A pause. Bart’s stogy began to curl. He chucked it in an ash-stand. As he started to fumble in his pocket for a fresh cigar, Bart suddenly poked Clyde in the shoulder.
“Here comes the big shot,” he whispered. “Guy named Konk Zitz. See? From the taproom?”
CLYDE nodded as he saw a short, sallow-faced rogue come into the lobby. Konk Zitz was attired in tuxedo. He was chewing a cigar and looking about with beady, ratlike eyes. He spied Bart Drury, and a sour grin appeared upon his face.
“Hello, there!” greeted the newcomer, approaching the reporter. “Boy! What smoke! Did you chuck a pineapple in that ash-stand?”
“Just a cigar,” returned Drury.
“Who gave it to you?” chuckled Konk. “The police chief? Trying to gas you?”
“I bought it,” retorted Drury. “For a nickel.”
“Well, here’s a fifteen center,” offered Konk. “One for your pal, too.” He looked at Clyde and added a question. “New reporter on your paper?”
“Yes,” replied Drury. “Name’s Burke.”
Konk shook hands with Clyde. Then he took a chair near the two reporters and nudged his thumb toward the lobby.
“Looks like your boss woke Grewling up,” observed the crook leader. “Two flatfeet here in the lobby. Couple more out back. Couple of dicks in the taproom.”
“Watching your bunch?” quizzed Drury.
“Watching everybody,” corrected Konk. “I’ve got no outfit, Drury. Get that out of your noodle.”
“You’ve got a lot of friends.”
“Sure! Pals who have the same idea I have. We all think Latuna is a good spot for a vacation.”
“Two more blew in to-day, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. Couple of friends of mine. I mailed them a folder about Latuna. You know the one. Chamber of Commerce puts it out. Well, they fell for the idea this city was a beauty spot and they dropped off.”
“From a freight?”
“Came in by the Northeast Express,” replied Konk Zitz, ignoring Drury’s sarcasm. “Say — I don’t get this stuff of calling me and my friends undesirables. Latuna is a vacation city, ain’t it?”
“So they say.”
“Well, we spend U. S. dough, like anybody else. What’s more, we spend more of it than most people.”
“All right, Konk. I’m not arguing. It’s Knode’s idea to razz you fellows; not mine. Say — who came in to-day?”
“A fellow named Tinker Furris; and a pal of his, Cliff Marsland. Both have a clean bill of health.”
“Where are they?”
“In the taproom. You can’t see them from here; but Grewling’s gumshoes are watching them.”
THE SHADOW had heard every iota of this conversation. Yet not even Konk Zitz had noticed the placid stranger beyond the potted palm. Watching across the lobby, The Shadow spied an approaching bell boy. He observed that the attendant was coming to speak to Konk Zitz.
“Telephone, Mr. Zitz.”
Konk arose at the bell hop’s statement. The Shadow watched the sallow-faced cigar smoker go to a telephone booth, while Bart and Clyde resumed their conversation. Though Konk was turned so that The Shadow could not eye the motions of his lips, the keen-eyed watcher knew that this telephone call was an important one.
When Konk came out of the booth, he wore a poker-faced expression. He started toward the taproom; as an afterthought, he swung back and approached Clyde and Bart.
“Fine mess your boss made of things!” Konk told Drury. “With Grewling’s gumshoes on the job, none of us can go out of here tonight. I had to bust a date with a swell blonde who just called me up.”
“Too bad,” observed Drury.
“I’ll say it is!” growled Konk. “If I took her out in my coupe, I’d have a couple of these wise dicks traveling along in the rumble seat. When you see that boss of yours, Knode, tell him I don’t like him! Get that?”
Konk turned and went into the taproom. His bluff had been effective with the reporters.
Not so with The Shadow. The listener who wore the countenance of Henry Arnaud knew well that Konk Zitz had deliberately tried to cover up a business call.
“Let’s go up to the old man’s house,” suggested Bart. “Maybe he’s been up to the museum, to see Rubal. We’ll walk over to Knode’s. It’s only a couple of blocks.”
As the two sauntered from the lobby, The Shadow arose and strolled to the taproom. Just inside, he paused; as before, his guise of Arnaud was an inconspicuous one. The Shadow saw Konk Zitz with a group at a table. Cliff Marsland was there, seated beside Tinker Furris. The Shadow recognized the latter’s pockmarked face.
“All O.K.,” came Konk’s low growl. “Nobody needed tonight. Sit tight. It’s great, with these dicks watching us. We want them to know that none of us moved out of here after seven P.M.”
The Shadow strolled from the taproom. He knew the source of that information which Konk Zitz had passed to the band. It was an aftermath of the telephone call that Konk had received. As he left the Phoenix Hotel, The Shadow glanced at his watch. The time was five minutes before nine.
There was no need for The Shadow to remain here longer. Konk and his pals was staying in the Phoenix Hotel; Cliff Marsland, established with the outfit, would report any new developments.
The Shadow’s thoughts reverted to Clyde Burke and Bart Drury. His fixed lips formed the semblance of a smile as he entered the lobby of his own hotel and took the elevator to the sixth.
IN his room, The Shadow consulted a telephone book and learned Knode’s address. He extinguished the light in the room; then opened a suitcase. Black garments clicked. From that moment, Henry Arnaud was a name only; his personality had ended. The cloaked figure of The Shadow had replaced him.
Gliding phantomlike through the hallway, The Shadow arrived at a firetower exit and descended to a vacant lot beside the hotel. This was used as a parking space; The Shadow threaded his way among the standing cars.
His course became swift and undiscernible as he moved along silent, dimly lighted streets. The Shadow’s speed showed that he had familiarized himself with a street map of Latuna. He knew the shortcuts; his pace was rapid. It brought him to the front of a small, old-fashioned house that stood on a secluded street.
The Shadow passed through a little gate; then merged with the blackness at the side of a porch as he heard footsteps coming from the corner.
Clyde Burke and Bart Drury entered the gate. This house was Harrison Knode’s. The Shadow’s swift course had beaten their strolling pace and roundabout choice of route. The Shadow watched from darkness as Drury rang the doorbell. An elderly housekeeper answered.
“Hello, Bridget!” greeted Bart. “Where’s Mr. Knode?”
“He went out, Mr. Drury,” replied the woman.
“When did he say he’d be back?” inquired the reporter.
“He didn’t tell me that,” answered Bridget. “He just told me he was going out before eight o’clock. That was right after dinner—”
“Who says I went out?” The irritable voice was Harrison Knode’s. The editor was coming from a stairway. “I haven’t been out at all!”
The Shadow saw Knode’s figure at the doorway. The man was in shirt sleeves. His necktie was missing. He acted in a half-sleepy manner.
“I told you to call me, Bridget,” snapped Knode, “so I could go out at eight! I went upstairs to take a nap. I overslept.”
“I was sure, sir,” protested the woman, “that you had gone out. When I saw you just now, I thought you’d come in by the back door.”
“Enough, Bridget! You may go!” Knode shooed the housekeeper with an angry wave of his hands. Then to Clyde and Bart. “Come in, you fellows. We’ll have a smoke.”
The door closed after Clyde and Bart entered.