, Slips was furtive and somewhat superficial in his observations.

Among the habitues of Red Mike’s, there were more than a dozen who might be there with the sole purpose of watching some one. Slips knew that he could remember most of them by sight; and Red Mike could probably supply the names, if needed. The game was set — by instructions which Slips had received over the telephone from Ricordo.

FINISHING a drink, Slips settled back in a chair and lighted a cigarette. He puffed the smoke through the corner of his mouth, and squinted through the white cloud as he saw Red Mike emerging from the door of the side room. The proprietor was headed toward the spot where Slips was seated.

Red Mike stopped at the table and leaned over to whisper in the gangster’s ear. Slips nodded as he listened; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, arose from his chair.

“Phone call for me, eh?” he asked aloud. “O.K., Mike. I’ll take care of it.”

He started toward the other end of the speakeasy; paused, and returned to gulp the last imaginary drops from his empty glass. He started again in the same direction. Slips was accustomed to wearing a wise grin; hence his face did not betray a fact that he had noticed anything wrong.

While his back had been turned, a man several tables away had risen, and had started for the outer door.

The man was stopping to speak to Red Mike. Evidently he intended to order another drink. Slips noticed his back as he took a chair near the door that led to the inner room. He also observed the man’s face as he passed.

Slips knew that he could remember those features. This man, although hard-visaged and forceful in appearance, seemed of a type superior to the usual gangster. His face was more the countenance of the trained athlete than the physiognomy of a thug.

Slips reached the inner room and closed the door behind him, taking care that it did not latch. The telephone was on the wall beside a tumble-down desk. Slips picked up the receiver and spoke. He recognized Larry Ricordo’s voice.

“We’re ready, Slips,” came the gang leader’s words.

“O.K,” responded the lieutenant.

“Is anybody spotting you?” was Ricordo’s question.

“I think so,” returned Slips. “A guy just outside the door—”

“Great. Repeat things that I tell you. Let him hear you. Use your bean — and don’t mention my name.”

“O.K. Shoot.”

Reaching toward the door, Slips gave the knob a slight pull. The door swung slowly inward, as though by accident. Slips was back at the phone; apparently unconscious of what had occurred.

“Tonight?” Slips Harbeck’s voice carried to the edge of the outer room. “Sure. I’m all set… Sure thing. Give me the lay, and I’ll be there… Yeah, I can dig up three gorillas to go with me… Wait a second. Let me give that name back to you, so I’ve got it straight… J. Wesley Barnsworth. Apartment 636… Langley Court. Yeah, I got that… Seventieth Street, eh? O.K.”

A pause; then Slips laughed coarsely. He began to speak again, paraphrasing words that came from Larry Ricordo.

“Theater, eh? Won’t be back until midnight? That makes it jake for me… Three hours to go… Sure… You know me on the lock stuff… I’ll fix a key before he gets there. We’ll get the lay. Bump him quick… Not a chance after he gets in there… Sure, it’s better inside… Don’t worry about a fracas in the hall. We’ll wait fifteen minutes, anyway, before we go in to plug him… Yeah, I’ll remember that… Pick up any papers that are loose… O.K. We will wait until close to midnight before we blow in…”

Slips hung up the receiver. He paused a few moments; then sauntered out into the large room. He stopped to view the door with a frown. He looked around to see if any one was close by. No one was near, at present. The firm-faced man who had moved over by the door had finished his drink, and was again bidding Red Mike good night.

Slips strolled about the speakeasy and looked over some of the men there. He finally stopped at the end of the room and spoke to the proprietor.

“Say, Mike,” he questioned, “who was that guy that you was just talking to?”

“You mean the poker-faced bird?” responded Red Mike. “Say — you ought to know him, Slips. That’s Cliff Marsland. He was in stir for a couple of years. Mixed up in a big bank job. Comes in here often.”

“I thought I remembered him,” recalled Slips. “Marsland. Sure. I’ve heard of him.”

Ricordo’s lieutenant sauntered back to a table. His face wore a smile more cunning than before. He was sure that he had something now to tell the gang leader — provided that action took place tonight. Slips Harbeck suspected that Cliff Marsland might be an agent of The Shadow.

Slips stayed at the table for several minutes. Then he left the speakeasy. He did not go far. He doubled back through an alley and came into a side door that led upstairs.

Slips was going to his quarters. He did not intend to be abroad tonight. His work was done. That was in accord with Larry Ricordo’s order.

IN his conjecture that Cliff Marsland served The Shadow, Slips Harbeck was correct. The reason for Cliff’s departure was that he had overheard the conversation on the telephone, exactly as Slips had intended. By the time Slips had reached his room, Cliff was three blocks away, headed for a spot where he could telephone the information without observation.

Cliff Marsland, to date, had been a useful under-cover man for The Shadow’s activities in the underworld. Red Mike had spoken the truth when he had stated that Cliff had served time in prison.

What Red Mike did not know— what no one in the bad lands knew — was that Cliff had gone to jail for another man’s crime.

Outside of Cliff himself, only The Shadow knew that fact. He had sworn Cliff Marsland into his service.

With a reputation as a criminal and a killer, Cliff was an ideal man for service in the underworld. Gang leaders had taken him into their service; later, those same big shots had come to grief.

No mob leader had learned Cliff’s secret. A free lance in gangland, Cliff was still an ace in The Shadow’s hand. It had required the perceptive, scheming brain of Professor Folcroft Urlich to bring about the discovery of The Shadow’s agent.

Completely unaware that he had been spotted by Slips Harbeck, Cliff reached his destination and went to a telephone. He called a number and waited until he heard the sound of a quiet voice. Cliff knew the identity of the man at the other end of the wire. It was Burbank, The Shadow’s contact man.

“Marsland speaking,” said Cliff in a low tone.

“Burbank speaking,” came the reply. “Report.”

Briefly, Cliff told what he had learned. Slips Harbeck, whom Cliff had spotted as a trouble maker some time before, was intending a new foray like the one he had made on Alfred Sartain’s penthouse. Tonight, the intended victim was a man named J. Wesley Barnsworth.

Cliff gave the address; the details; and finally explained how he had learned the news. Burbank responded with quiet questions, and finally told Cliff to await a return call. It came, within ten minutes.

“Off duty,” was Burbank’s order.

Cliff smiled as he left the telephone. He knew what this meant. Burbank had relayed the information to The Shadow. That was Burbank’s duty. Sequestered somewhere in New York, often changing his location, the quiet-voiced man was constantly in touch with both The Shadow and The Shadow’s agents.

Cliff had never seen Burbank. He knew him only by his voice. But Burbank, despite his passive part, was an important cog in The Shadow’s machine that ground budding crime to atoms.

On the occasion of Slips Harbeck’s excursion to Alfred Sartain’s penthouse, Cliff Marsland had followed Ricordo’s lieutenant, and had reported to The Shadow. Tonight, the job had been more simple. Cliff had been lucky enough to overhear the plans. No more was necessary.

As at Sartain’s, so at Barnsworth’s. Destiny lay in the hand of The Shadow. Again, Cliff was positive, crime would be defeated. Murder would fail due to the presence of The Shadow.

The master of the night would need no aid. Well did Cliff know that The Shadow, alone, could battle a squad of gangsters more easily than with the help of others.

Victory for The Shadow. That was Cliff’s thought. Tonight’s adventure would be simple for the black-garbed battler. Not for one minute did Cliff suspect a trap.

For Cliff Marsland knew nothing of Professor Folcroft Urlich, the scientist who had turned his cunning brain to crime. Silent death lurked tonight. The Shadow was facing it unwarned!