Maxwell Grant
The Condor
CHAPTER I. THE HIDEOUT
NEON lights revealed a hunched figure shambling along the sidewalk beneath the structure of an East Side elevated. A wizened face looked up at the ruddy glare of the delicatessen sign; then the hunched man scruffed on toward the blackened front of an empty store.
Reaching darkness, he paused.
This was one of those composite districts of Manhattan. Old buildings lined the avenue; the presence of the elevated had discouraged the erection of more modern structures. Yet there were bright spots along this decadent block; stores that enterprising merchants had opened in hope of mass business. These were the places that the shambling man was anxious to avoid.
He preferred darkness; he gained it as he scudded to the shelter of an elevated pillar. Crouching until a taxicab rolled by, the hunched man hustled to the far side of the street. Avoiding the lighted window of a corner pawnshop, he took to a secluded byway.
A cautious glance over his shoulder. The prowler spied no followers. He looked upward to spy the purple speck of light that marked the platform of an elevated station. No watchers there. He shuffled hastily along his way.
He had passed the borders of the bad lands, this shifty, scurrying prowler. He was cutting deeper into the underworld, to districts where danger lurked along forgotten streets. Yet the menace of the terrain was to his liking. He had reached the quarter of Manhattan that he knew.
Ten minutes after his departure from the avenue, the hunched man arrived upon a grimy, deserted street.
Foot scuffles softened, he reached the blackened opening that marked an alleyway. His wizened face showed white in gloom as he looked craftily about. Then, like a vanishing jack-in-the-box, he disappeared as he ducked into the alley.
A whitened wall marked his goal. The hunched man moved stealthily as he approached it. Listening, he could hear someone moving about in a darkened niche. He caught the glow of a cigarette, as shielding fingers momentarily uncovered it. The hunched prowler stole forward and delivered a hoarse whisper:
“Cliff!”
THE cigarette glow reappeared, moving up and down as if in signal. Then, as the hunched man crept closer, a guarded voice gave greeting:
“Hello, Hawkeye. Got anything?”
“Yeah.” “Hawkeye” was close beside the man who had awaited him. “Real dope, Cliff. I’ve spotted Luff Cadley’s hideout.”
“Where is it?” came the question.
“The old tenement past Burry’s Garage,” replied Hawkeye. “You know the joint. Just the other side of the avenue; two blocks above Lebo’s hock shop.”
“Thought they were tearing the old dump down.”
“They haven’t started yet. That’s why Luff’s using the place for a hideout. He’s been looking for you, Cliff. Don’t waste time getting up there. Somebody’s gunning for him. He won’t be sticking around much longer.”
“I get you. Listen, Hawkeye: you put in the report call while I’m heading up there. Don’t stall about it.”
“O.K., Cliff.”
The two men separated in the darkness. Hawkeye headed to the depths of the alley, while Cliff walked out toward the street. That point gained, his pace became a brisk one. Unlike Hawkeye, who preferred circuitous rambles, Cliff was making off in a direct line, straight for the avenue.
It was nearly a dozen blocks to the location that Hawkeye had named. Cliff, when he reached the avenue, decided to make time by elevated. He hurried up the steps of a station and reached the platform just in time to catch a northbound train.
Compared with the others aboard the jolting local, this new passenger presented an excellent appearance. Cliff Marsland had few of the characteristics that indicated a type of the underworld. He displayed the brawny build of an athlete. His expression was sober, almost sedate.
Yet there was a hardness to his chiseled features that marked him as a man who could be dangerous.
Cliff Marsland held a reputation in the bad lands. His bearing sustained it; at the same time, Cliff could travel elsewhere without exciting comment or suspicion.
It was different with Hawkeye. The hunched man, when he prowled, was a furtive character — the type that passing patrolmen would watch. The cops, however, seldom saw Hawkeye; his specialty was keeping from their range of vision.
A contrast, Cliff and Hawkeye. Their friendship, had it been known, would have caused too much comment. Cliff was a sharpshooter who could pack a powerful gat; Hawkeye, a spotter who could trail the most difficult quarry. Of different ilk, it was wise for them to keep their meetings secret.
Particularly because of their real missions in the underworld. These two were engaged in the most dangerous of all enterprises, one that would have spelled their doom had it been remotely suspected — Cliff and Hawkeye were agents of The Shadow.
Their meeting tonight had been in behalf of that mysterious chief whose very name brought terror to men of crime. Hawkeye, always on the trail of crime, had heard that “Luff” Cadley was in town. Luff had known Cliff Marsland, at the time when the latter had been in prison, serving time for a crime committed by another.
Luff had let slip that he was looking for Cliff. Hawkeye had passed that word along. It had reached The Shadow; from the chief had come the order to make contact. Tonight had presented the first opportunity, thanks to Hawkeye’s search for the hideout to which Luff had suddenly dived.
ALIGHTING from the elevated, Cliff Marsland headed for the old tenement building that Hawkeye had designated. Cliff felt no need for caution as he made for the destination. It would be easy to find Luff and learn what the fellow wanted. The best way would be to enter openly, through the main door of the abandoned tenement.
Cliff knew the building. There was a fire escape at the rear; but it would be a mistake to use it. Luff Cadley must be hiding out for a reason. He would be apt to mistake a friend for an enemy should the friend come by the fire escape.
Cliff had ordered Hawkeye to report. That meant word to The Shadow through Burbank, a contact man who relayed telephone messages. The report had been a matter of routine on Cliff’s part. His real report would come later, after he had talked with Luff.
Such was the burden of Cliff’s thoughts as he entered the front door of the tenement that stood by Burry’s Garage. A doorless, blackened entrance, it gripped Cliff in a hollowness as he moved cautiously along a creaking floor in search of a stairway.
Cliff had a flashlight, but he did not use it until he found the steps. Then he blinked the light intermittently, to discover a turn ahead. Past that point, he could use the light less guardedly.
Cliff reached the turn. He pressed the catch of his torch and focused it above.
Grimy floors, bare walls, crumbling ceiling. Those were Cliff’s first impressions as he reached the topmost step. Then, swinging left toward the rear of the building, he discovered a corridor with doors at sides and end.
Cliff paced along the corridor. All the while, his eyes were keen, noting door after door. They centered on the barrier at the end. For a moment, Cliff was on the point of stopping; then he caught himself before he committed the mistake.
Something had glimmered in the light. A shining object wedged from the very edge of that door at the corridor’s end. Cliff had recognized it on the instant. The object was the muzzle of a revolver, pointed by some lurker in a darkened room.
“Luff!” Cliff gave the name hoarsely, as he slowed his pace instead of stopping. “This is Cliff. Cliff Marsland!”
Pausing, Cliff let the beam of his flashlight swing upward. The gleam bathed his face. As he stood tense in that barren corridor, a hoarse greeting answered. A door creaked in welcome. Cliff clicked out the light.