“O-blay,” muttered Dunham. “Ops-kay.”
“Stick tight,” added Vic. “Because there’s a riot due tomorrow night. It’s liable to come pretty quickly after you get my word. Do you understand?”
“Right,” responded Slade.
Vic Marquette’s instructions were complete. Brief words followed; then a closing door announced the operative’s departure. The Shadow was already moving along the wall. His creeping form arrived, beetlelike, at an open window on the third floor.
A soft laugh sounded from the darkness of Lamont Cranston’s room. The last pieces in the picture had been set in place. Others had stated their plans. Others were ready. So was The Shadow!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SILENT SHADOW
THE show was on in the big top. It was the last night of the circus in Hamilcar. Straggling groups were drifting along the midway. They were the remnants of the small crowd that had gone into the circus tent.
Most of those who had come to the lot were idlers. Some of the concessions were doing business; but several of these “joints” were packing. In this, they were setting the example of Cap Guffy. The spot where the Ten-in-One tent had been now formed a barren stretch of ground. Idlers were watching Cap superintend the loading of the trucks that he had hired.
Tex Larch had supplied the roughnecks for the loading. Cliff Marsland was among this crew. He was the only one who wore the tattooed red circle. The others were genuine roughnecks, not members of Croaker Zinn’s mob. A spirit of pessimism dominated their palaver.
“Cap’s started it by pullin’ out,” one fellow said to Cliff. “Look over there. Jubo the Geek is packin’. When that show quits, business must be lousy.”
Cliff nodded. He saw the ticket taker pulling down the geek’s tent. Jubo was aiding while a wise-cracking group of town boys commented on the tame appearance of the wild man from the snake pit.
“There’s another ‘grifter’ foldin’,” continued Cliff’s companion. “That guy’s been runnin’ a two-way joint. Say — when a grifter can’t make nothin’ when he’s workin’ the game strong, it’s a sure bet there’s no dough on the lot.”
Cliff nodded his understanding. He had picked up the midway lingo. He knew that a ‘grifter’ was a concessionaire. He also knew that by a ‘two way joint’ was meant a game that could be run on the level or fixed to trim the suckers. The operation of a ‘two way joint’ was called working ‘strong.’
“Say” — the speaker was a concessionaire who had come across the midway — “can one of you fellows give me a lift? I’m loading some stuff aboard a truck. Can’t hoist it alone.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” responded Cliff.
“Thanks.”
Cliff walked across the midway with the grifter. He had been looking for a break like this. He wanted to contact with other members of the red circle and none of them were near Cap Guffy’s trucks. Cliff knew that trouble was impending. He wanted to be ready when it broke.
“I’ve been running a ‘grind,’ pal,” confided the grifter, as Cliff helped him hoist a crate aboard a truck. “Get that? Running a ‘grind’ — working for a five-cent play. They call me a ‘nickel gouger’ on account of it, but I took in dough until we hit this town. But I’ve went broke in this burg. Look” — the crate was aboard the truck when the grifter pointed down the midway — “there’s a fellow taking down his ‘flasher’ When those jumping lights don’t bring the dough, it’s time for everybody to quit.”
STROLLING down the midway, Cliff encountered a roughneck headed in the opposite direction. The fellow plucked at his left sleeve. Cliff did the same. Tattooed circles came in view. The roughneck spoke in a low tone.
“Have your gat ready,” he advised Cliff. “When it breaks, the mob is goin’ to cut loose.”
“I’m set,” returned Cliff.
As he turned away, The Shadow’s agent ran shoulder to shoulder against a tall personage who was standing near a tent. As he stared into a calm, impassive face, he caught the glare of steady eyes. Lips that barely moved gave Cliff a weirdly whispered order.
“Watch Jubo the Geek.” A cigarette moved up to the lips. “Keep him from the mob.”
Cliff turned toward Jubo’s tent. The canvas was down. He saw the geek staring across the midway. Cliff turned to nod to the stranger who had spoken. The tall visitor had moved away. Cliff, however, needed no further injunction. He had received an order from The Shadow.
“Watch Jubo the Geek.”
Oddly, The Shadow was not the only one who had uttered that admonition. Off beyond one of the Ten-in-One trucks, Cleed — otherwise Croaker Zinn — was saying the same words to Luke, the tattooed man. A glower was showing on the pasty face of the so-called Cleed as Croaker studied a list that Luke had handed him.
“Watch Jubo?” questioned Luke.
“Yeah.” Croaker was emphatic. “Say — it was a good idea to have Hank check up on all the crew. When did you put the circle on Jubo?”
“I don’t remember usin’ the needle on him.”
“You don’t eh? Well, that’s all I wanted to know. Pass the word along to watch Jubo.”
Luke moved away to obey. Cap Guffy approached and beckoned. In the languid fashion of Cleed, Croaker Zinn arose to follow the owner of the Ten-in-One.
“Forget you’re a dope,” ordered Cap. “‘Give me a hand while I load this box of rattlers aboard the back of my coupe. I’m not trusting these reptiles to no truck. These babies have hot stingers.”
Croaker gave Cleed’s sickly grin as he aided with the box. The rattlers whirred from within the box. Neither Cap nor Croaker seemed to be disturbed by the sound.
“All right, Cleed,” said Cap. “Go back and take another nap. Come on, you roughnecks. Get a hold of some of those crates. This finishes the load.”
JUBO THE GEEK was watching from the spot where his tent lay on the ground. His blinking eyes were following the form of Cleed. He saw the pretended cigarette fiend sneak off in the direction of the meeting tent.
Dropping a strip of canvas, Jubo followed.
The trail led in and out among the circus trucks. The lights from the midway barely showed the outline of Cleed’s form. Jubo moved with quick paces from truck to truck, anxious not to lose his quarry. They were approaching the isolated tent. It was dark.
Losing temporary sight of Cleed, Jubo made a stooping sprint to another truck. He arrived there and peered into the darkness. He was panting slightly; that was why he did not hear the sound that occurred behind him. Before Jubo knew that danger was close by, figures from the dark pounced upon him and sent him sprawling to the turf.
“Drag him into the tent.” It was Luke who gave the word to Jubo’s captors. “I want to take a look at him. Maybe he’s a phony.”
Roughnecks obeyed. Jubo’s body was limp. Swift blows had knocked the geek senseless.
When they reached the tent, Luke turned on the light. Jubo’s form plopped to the ground and lay face up. Luke studied the brownish countenance while four roughnecks stood by.
“A phony all right,” decided Luke. “Wait’ll I take a look at his arm.”
He pulled up the sleeve of Jubo’s jersey. A red circle showed in the light. Luke grunted. He strode across the tent and shoved a big sponge into a half-filled water bucket. Coming back, he applied the sponge to the geek’s arm. The red circle began to fade.
“Dye,” announced Luke. “I knew that was no tattoo job. Say — let’s look at the rest of your arms while I’m about it.”
The roughnecks raised their sleeves. Luke’s inspection made him nod with approval. The tattooed man was satisfied with their red circles. He pointed to Jubo’s inert form.