The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER III. BIRDY TALKS

“HELLO…” Birdy Zelker’s whisper was an anxious one. “Dot you, Joe?… Dis is Birdy… Yeah… I been talkin’ to him… Here at Red Mike’s… Say, Joe, I’ve got de dope on de guy…”

These were the words that caused Cliff Marsland’s astonishment. From the tone of Birdy’s voice, from the explanation which the little gangster was giving, Cliff not only knew the identity of the man to whom Birdy was speaking, he also realized that Birdy was engaged in a game of double cross.

Joe! That was a name which Cliff Marsland knew. It was the first name of Joe Cardona, ace sleuth of the Manhattan force. Birdy’s anxiety to accompany Pug Hoffler on to-night’s job was at once explained.

Birdy Zelker was a stool pigeon!

Having gained details regarding Pug Hoffler’s plans, Birdy was squealing to the police. He was tipping Cardona off to the Dorand business. He had pulled a fast one on Pug Hoffler.

“Listen, Joe.” Birdy’s words were plaintive. “Dey’d get me here if dey knew I was callin’ you. Dere’s plenty of time. I’m waitin’ here a half hour, see? Den I’ll slide out. You pick me up outside of dis place — Red Mike’s. Trail me an’ I’ll tip you off when I’m sittin’ safe. Den we can talk.

“Yeah… Yeah… If anybody sees you trailin’ me, it’ll give me an alibi. See?… Sure, I can laugh it off dat way… I don’t want no one to see me, but if dey do…”

Birdy paused. The little gangster licked his lips as he listened. He was evidently receiving instructions; and as chance would have it, they must have come with an abrupt ending that Birdy understood. Before Cliff realized what Birdy was about to do, the stool suddenly hung up the receiver and wheeled quickly toward the door of the little room.

Cliff, peering through the door, had no chance to dodge. He caught the frightened look on Birdy’s face that came when the stool realized he had been spotted.

As Birdy dropped back instinctively, Cliff acted in opposite fashion. Like a flash, The Shadow’s agent bobbed through the door and, with a sweeping motion, brought a ready automatic from his hip.

Before Birdy could recover from his fright, Cliff was standing with the door nearly closed behind him and was covering the stool pigeon with his .45. Birdy backed against the wall and cowered, hands above head.

IN the brief interval in which he had acted, Cliff Marsland had changed his plan. He held Birdy Zelker at his mercy. As a recognized representative of gangdom, Cliff had every right — by the code of the underworld — to put the stool pigeon on the spot.

He also had the privilege of calling in witnesses to share in his knowledge of Birdy’s perfidy. That would bring the same result; except that less explanation would be necessary on Cliff’s part. The look on Birdy’s face showed that the stool expected Cliff to follow the second course.

Instead, Cliff waited. His face took on a sullen look that indicated a relish of the situation. Birdy cringed hopelessly. His lips moved, but no words came from them. The hunched gangster knew that pleading would be useless.

“Talking to Joe Cardona, eh?” questioned Cliff. “Looks like you were trying to double-cross a pal. You came in here like you were a friend of Pug Hoffler. Nice kind of a rat you turned out to be!”

Birdy licked his lips but dared not speak.

“What’s this dope you were going to hand Cardona?” continued Cliff, indicating clearly that he had overheard Birdy’s end of the telephoned conversation. “Something about what Pug’s doing?”

Birdy found his voice.

“Honest,” he whimpered, “I wasn’t tellin’ nothin’. I was pullin’ a stall— that’s all—”

“Yeah?” Marsland showed sudden shrewdness as he put the question. “Well, if you can stall Joe Cardona, you’re the first stool that ever was able to do it.”

“I ain’t no stool, Cliff,” whined Birdy. “Honest, I ain’t. Say— let me go ahead wid dis. I’m tryin’ to fool Cardona. Honest, I am!”

“To fool Cardona?” snorted Cliff. “You mean you’re trying to fool me. How’re you going to prove that sort of stuff?”

Birdy, cringing, tried to catch some idea to follow up his statement. Seeing the stool pigeon’s effort, Cliff cagily supplied the bait.

“I’ll give you a break, Birdy,” he offered. “Come clean; tell me what you know about Pug Hoffler. Then I’ll let you meet Cardona. I’ll pick a place for you to take him to. I’ll be there — with others — and we’ll hear what you tell him.

“If you stall him — O.K. But if you squeal — it’ll be curtains. You know me well enough. I’ll give you the bump while Cardona’s looking on, if I feel like it.”

The threat seemed certain to Birdy Zelker. The stool pigeon had no suspicion that Cliff’s reputation as a killer was largely synthetic, built up by hearsay so that The Shadow’s agent might rove the underworld in high repute. To Birdy, Cliff was a redoubtable menace. The chance of a life-saving break was something that the stool could not ignore.

“I’ll give you de whole lay, Cliff,” blurted Birdy. “You can check it on me. Honest. Pug is goin’ after a big-money guy named Dorand. Goin’ to grab off a pile of dough to-night—”

“Dorand?” queried Cliff sarcastically. “That’s a phony name, Birdy.”

“Yeah,” admitted the gangster. “I know it. But Pug knows who de guy really it. He knows where he is—”

“Who is Dorand?” asked Cliff Marsland coldly.

Birdy hesitated. Cliff’s glower worried him. The stool knew that he could stall no longer.

“He’s a guy named Satruff,” whined the cornered rat. “Got a funny first moniker. Folsom. Dat’s what Pug told me. He says de guy’s full name is Folsom D. Satruff.”

“And Satruff lives—”

“Out on Long Island. At a place called Garport. I never heard of de joint before. But Pug’s startin’ out dere to-night—”

“At what time?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know, Cliff.” This time Birdy’s whine was begging. “Honest, I don’t know. You can croak me, if I do. Pug told me to slide out ahead an’ wait dere until he an’ de mob showed up.”

CLIFF saw that the stool had told the truth. The problem, now, was what to do with Birdy. Cliff considered. Nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed. A call to Burbank would be in order. There would still be fifteen minutes before Birdy’s set time of meeting with Joe Cardona.

Birdy could not remain here while Cliff called. Nor could The Shadow’s agent trust Birdy out in the large room. Cliff was sure that the stool would slide out; and that if Cardona happened to come along, Birdy would squeal to the detective.

The best plan was to lead Birdy out immediately; to get away before Cardona had a chance to show up.

Then Cliff could stow Birdy in a safe place, under threat, and make his call to Burbank.

It required less than a minute for Cliff to come to his decision; but the seconds, as they passed, were anxious ones to Birdy. Before Cliff had an opportunity to give his orders, the stool suddenly resumed his plaintive whine.

“Don’t tell nobody,” he whimpered. “Don’t let ‘em know I’m Joe Cardona’s stool. De’d put me on de spot sure, Cliff. Dey wouldn’t believe nothin’ I told ‘em. You ain’t goin’ to put ‘em wise, are you, Cliff?”

The stool’s voice had risen piteously. Birdy was staring, terror-stricken, into the muzzle of Cliff’s automatic. Once again, he repeated his shaky plea.

“Don’t tell nobody I’m Cardona’s stool! Don’t tell ‘em I was phonin’ him from here. Don’t tell ‘em I was double-crossin’ Pug Hoffler—”

Birdy’s voice broke off. The stool pigeon’s eyes were glassy. Those transfixed optics were staring straight past Cliff Marsland as Birdy suddenly altered the direction of his gaze.

The whimper died into a gasp. Cliff Marsland, wheeling, saw the reason for it.

The door, previously ajar, had been pushed open. Standing there, his brawny arms akimbo, was Red Mike. Behind the proprietor of the hangout were two tough-faced mobsters.

The three had heard Birdy’s plea. Like Cliff Marsland, they were wise. Red Mike and his pals had listened to Birdy Zelker’s own confession of perfidy.

Whatever chance of mercy Birdy might have gained from Cliff, was ended now that this trio had arrived.

Death was the only sentence the cringing stool could expect.

Birdy Zelker had talked — too much!