“I seen a light in Powlden’s house,” resumed Looney, his voice showing a hoarse tremolo. “So I calls Togo, over at a restaurant on Broadway. He says to call him back in five minutes. When I does, he says de job’s all fixed.
“I gotta go to Ninety-first Street. Empty house over dere, just past Walton’s warehouse. When a guy in a cab asks for Louie, I’m to give de high sign, den beat it t’rough de back. I t’ought maybe Togo was screwy; but — he says it means anodder century for de job.
“An’ if I don’t pull it, I knows it means de Island again. Dat’s why I went dere. Honest. Togo’s down de street wid an outfit. I talks to de cab when it comes. A guy asks for Louie. I gives de high sign; but de cab starts away. So I hollers to Togo. After dat, I scram t’rough de empty house.
“Some mugs pile on me when I gets to Ninety-second Street. Dat’s all I knows until I wakes up here. Chee! If I knowed what Togo’s racket was, I’d spill de news. De way it is now, Togo will be framin’ me wid de bulls!”
Looney paused. His lips twitched. The Shadow, clear of the light, spoke in a solemn whisper:
“Togo Mallock is dead!”
LOONEY stared. Then his lips formed a weak smile. Despite the fearsome presence of The Shadow, the little dip managed to increase his grin. His eyes showed relief. It was genuine.
The Shadow knew that Looney had spoken the truth; that he had told all he knew. Looney wanted to spill more, as his appreciation for the news that Togo had died. But Looney had no further details to furnish.
“Honest,” he pleaded weakly, “I don’t have no idea who had Togo workin’ for him. Togo got dough from some big shot, or some guy dat must’ve had a wad of real coin. But Togo didn’t tell me nothin’, and dem guys wid him was just a bunch of dumb heels—”
Looney broke off abruptly. He realized that he was talking to nothingness. Only blackness showed beyond the blue light’s glare. A sudden end of tension told the little dip that The Shadow must have stepped away.
Then came a quiver of Looney’s shoulders. The prisoner sensed that The Shadow had returned. Looney stared in horror as a black-gloved hand came forth from darkness, carrying a glass tumbler filled with greenish liquid.
“Drink!” was the whispered order.
Looney trembled. Then he gripped the glass with both hands. The gloved fist withdrew. With an effort, Looney gulped down the liquid. He sank back in the chair.
Prompt drowsiness seized the hunched pickpocket. Looney’s fingers relaxed; the glass fell to the floor. Looney slumped under the effect of the quick-acting opiate.
The blue light clicked out. A laugh chilled the darkness.
TEN minutes later, Moe Shrevnitz heard the rear door of his cab come open. Looking about, the taxi driver saw Looney’s limp figure plop into the back seat. The door closed. Moe heard a whispered order. He understood.
Moe was to drive to the borders of the badlands; there to leave Looney, still doped, beside the entrance to an empty house in an obscure alleyway. The Shadow’s parting instruction remained in Moe’s cars as he drove the cab away.
“Fifteen minutes.”
That meant that Looney would be blotto for a little longer than a quarter hour. The Shadow was letting the pitiful fellow go; he wanted Looney to wake up in an isolated spot well distant from the vicinity of the sanctum.
A grim laugh sounded in the darkened street from which Moe’s cab had pulled. The Shadow had countered crime tonight; but he had gained no clue to the identity of the master crook who had sponsored Togo Mallock’s efforts.
The Shadow, however, had gained proof conclusive of Donald Powlden’s innocence. The crime worker who had planted evidence against the arrested inventor was still anxious to cover his own trail.
Anxiety on the part of an evil rogue always pleased The Shadow. That factor pointed to new encounters in the future. The Shadow would be ready.
CHAPTER XI
HARRY REPORTS
NINE o’clock the next evening found Harry Vincent seated across the desk front Philo Dreblin. Harry had completed his first day of duty as the calthite magnate’s secretary. Dreblin seemed pleased with his new employee’s efficiency. Harry noted a smile on the magnate’s lips as the heavy man glanced at his watch.
“All right, Vincent,” decided Dreblin. “I have dictated enough letters for tonight. Type these off; let me see them in the morning.”
Harry nodded. He gathered up his notes and went from the study. But as he closed the door behind him, the new secretary felt the dawning of a definite suspicion. Dreblin had spoken in a manner that indicated a coming appointment.
Dreblin’s study was on the second floor of the magnate’s Manhattan mansion. Dreblin evidently liked the surroundings of this West Side brownstone house, for he apparently never went to the office of the Calthite Company. Harry had figured that, because of frequent telephone calls between Dreblin and the office. Such business had taken up a great portion of the day.
In leaving the door of Dreblin’s study, Harry crossed an outer room — a sort of parlor filled with heavy, squatty furniture. Harry reached a hall; he entered a little room that had been assigned to him. There he placed his notes beside a large typewriter.
Harry unlocked a box that looked like the case of a portable typewriter. It housed an odd-looking contrivance to which was attached a length of insulated wire with a plug on the end. Harry attached the plug to a floor socket. He pulled the switch.
Immediately, the device in the box began to click in the fashion of a typewriter. There were pauses in its sounds; tinkles of bells; noises that resembled the sliding of a typewriter carriage. The Shadow had supplied Harry with this machine; and the agent had found it useful on other occasions.
Anyone passing the room would suppose Harry to be hard at work behind a closed door. Because of that, Harry could be elsewhere. Peering out into the hall, he sneaked from the room and closed the door behind him. He tiptoed to the gloomy upstairs parlor.
Finding a hiding place behind a large chair, Harry waited, believing that a visitor would soon arrive. He could hear the faint clicks of his fake typewriter. He expected to see Alfred — taciturn servant in Dreblin’s employ — appear from the hall, bringing some stranger. But Alfred did not arrive.
Nor did any visitor appear alone. This puzzled Harry, for he was blocking the only entrance to Dreblin’s study.
At last impatience overruled caution. Harry crept from behind the chair and approached the door of the study. He peered through the keyhole; but saw nothing, for a key was in the lock.
As Harry listened, however, he caught the sound of mumbled voices.
It could not be Dreblin talking on the telephone, for the voices differed. One was the magnate’s basso; the other was a higher tone. Harry could not distinguish words; he decided that the speakers must be over by the desk.
Minutes passed. There were pauses in the discussion. A slight shuffling sound replaced words. Then Harry caught snatches of Dreblin’s rumble. He knew that the magnate must have risen from the desk; that he must be near the door.
One word was “secretary”; then came “tomorrow night”; an indistinguishable rumble; then finally the words: “Nine o’clock.” Upon that, Harry heard the other voice distinctly. The visitor was bidding Dreblin goodnight.
“Nine o’clock,” heard Harry. “Same as usual. Well, maybe we’ll have something more to talk about.”
Footsteps moved. Harry thought they were approaching the door. He sidled from the parlor, reached his own room and turned off the fake typewriter. Before he had closed and locked the box that held the odd device, Harry had already formulated a quick plan.