The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER II. PLANS OF CRIME

PUG HOFFLER and Birdy Zelker were in conference. Seated in a small, dilapidated room off a stone-walled corridor of Red Mike’s dive, these men of crime were discussing the very subjects which Cliff Marsland had heard two gangsters mention.

Pug, an ugly smile upon his battered features, was resting back in a creaky chair at one side of a broken table. Birdy, his ratlike eyes aglow, was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, eagerly awaiting the words which Pug might have to offer.

“I’m counting on you, Birdy.” Pug’s voice, though lacking the slurred jargon of the underworld, was harsh.

“I’ve got the boys I need for the first job. After that, it will be your job to line up a big crew.”

“O.K., Pug,” returned Birdy, with a peculiar whine. “They’s only one thing dat gives me de jitters about dis racket of—”

“Yeah?” interrupted Pug sourly. “What’s that?”

“De way you stand in wrong wid Tex Lowner an’ Rabbit Gorton,” confessed Birdy. “Say — if dose guys have it in for you, Pug, it ain’t goin’ to be healthy to be workin’ wid, you—”

“Scared, eh?”

“Not me, Pug.” Birdy’s tone was hasty. “I’m only t’inkin’ about de guys I’m goin’ to see.”

“Tell them they’ll be safe,” snorted Pug. “When I’m ready for them, I’ll be set. Listen, Birdy. Tex and Rabbit are out so far as I’m concerned. Out— you understand? And they’ll stay out. I’m working on my own — and I’m going after a job that nobody else is figuring on doing.”

“When I get de mob?”

“No. Before that. With the crew I have already. I don’t need a big mob for this pick-up. Listen, Birdy; when you have the crew ready, I’ll pay them in advance. Pay them plenty, if they’ll stick with me.”

“You’ve got de dough?”

“I’ll have it.” Pug eyed Birdy’s beady eyes; then, with a laugh, he pulled a crumpled newspaper from his pocket and smacked it on the table. “Look at that, Birdy.”

The hunched-up mobster obeyed. Pug Hoffler watched him. Both were concerned with the matter before them. Neither saw the face that was staring from the creaky, partly opened door.

They did not know that Cliff Marsland had been listening and now was watching.

BIRDY’S lips were moving as the gangster laboriously read the paragraph in the newspaper. When Birdy spoke aloud, his voice indicated that he did not grasp what Pug Hoffler had in mind.

“What’s de idea, Pug?” quizzed Birdy. “Who’s dis guy Dorand dat nobody knows nothin’ about? I seen somethin’ about him before. De news hounds has been playin’ him up, ain’t dey? What’s dis word here dat dey call him?”

“A philanthropist,” explained Pug, as Birdy pointed to a word in the paragraph before him.

“What’s dat mean?” queried Birdy.

“A philanthropist,” added Pug, “is a man who gives money to people who need it. Some of them hand out the cash to hospitals and schools— or other big places that need dough.”

“Widout people knowin’ who dey are?”

“Not always. But this fellow Dorand is doing it that way. What’s more, he has been working it different from most of them. Look at that newspaper story, Birdy. You’ll see what Dorand’s doing.”

Birdy scowled as he continued to read the paragraph. His eyes suddenly took on a surprised expression.

“Say!” he exclaimed. “Dis guy must be bugs. Here dey let out five hundred workers from dat factory in New Jersey an’ dis guy gives each of ‘em a pay envelope wid a century in it. Say, Pug — how much dough is dat?”

“Five hundred people,” calculated Pug, “with one hundred bucks each. That’s fifty thousand dollars, Birdy.”

“Fifty grand!” Birdy’s tone was filled with amazement. “Say, Pug, dat guy Dorand must have plenty of kale.”

“Don’t bother to read any more of it,” suggested Pug, picking up the newspaper. “I can tell you the rest faster than you can read it. This isn’t the first time Dorand has been loose with his dough. He gave half a grand each to those thirty sailors who came in from that tank steamer — the Bahia — after it sunk off New Jersey.

“That was fifteen grand in one plug. What’s more, he’s been pulling this pay envelope stunt right along. The newspaper here says that he’s passed out half a million all told, and it don’t look like he’s going to quit.”

“How come nobody knows de guy, Pug? When he passed out de real dough—”

“He don’t pass it out himself. He sends the money by messenger to some responsible person with a note asking that guy to do it for him and to tell people that Dorand put up the cash.

“Take that Jersey factory. These five hundred people were ready for their last pay day when some fellow delivered a package to the cashier. He opened it and found the pay envelopes. He gave them out.”

“Why didn’t he grab the dough?” Pug grinned as he saw Birdy’s incredulous look.

“You would wonder about that,” observed the flat-faced ex-convict. “The cashier was honest — that’s all. There was a note signed by this fellow Dorand asking him to dish out the fifty grand. So he did it.”

Birdy shook his head.

“Maybe it’s me dat’s cuckoo,” he declared. “Maybe it’s me. But I still t’ink dis guy Dorand is bugs, too.”

“Maybe he is.” Pug’s eyes glittered as his face assumed a serious expression. “That’s neither here nor there. The big point is that Dorand’s going to supply me with the cash to start a big racket. Get that, Birdy?”

“You mean dat dis guy is goin’ to give you dough?”

“He’s not going to give it to me, Birdy. I’m going to take it. Plenty of it.”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you how. Dorand has been helping poor people right along. Always with cash. No checks to hospitals none of that stuff, like a lot of these big mugs do. Always straight cash, where it counts. He’s liberal and he’s careless.”

“You mean you’re goin’ to be around de next time he forks over de pay envelopes?”

“NO. That wouldn’t work. I’m going to get him before he gives out the cash. Here’s the stunt, Birdy.

Dealing in real dough, the way Dorand does, he’s certainly got to keep a lot of money on hand. All right; I’ll take my picked crew and bust into his place. We’ll walk off with the cash.”

“But how’re you goin’ to do it, Pug, if nobody knows who dis guy Dorand is?”

“Because” — Pug’s face was hardening — “I happen to know who Dorand is.”

Birdy gasped. His jaw fell as his eyes stared.

“I knew about this fellow,” continued Pug, “before I went to the big house. I knew he had money then; I didn’t know, though, how he was going to spend it. While I was doing the stretch, I read the newspapers. They let me have them right along. The minute I saw the Dorand stuff, I figured who it might be.

“I’m working on more than a hunch. I know the place where he lives. His name isn’t Dorand — that’s what fools people. I know who he really is, and I have a pretty good idea of how his home is laid out.

“The best part of it is this. This fellow — let’s call him ‘Dorand’ — is keeping mum on the gifts he makes. Maybe some day he’ll let people know who he is — after he’s given away a million bucks or more. But right now he seems to like keeping himself buried from the public.

“That’s why he’s not worrying about some one like me barging in to rob the place. It’s an easy enough job, if you know the way to it, like I think I do. But no one is tackling it because no one knows it’s worth while. That is, no one but me. Savvy?”

“I get you, Pug,” grinned Birdy. “You’re goin’ to pull a surprise on old million bags, eh?”

“Right,” returned Pug. “What’s more, I’m working it right away. There’s no telling how soon Dorand is going to quit this anonymous stuff. Maybe next week— next month — next year — he’ll come out and let the public know who he is.

“That’s the way a lot of those philanthropists work. They don’t get much excitement started if they come right out in the open with their gifts. But the public falls for this no-name bunk. Then when the time’s ripe, the big guy— like Dorand — picks up a lot of credit when his name becomes known.”

“He’s out the dough,” observed Birdy.

“Sure,” agreed Pug. “But Dorand has plenty of it. He won’t go broke with his hand-outs. Don’t worry about that.”

Pug paused to lean back in his chair. Birdy reflected; then spoke eagerly.

“Say, Pug.” The little gangster’s face expressed his keen interest. “When you pull dis job, you’re takin’ me along, ain’t you?”

“I’ve got my crew all fixed,” returned Pug. “Your job is to line up some gorillas. Once I’ve staked myself with Dorand’s dough, I’m going to ride high.”

“I know dat. But I want to see de way you work. Dat’s goin’ to help me when I pick de guys you want.”

Pug reflected. He began to nod slowly.

“There’s something in that, Birdy,” admitted the ex-convict. “Sure — I’ll take you along when I raid Dorand’s place. You meet up with the gang; I’ve got the spot all set.”

“How soon?”

“To-night.”

Birdy whistled.

“Say, Pug!” he exclaimed admiringly. “You’re a quick worker, ain’t you? Say — where is dis place you’re goin’ to?”

“I’ll tell you, Birdy,” replied Pug, in a confidential tone. “It’s just the kind of a spot that’ll be easy. It’s—”

The gang leader broke off. He stared suddenly at the door. His eyes narrowed as he laid one hand on the edge of the table.

“What’s de matter?” queried Birdy.

“That door,” answered Pug, rising from his chair. “I didn’t figure it was open. Maybe some guy was listening. Wait here, Birdy, while I look outside.”

SPRINGING to his feet, Pug went to the door. He stared suspiciously into the corridor. He motioned Birdy to remain where he was. Leaving the room, Pug closed the door behind him.

There was no sign of any person in the corridor. Pug strolled to the main room of Red Mike’s and walked to the counter. He chatted affably with the big proprietor while he glanced about the room.

Cliff Marsland was seated at one of the tables. The Shadow’s agent had foreseen Pug’s move, back at the little room. Dodging just before Pug had had a chance to spot him, Cliff had doubled on his tracks.

He had reached a table before Pug had decided to investigate the corridor.

Cliff did not excite Pug’s suspicion. Satisfied that all was well, the gang leader strolled back to the room where he had left Birdy. It was then that Cliff, in turn, arose and walked to the counter.

“Say, Mike,” Cliff growled to the proprietor, “where’s Duster Yomer? Hasn’t he been around lately?”

“Not here,” returned Red Mike. “He hangs out over at the Black Ship. Ain’t you been in there, Cliff?”

“Didn’t think of it,” mused Cliff. “Say — maybe I could call over there and get him.”

“Does he answer telephone calls?”

“Sure. When he gets the password. I’ll use your phone, Mike.”

The proprietor nudged his thumb toward a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Cliff walked in that direction. He entered a short corridor and found an ancient coin box in a room which resembled the one where Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker were quartered.

Closing the door behind him, Cliff called a number. With the click of the receiver at the other end, a quiet voice made itself known with these words: “Burbank speaking.”

“Marsland,” returned Cliff. “Reporting from Red Mike’s. Birdy Zelker here with Pug Hoffler. Planning raid to rob philanthropist called Dorand. To-night.”

“Further details?”

“None. I’ll try to get them. Pug knows the place; Birdy doesn’t. I’ll have to trail one or the other.”

“Report received. Await instructions. Repeat call after fifteen minutes.”

Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver and strolled from the room. Burbank, to whom Cliff had been speaking, was The Shadow’s contact man. Messages and reports phoned by The Shadow’s active agents were relayed by Burbank to The Shadow himself.

CLIFF wondered, as he reached a table, what The Shadow’s order would be. Perhaps he would leave this job to Cliff. Possibly he would come here in disguise. More likely, if The Shadow happened to be within Burbank’s reach, he would come and linger outside of Red Mike’s to pick up the trail himself.

As a tracker of suspicious characters, The Shadow was without an equal. Time and again, this master worker who moved with the stealth of night had stalked his quarry through the confines of the underworld.

It was Cliff’s job to stand by, to learn all that he could to aid The Shadow. It would be unwise to return to the little room where Pug and Birdy were, now that Pug’s suspicions had been aroused. Yet Cliff had an itch to do so, for he was positive that Pug was telling Birdy all that he knew about a wealthy philanthropist known as Dorand.

While Cliff was considering the possibility of some action, he saw Pug and Birdy come out from the corridor. There was a wise look on Birdy’s face that signified much. Cliff was positive that the hunched gangster had learned facts from Pug.

Cliff expected the two to leave Red Mike’s. Instead, Pug went out alone. Cliff waited. He was sure that by trailing Birdy he could accomplish as much as by following Pug. A few minutes passed; then Birdy arose and walked into the opposite corridor, toward the telephone room!

This was Cliff’s cue. Birdy had passed Red Mike unnoticed. Rising, Cliff approached the counter as the proprietor chanced to look in his direction. In a growling tone, Cliff announced that his call to the Black Ship had not gone through; that he intended to try calling it again.

As he followed Birdy’s path, Cliff had a hunch that the little gangster was following some order that Pug Hoffler had given him. There was time to catch the beginning of a telephone call which Birdy must be making. Cliff was eager to get in on any information which might be obtainable.

Outside the door of the little room, Cliff paused. He slowly turned the knob of the door. He pushed the barrier ajar. He heard the tones of Birdy’s voice. A look of frank astonishment crept over Cliff’s firm face as he listened to the words that Birdy Zelker was uttering.

In the space of a few brief seconds, Cliff Marsland gained an inkling of astounding facts that he had not suspected!