“You’ve got a head on you, Cliff,” said Clipper admiringly. “Well, you’ve got the right lay — although I’ll surprise you when I give you the inside. What d’you think is Bodine’s weakness?”
“Too many bodyguards!”
“Why?”
“He isn’t paying them enough, probably,” Cliff explained. “He’d be better off with two — giving them as much as he’s handing five.”
“That’s it.” Clipper nodded. “Well, here’s the low-down. One of the five has squealed. He’s let out somethin’ that nobody knew.”
“Which is—”
“That Bodine’s layout up at the Goliath Hotel is a blind. He’s got his real hideout somewhere else. Those five bodyguards are all baloney. He don’t need any. Those guys get paid for doin’ nothin’ but keeping mum. They’re not supposed to know where his hideout is — but one of them found out and spilled the dope.”
“How?” Cliff was taking advantage of Clipper’s sudden volubility. Now that the man had begun to talk, he was going through with it.
“He was offered some dough to tell what he knew about Bodine.”
“Where’s Bodine’s hideout?”
Clipper threw a hasty glance to make sure that no one had approached. His eyes sought the clock above a distant counter.
“In the Maurice Apartments,” he said. “Eight blocks from the Goliath. We’re goin’ there now. He calls himself Andrew Davis.”
Cliff slipped his right hand into his coat pocket. He was leaning against the wall. His arm appeared motionless; but his hand was busy. He was scrawling quick items of information on a small pad in his pocket, using the stub of a pencil.
“Ready?” questioned Clipper.
The gangster’s eyes were directly on Cliff, but he did not detect the secret action. Cliff nodded and arose.
His fingers were twisting the sheet of paper into a small ball. His hand came from his pocket, and the pellet dropped into his hat as he reached to get it.
The two men walked across the cafe; as they passed the table where the lone man was seated, Clipper scrutinized him suspiciously. The man was busy eating, and apparently did not notice Clipper’s action. It was Clyde Burke, of the Classic, but Clipper did not recognize the reporter.
Cliff Marsland, following close behind Clipper, did not even glance in Clyde’s direction. As he passed the table his hat brushed against it, and the pellet of paper rolled on the tablecloth. Clyde set his napkin on the table at that particular instant and trapped the little wad with its precious information.
NO observant eye could have detected what had happened. Clyde Burke acted as though he were being watched. He had captured the ball of paper unseen; now he drew it to his lap with the napkin. With one hand beneath the table, he unrolled the wad. The message lay upon his lap. The penciled scrawl was plainly visible by a light that came from a pillar behind the reporter.
Out to get Bodine. Hideout Maurice Apartments. Fake name Andrew Davis.
Clyde made no motion. He sat at the table for a full minute without even glancing toward the door where the two men had gone. He was allowing sufficient time for them to leave the Club DeLuxe. His first action was to call for the waiter and pay the check.
Leisurely he strolled to the entrance. There was a telephone booth there, but he ignored it. Better to make his call outside.
The Club DeLuxe was located on the second floor. As Clyde was striding down the stairs he encountered one of those chance interruptions that so often play an important part in the best-laid schemes. Three men were coming up the steps. Clyde, swinging downward, accidentally stumbled against one and threw the man toward the wall. An angry response was the result.
“Sorry,” remarked Clyde.
“Yeah?” came the vicious retort.
Clyde found himself staring into the eyes of a tough-looking individual, evidently a gangster-habitue of the Club DeLuxe. The man had been drinking, but he was by no means incapable. He had apparently reached that early stage of drunkenness that produces pugnacity. The man reached forward and clutched Clyde by the shoulder.
“You know who I am?”
Clyde was intent on his errand. He sought to mollify the man, but as he began to speak the fellow became more violent. Despite a warning cry from one of his companions, he swung a quick blow at the reporter’s chin.
Clyde warded it aside. He thought quickly. A fight now would be unwise. The other men might side with their friend. At the same time, it was necessary to get away. As he parried the blow he made no effort to punch back. Instead he stepped back a pace, avoided a second swing, and started down the steps.
It was then that his opponent, angered at Clyde’s agility, threw himself forward.
Clyde could not avoid that plunge. He raised his hands in protection and lost his footing as he stepped backward. The weight of the man’s body landed upon him, and Clyde Burke was thrown headforemost down the steps. He felt a strange dizziness as he was hurtling downward; then his head struck against something and all was black.
He opened his eyes to see a group of faces peering at him. He recognized the features of the rowdy who had attacked him. This fellow, despite his tough appearance, seemed the most apprehensive member of the crowd.
“All right, buddy?” he asked.
Clyde nodded. Two other men propped him against the side of the wall. He noted that the cafe manager was present. That partly explained the change in his attacker’s attitude. Another reason was immediately put forward.
“You’re from the Classic, ain’t you?”
Clyde nodded again.
“Didn’t mean to hurt you. It was my fault, startin’ things,” came the apology. “You must ‘a’ tripped when I grabbed you. Wasn’t that what happened, boys?”
The fellow’s companions chimed their agreement. The manager of the Club DeLuxe spoke to Clyde.
“All right now?” he asked.
“All right,” said Clyde, rubbing a bump on the side of his head. “Say— how long have I been out?”
“Pretty near ten minutes.”
Clyde suppressed a gasp of alarm. Cliff Marsland and Clipper Tobin were on their way to Bodine’s place. It was not at the Goliath Hotel, where he knew The Shadow would be on watch! Ten precious minutes had been lost. He must let The Shadow know!
Rising clumsily to his feet, he shook hands with the man who had battled with him and grinned as though the matter was of no account. Every one seemed relieved.
“I’m supposed to be down at the Classic office,” he explained groggily. “I’m not hurt — let’s forget it.”
“Have a drink?” questioned his late opponent.
Clyde shook his head.
“Want a cab?” inquired the solicitous manager.
“No,” was the reporter’s response. “I’ll take the subway.”
He steadied himself against the rail and fought off a spell of dizziness. He was anxious to avoid further delay. He waved his hand in a friendly manner and went down the steps, trying to appear at his best. His head was swimming when he reached the sidewalk.
THE bright lights of the avenue confused him. He walked toward the corner, spied a drug store, and entered. As luck would have it, all the phone booths were occupied. Clyde decided to go elsewhere, but his legs seemed too weak. He sat on a stool at the soda fountain and rested, his head throbbing, all about him confusion.
Some one left a booth and Clyde staggered into the compartment. He dropped his nickel and tried to dial. There were black spots before his eyes. His finger slipped. He began again.
With great effort he managed to dial the number. He waited patiently, the ringing over the wire conflicting with the throbbing of his head. At last he heard a quiet voice, seemingly far away.