While Cardona was planning this procedure, Fritz was shambling along the dismal corridor. The janitor reached a secluded spot. He opened a locker, removed his overalls and placed them on a shelf.
Hands drew black cloth from the locker. Rising arms released a garment. The folds of an inky-hued cloak settled over stooped shoulders. Then a slouch hat topped the bowed head. The faint whisper of a laugh sounded by the locker.
A transformation had taken place. No longer was Fritz, the janitor, in view. In his place stood a tall, spectral being. Burning eyes blazed from beneath the hat brim.
Fritz had become The Shadow!
With gliding, noiseless tread the phantom figure moved from the locker. The whispered laugh was repeated as The Shadow made his way to a side exit. A blackened shape merged with the darkness of a street. From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable.
HALF an hour later, a stalwart man of chiseled countenance entered an obscure store near an East Side elevated. He stepped into a telephone booth and dialed a number. A voice came over the wire:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Marsland,” informed the chiseled-faced man.
“Report.”
“No trace of Beef Malligan.”
“Any signs of Dombo Carlin?”
“Yes. He’s at the Black Ship.”
“Instructions.” Burbank’s voice was a monotone. “Watch Dombo. He and his mob are after Beef. Learn if they have located him.”
“Instructions received.”
Leaving the store, the stalwart young man wended his way through the darkness of narrow streets that were walled with decadent buildings. Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was well acquainted with the underworld. Cliff had a rep among mobsters. It enabled him to keep tabs on new gang movements.
Yet until tonight, Cliff had gained no lead that might enable him to locate “Beef” Malligan. Cliff knew certain facts that Dowdy had reported to Joe Cardona, namely, that Beef was hiding out and that he was evidently sending gorillas to “Croaker” Zinn. But the news that Beef was evading “Dombo” Carlin was something that Cliff had learned for the first time.
Cliff reached the Black Ship. The place was a notorious dive. Cliff had left the joint earlier in the evening; his return excited no comment, for he was known in the place. There was nothing extraordinary in the fact that Cliff chose a table close by a corner where Dombo Carlin and three cronies were gathered.
Minutes passed while Cliff sat stolidly staring toward the wall. He could hear Dombo’s growl; at times, he glanced sidewise to observe the man’s ugly, unshaven countenance. Then came a query from a gorilla that brought Cliff to attention.
“Time we was leavin’, ain’t it, Dombo?”
“Not for a half hour yet,” was the growled response. “It ain’t far over to Clipper’s.”
“But we’re goin’ in the back—”
“Sure. That’s where he is, ain’t it? On the second floor? Keep your shirt on, mug. I’m running this.”
“I get you, Dombo.”
Cliff Marsland shoved away a bottle and glass. He arose and strolled from the Black Ship. “Clipper’s,” to Cliff, meant an old hotel near The Bowery. It was called the Hotel Santiago, but mobsters called the place “Clipper’s” in honor of its hard-boiled proprietor.
Cliff had never thought of the Santiago as a potential hideout for Beef Malligan. The crumbling hotel was but one of many others in its vicinity. Dombo Carlin had not mentioned Beef Malligan’s name, but Cliff, with Burbank’s information, was sure that he knew whom Dombo sought.
IT took Cliff seven minutes to reach a secluded telephone. In the quiet corner of a little cigar store, Cliff called Burbank. He passed the word to the contact man; then hung up and leaned against the wall in response to Burbank’s order to wait for a reply.
Five minutes passed. Cliff lifted the telephone receiver a second after the bell began to ring. He spoke in monosyllables to acknowledge Burbank’s instructions. Sauntering out into the night, Cliff headed in the direction of the Hotel Santiago.
The Shadow’s search was ended. For two weeks, the black-garbed master had been keeping Cliff Marsland on duty to gain some trace of Beef Malligan’s whereabouts. Through Dombo Carlin, Beef’s hideout had been learned.
Joe Cardona sought Dombo Carlin. Hence Joe would be in the game tonight, with detectives at his heels. But The Shadow’s quest concerned Beef Malligan. The Shadow was depending upon Cliff Marsland as his lone aid.
Amid these different purposes, Dombo Carlin and his gorillas were out to get the man whom The Shadow sought. Plans and counterplans were in the making; and the Hotel Santiago was to be their focal point!
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW’S AGENT
HALF an hour had elapsed since Cliff Marsland’s departure from the Black Ship. During that interval, nothing had occurred to disturb the quiet that surrounded the old Hotel Santiago.
Situated on a side street, half a block from The Bowery, the old brick-walled hotel stood away from the rumble of traffic and the clatter of the elevated. Staring from its plate glass window was Clipper, the hard-boiled proprietor.
Though riff-raff formed the patrons of the Hotel Santiago, the challenging proprietor was strict regarding guests. Clipper knew many mobsters by sight. If they were wanted by the law, they were not welcome in his hotel. Clipper had no yen for police visits.
It was because of this policy that Beef Malligan had chosen the Santiago as his place of residence. Seated in a tawdry upstairs room, Beef was smoking a cigarette while he read the contents of a letter. Thick-lipped and ugly-faced, Beef leered with satisfaction.
Beef was not wanted by the police; nor were the gorillas who had previously formed his racketeering crew. Hence Beef enjoyed security and had the privilege of receiving the visitors whom he desired.
Those whom Beef did not want to see — specifically, Dombo Carlin and his crew — were in wrong with the law. Hence Clipper, with no welcome for Dombo and his ilk, was unwittingly serving as a sentinel in behalf of Beef Malligan.
Beef Malligan knew of the rear entrance to the Hotel Santiago. He had, however, given it but little thought. Confident that no one had breathed the news of his whereabouts, Beef felt quite free from intrusion.
In fact, he saw no reason to lower the torn shade that was rolled above the only window in his room. The window opened on a low roof at the side of the building, and Beef was convinced that no prying eyes would appear from that direction.
Blackness alone greeted Beef’s gaze as the thick-lipped ruffian happened to glance toward the window. Rising from his chair, Beef tore up the letter that he had been reading. He applied a match to the fragments and crumpled the ashes after the flame had died. He turned to let the charred remnants fall into a lop-sided wastebasket.
It was then that eyes appeared where blackness had been. Blazing orbs flashed from the darkness beyond the opened window. Vaguely, the outline of blackness upon blackness manifested itself in the form of a sinister shape that Beef Malligan did not see as he swung past the window.
The Shadow, like a specter of the night, was looking in upon Beef’s hideout.
EYES vanished as Beef made a turn toward the window. The ex-racketeer saw nothing there but blackness. Then his stare turned suddenly toward the door. The sound of a muffled footstep caused Beef to become suddenly alert.
Beef had left the barrier unlocked. Impelled by instinctive nervousness, he stepped forward to turn the key. He was too late. The door swung open as he reached the center of the room.
A sour twist showed on Beef’s thick lips. With Beef’s expression came a snarl from the door. A heavy, unshaven intruder shouldered his way into the light. Beef Malligan was face to face with the man who sought his life: Dombo Carlin.