“Hold it,” ordered Clyde, when the elevator reached the top. “I’m coming right down. Just getting my pipe and tobacco. I won’t be a minute.”
While the elevator waited, Clyde unlocked the door of 8 A and entered. He closed the door behind him. A man spoke from a corner. It was Cliff Marsland.
“Got in here at half past five,” informed Cliff, in a low tone. “Been wondering when you’d show up.”
“Any calls?” queried Clyde, picking up pipe and tobacco pouch from a table.
“Not yet,” replied Cliff. “Where are you going now?”
“Over to the old Hotel Selwick. I’ll be around the lobby. They’ll page me if you call. But I’m likely to be calling you first, Cliff.”
Clyde strolled out, filling his pipe as he left. He entered the waiting elevator and descended. He noted Lane Tukel at the desk and strolled out without the clerk seeing him. Clyde doubted that Tukel had seen Cliff enter; it would not matter if the clerk had, for Cliff had come in nearly three hours ago.
As for Sycher, he had not seen Cliff, for Sycher had not relieved Wilkert, the other elevator operator, until the usual hour of six. Thus Cliff’s presence on the eighth floor of the Belgaria was unknown to any in the apartment house.
Clyde Burke was smiling as he strolled off toward the Hotel Selwick. Himself an agent of The Shadow, Clyde, like others, was looking forward to swift action on this evening.
For Joe Cardona was not the only person who had played a hunch. The Shadow was following one also. There was a difference, however, between Cardona’s hunches and those of The Shadow,
Where Joe’s shrewd guesses were founded upon chance, The Shadow’s were based upon well-considered facts.
CHAPTER XIII
INTRUDERS ARRIVE
IT was a quarter before nine. Philo Dreblin was glancing at his watch as he dictated letters to his new secretary. The magnate made a sudden decision. He pocketed his watch and leaned back in his chair.
“All right, Vincent,” he rumbled. “That will do. Type the letters and bring them to me in the morning.”
Harry glanced at his own watch after he left the study. Only quarter of nine. Had he heard wrongly, last night? Was Dreblin’s visitor coming early? Or did Dreblin expect some other person?
Such was possible. There was no proof that the man in the gray overcoat was the only one who made secret trips to Dreblin’s study. Tonight, Harry had thrown occasional glances about the room. He had seen no door that would have served as secret entrance. That, to Harry, gave added importance to the situation.
Instructions from The Shadow had been brief last night. No more had come since then. This meant that Harry was to use his own judgment in cases of necessity. Harry felt that he had run up against such a situation.
Going to his room, Harry attached the mechanical typewriter clicker. He set it so that it would keep running for five minutes — this with the aid of a specially marked dial. Harry did not intend to be absent for more than a five-minute interval. He knew that Alfred might be about.
Clicker going, Harry stole into the hall and shut the door behind him. He sneaked into the deserted parlor, crossed to the door and listened. Two minutes passed; then came a slight clicking sound from within the study.
Mumbled words. Harry was sure that a visitor had arrived. He heard footsteps; they came rather close to the door; but Harry did not budge. He felt confident that there would be no danger of discovery until later.
Harry leaned close and listened. Buzzing talk ended. Harry was intent; his suspicions, however, did not rise. He was totally unprepared for the surprise that arrived a few seconds later.
The door was yanked open from the inside. Before Harry could regain his balance, he found himself sprawling to the floor, at the feet of Philo Dreblin. Then a tall, long-limbed attacker came springing forward.
As Harry struggled with the foe above him, Dreblin shut the door, locked it and joined in the fray.
Beginning with a disadvantage, Harry had no chance. Both adversaries were powerful. They pinned Harry’s arms behind him, strapped him with his own belt and gagged him with a handkerchief from his pocket. They pushed him back into a chair.
LOOKING up, Harry found himself facing Kip Nethro. He did not know the man, but he was sure that Nethro was the visitor in gray. For Nethro had laid aside gray overcoat and dark hat upon his arrival in the study.
“Eavesdropping, eh?” Philo Dreblin rasped the question. “Well, Vincent, who sent you here? The police?”
“He can’t answer you,” chuckled Nethro, dryly. “Not since we gagged him. But why worry about the police, Mr. Dreblin?”
“That’s right,” rumbled Dreblin, glaring at the investigator. “Perhaps you’d rather I didn’t mention the police, Nethro.”
“As for calling me by name,” observed Nethro, helping himself to a cigarette from the magnate’s desk, “that was hardly necessary. But since you have done so, I may as well state that I don’t mind this fellow Vincent knowing who I am.”
“I made a mistake, Nethro,” growled Dreblin. “But your final comment was also a mistake. Vincent has proven himself an eavesdropper. The less he knows, the better.”
“I don’t blame him for snooping,” commented Nethro, striking a match with his left hand and studying Harry curiously. “The way you run this crazy joint of yours, I’d snoop if I was working for you. This fellow looks like he has some brains. No wonder he’s curious.”
“He has brains,” admitted Dreblin. “More than any of my previous secretaries. That’s why I want to know why he came here.”
“Ungag him, then, and hear what he has to say.”
“Humph! Maybe I shall.”
His face registering challenge as he glared at Nethro, Dreblin moved over toward the chair where Harry was seated. Suddenly the magnate stopped short and shook his head. Something had made him change his mind about releasing Harry.
“Go ahead,” urged Nethro.
Before Dreblin could respond, there was a knock at the door. Dreblin motioned for silence from Nethro. Approaching the portal, the millionaire growled:
“Who is it?”
“Alfred, sir,” came the servant’s voice. “There is a gentleman here to see you. Mr. Vincent was not about, so I came in here myself.”
“Who is the visitor?”
“Detective Cardona, sir. He says that he is from headquarters.”
“Show him up.”
Nethro stared curiously as Dreblin turned about. Then the investigator’s face showed concern.
“You’re not seeing Cardona?” he questioned.
“Why not?” retorted Dreblin,
“On account of this fellow.” Nethro indicated Harry. “He’s gagged and bound. You’d better cut him loose before Cardona comes in. Tell him to keep quiet.”
“He’ll keep quiet without being told.”
Dreblin yanked open a drawer of the desk and produced a revolver. He stepped forward and covered the door; then looked sharply at Nethro.
“You open the door,” ordered Dreblin, “when I give you a nod. Leave the rest to me.”
“But listen, Mr. Dreblin—”
“Do as I tell you.”
Nethro shrugged his shoulders. He stepped over to the door. He waited with one hand on the knob. Someone rapped at the other side.
“Come in,” ordered Dreblin. He nodded toward Nethro.
The investigator brought the door inward with a quick yank. A stocky man stopped short on the threshold. It was Joe Cardona. The detective became rigid at sight of Dreblin’s gun.
“Come in,” rasped the magnate. “Sit down.”