"This ain't right," whispered Spotter to himself. "Where's de guy I'm supposed to watch? Maybe he dropped out somewhere."
He crossed the street and quickened his pace until he was closer to Pedro. Then Spotter's body merged suddenly alongside a barrel that was on the sidewalk. He watched carefully as the Mexican passed beneath a bright light. He could see Pedro distinctly. He even noted the shadow of the huge man.
When Pedro had passed along, Spotter's eyes still remained upon that lighted area. No other man appeared there, but a long, thin shadow became visible on the sidewalk. It slid beneath the glare. It was blotted by the blackness beyond.
The barrel moved as Spotter trembled against it. The strange personage of the underworld did not move from his position. Instead he whispered to himself.
"It looks like — like — De Shadow!"
Regaining his nerve, Spotter slid along the sidewalk, slowly, now, as though he desired to have as much distance as possible between himself and Pedro.
"If it ain't De Shadow," he muttered, "I'm all right. If it is De Shadow — well, I got to do it. He ain't watchin' me, anyway. He's after dat big guy up ahead. He don't have to know I'm here — but he finds out anyt'ing! Everyt'ing!"
Spotter squatted close to a fire plug and thought for a moment. Then he laughed harshly.
"Well," he said softly, "it may be his funeral tonight. His funeral. So here goes. I don't owe De Shadow no good feelin's. I lost out t'rough him once. I ain't goin' to quit, now that I got started."
He moved more quickly, but with the greatest care. Even his footsteps were soundless. And as he followed, far behind Pedro, he became more bold. For Spotter was entering the heart of the underworld; he was among the haunts with which he was most familiar.
The Mexican turned down an alley. Spotter reached the corner very quickly. He saw Pedro stop before a door. He waited while the Mexican entered. A dim light revealed the scene, yet Spotter could see no one else — not even a conspicuous shadow.
Slowly, stealthily, he crept down the dim alley, virtually invisible in the darkness. He stopped suddenly, thirty feet before he reached the doorway. He saw it now, across the alley — a huge, black blot on the sidewalk — a blot that seemed to sway.
Spotter remained motionless. His eyes sought the wall above the strange quivering shadow. Everything was dark along the wall; he would have sworn that there was no one in that spot.
No one moved along the alley. The place seemed absolutely deserted. Spotter, crouched behind a pile of boxes, did not betray his presence. He waited expectantly, afraid to move despite the fact that his sharp eyes had seen nothing.
Suddenly a human form seemed to emerge from the dark wall. The appearance was instantaneous, as though a curtain had been swept aside to reveal a living being. A man walked openly beneath the light — a man attired in rough clothing, who appeared to be a typical denizen of the underworld.
Spotter could see the man's face; it was a sullen, grimy face. He knew every one in gangland; yet he could not identify this person. The man who had appeared with such amazing suddenness entered the doorway where the Mexican had gone.
Spotter waited, again undecided. Then he rose slowly, and stood still. For a moment he began to turn, as though to leave the alley. Then, with an effort, he approached the doorway. It was the entrance to the basement den known as the Black Ship — a place with which Spotter was quite familiar.
"De bunch will know me," mumbled Spotter as he hesitated before the door. "Dey will all know me. An' if dat's De Shadow — well, he will know me, too."
He thrust his hands in his pockets. Some coins jingled. They were the change left from money he had spent — money which had been paid him in advance for the work he was expected to do to-night.
"I tipped de bunch off already," observed Spotter, as though reasoning with himself. "If I don't show up, maybe dey'll blow de works demselves. I ain't got nothin' to do but go ahead wid it. It means more dough comin' to me if it works."
He shrugged his shoulders.
Then, defying his apprehensions, he drew his hands from his pockets, opened the door, and stepped into the Black Ship.
CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE BLACK SHIP
There were about two dozen men in the large underground den when Pedro entered. The Mexican, with his ugly, scar-marked face, was a fit companion for the group that was assembled there. His eyes shone, and his teeth gleamed as he looked about him with satisfaction.
The crowd in the Black Ship represented the most ruthless thugs of the underworld. Every face that Pedro saw was a hardened, criminal type. Pockmarked features, ratlike eyes, coarse, brutal lips — these predominated in the Black Ship.
The Mexican seated himself at a table near the small bar that was in one corner of the room. The man behind the bar, a huge, brutal fellow, brought out a bottle and a glass and placed them in front of Pedro.
The Mexican gave him a dollar bill.
He knew who the bartender was. The man was "Red Mike" himself, the proprietor of the Black Ship. He conducted his notorious dive without interference from the police. For the Black Ship was the meeting place of the worst criminals that the underworld could boast, and the fact that it operated almost openly was of value to the authorities who sought to combat the evil hordes of gangland.
Police detectives did not enter the Black Ship, but their stool pigeons did. Time and again notorious criminals were traced from this den of the underworld. Yet it was only the most daring and most secretive of stool pigeons who dared enter the Black Ship; for had their identity been known, their lives would have been taken in an instant.
Red Mike knew that his place was tolerated by the police. For that reason he insisted that order be preserved. The gangsters respected Red Mike. They were his friends, and any unruly customer would be ejected instantly at his command.
"No gun play" was the proprietor's strict rule. He did not permit fights and quarrels among crooks to enter his domain. There was only one entrance to the Black Ship. It was an unwritten law in the underworld that those whose victims entered the dive beneath the street should wait outside until their men left Red Mike's place.
Any one could enter. Any one could be served. But only the toughest characters came in. Red Mike spotted strangers instantly. As long as they sat quietly and drank what they received they were welcome.
But no one was allowed to take a bottle from his place.
Like every hardened man of that district, Red Mike was willing to take a chance for the proper price.
Hence, on rare occasions, he allowed a fight to start in the Black Ship — but always under the most careful conditions.
He was expecting trouble to-night. A phone call had come from the proper person. In response, Red Mike had served free drinks to all his patrons. This was a remarkable action — one which was seldom performed in the Black Ship.
Some of the men had received the unexpected benefit with looks of surprise. Others — these were the ones whom Red Mike noticed particularly — had grinned in anticipation. Their toughened faces had shown sudden interest.
One by one they had risen from their tables and had gone through a door into a small inner room — a stone-walled apartment with an iron-plated door. It was seldom that Red Mike allowed any of his patrons to enter that room. It was usually kept for storage purposes.
Pedro the Mexican had entered before the last man had gone through the heavy door. He finished his drink leisurely. While he still sat at his table, the outer door of the Black Ship swung open and a man walked through the entrance.
The newcomer was tall and wiry. He wore khaki pants that were too large for him. An old sweater covered his body. A ragged cap was pulled down over his eyes. Beneath the visor was a face that revealed the typical gangster — a cruel, toughened face.