“He tella me some time he needa me, maybe,” declared the Italian, in a low tone. “You come from heem. You know what he spoka to me. Da Shadow. When he helpa me from da friends of Tony.
“You tella me what Da Shadow want. I do whatta you say. You giva me da right word. I worka da way you want—”
Harry broke in. Quietly, he gave Pietro definite instructions. The Italian nodded his understanding. He repeated Harry’s name when the agent stated it; also the telephone number that Harry added. The pushcart was in motion. Pietro shoved it along the street while Harry walked upon the curb. Then, as they neared a corner, their paths separated.
Harry boarded an elevated train. He chose one of the central, facing seats in the almost deserted car.
Unobserved by any one, he opened the green envelope and read its message. Paper went blank. Harry tore it with the envelope. When he alighted from the train, he let the pieces of paper flutter from the platform.
Glancing at his watch, Harry hastened down the steps. He hailed a taxi and rode westward. Leaving the cab, he strolled along Ninth Avenue until he reached a little restaurant. A cab was parked by the curb.
Harry smiled as he noted its license number. He entered the cab.
IMMEDIATELY, a hunch-shouldered taximan came from the restaurant. He delivered a friendly grin as he sprang to the wheel.
“Where to, boss?” he questioned.
Harry gave a destination. The driver nodded. Looking downward, Harry spied the driver’s card that showed through a celluloid pocket just in back of the front seat. It displayed a picture of the taximan; and gave his name: Moe Shrevnitz. Harry leaned to the front.
“I just had time to catch you, Moe,” observed Harry. “You usually leave that restaurant at twelve thirty, don’t you.”
“Yeah,” returned the driver, in surprise. “I was just finishin’ a cup of Mocha when you hopped aboard. But say — how’d you know I ate there?”
“Turn over to Seventh Avenue,” responded Harry, ignoring Moe’s question. “Go up past Brindle’s restaurant. I want to take a look at the place.”
Moe’s hands shook. He nearly lost the wheel as he turned to deliver a troubled glance.
“Remember the night those gorillas stopped you in front of Brindle’s?” questioned Harry. “Made you drive them up into the Bronx? Going to rub you out and take your cab?”
“Say” — Moe’s teeth chattered — “what are you? A dick? Or a newshawk?”
“Neither,” replied Harry. “Neither detective nor reporter. Just a friend of yours, Moe. A friend who wants to know how you stepped out of that mess in the Bronx.”
“The gorillas got scared,” bluffed Moe. “They was yellow. That’s all.”
“Scared of what?”
“Nothing that I know of.”
“Then who clipped them?”
“The bulls, I guess.”
“Not The Shadow?”
The question startled Shrevnitz. He yanked the cab over to the curb. His face showed pale as he turned to stare squarely through the window. He eyed Harry’s countenance.
“You ain’t no pal of them gorillas,” decided Moe. “I can tell a gunman when I see one. You’re a guy that’s workin for — for—”
Harry nodded. Moe knew that he meant The Shadow.
“Say,” acknowledged Moe. “That guy gave me the creeps. But he’s an ace. If he wasn’t, Moe Shrevnitz wouldn’t be drivin’ no cab to-day. Tell me what he wants. I’m game for it.”
Briefly, Harry spoke. Leaning from the wheel of his parked cab, Moe Shrevnitz nodded his understanding. When Harry was through, Moe shifted squarely behind the wheel. He was ready to start.
Harry withheld him.
While the driver waited, staring straight ahead, Harry opened the blue envelope. He read the instructions that he found within.
“Take me over to the Broadway subway,” ordered Harry, through the front window. “Then follow the instructions that I gave you. Remember: call the number I mentioned at two o’clock.”
Shrevnitz nodded. The cab rolled from the curb. Pieces of paper, blue mingled with white, drifted from the side window as Harry tossed the fragments to the street.
FORTY minutes later, Harry Vincent was in Harlem. He entered a small, but well-kept office building and walked up to the second floor. He stopped before a door that bore the statement:
JERICHO DRUKE
EMPLOYMENT AGENCY
The door clinked a bell as Harry opened the barrier. Inside was a little waiting room with a rail. Beyond it, the door of a small inside office. That door opened; then the entire portal was blocked by the figure of a huge African.
“Jericho Druke?” questioned Harry.
“Yes, sah,” smiled the African. “At your service. What kind of help do you need, sah?”
“You used to be doorman at the Club Galaxy, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sah.”
“Remember the time you stopped those two killers who had rubbed out Heinie Walbo? While they were trying to make their getaway?”
Jericho’s face became solemn. The African nodded.
“It was a good job, Jericho,” observed Harry. “Then that third yegg bounced in and cracked you with a blackjack—”
Instinctively, Jericho thrust his hand to the back of his head. Then realizing that the gesture was a giveaway, he dropped his massive paw and stared while Harry continued.
“It knocked you cold for half a minute,” added Harry, “and the stage was set for you to go the voyage like Heinie Walbo. But when you came to your senses, you heard shots. You saw—”
Jericho was shaking his head in denial. Harry smiled; then continued:
“You saw The Shadow.”
Jericho stared. He made no comment. Then, in a whisper, he repeated a brief sentence which made Jericho’s eyes open.
“He sent you here?” questioned the African, in an awed tone. “The Shadow?”
Harry nodded.
“This office is hereby closed,” pronounced Jericho, with a sweep of his big arm. “Whatever you say goes, sah. Ah’s the man for any job you want. Ah’s never forgotten that night, sah.”
Briefly, Harry repeated new instructions. They brought a series of nods from Jericho. Then Harry made his departure. Ten minutes afterward, Jericho left his office, carrying a huge suitcase. The African locked the door and pasted a note upon it, announcing that the employment bureau was temporarily closed.
Through Slade Farrow, The Shadow had gained the services of Tapper and Hawkeye. With Harry as his representative, The Shadow had added Pietro, Shrevnitz and Jericho. Five new aids had entered The Shadow’s service.
Harry Vincent considered those facts as he rode southward on his way to report to Rutledge Mann.
Harry knew that The Shadow was facing tremendous odds. Diamond Bert, with an unknown number of hidden minions, was the center of a secret organization that furnished him with almost unlimited power.
Strategic points must be watched. The Shadow needed aids who could remain unsuspected. Workers upon whom he could depend; men who could outmatch the underlings of Diamond Bert. The Shadow had gained those aids. It would be war to the finish against Diamond Bert Farwell and those who carried the Chinese disks.
CHAPTER XV. GENTLEMEN OF CRIME
THREE days had elapsed since Harry Vincent’s trip about New York. A huge man in gorgeous uniform was standing by a doorway near Sixth Avenue. It was Jericho, the ex-employment agent from Harlem.
On the second floor above where Jericho stood, the large-lettered announcements of an advertising dentist were plastered in the window. Jericho, as he bowed to passers, was handing them cards that bore the dentist’s name.
Jericho had walked into this job. He had visited the dentist, shown him the uniform, and had offered to work for a surprisingly low wage. Jericho’s broad smile had clinched the job. The perfect teeth that the African displayed were as good advertising as the cards that he passed out.