“It’s Mokler, Spark. He’s got somethin’ to spill!”
Mokler’s face appeared excitedly at a barred gate. In breathless words, the messenger gave the news.
“Barthow just called up, Spark!” he informed.”Slipped me the dope that Furbish has come into the Maribar Hotel! Goin’ up to the penthouse to see Rowden!”
Spark howled for thugs to raise a gate. They obliged; Spark leaped into the passage and shouted for all his henchmen to take to their cars. One thing alone had puzzled Spark: that was why The Shadow had departed without delivering a sudden fire upon at least one unsuspecting crew.
At last, Spark knew why. The Shadow had contact with George Furbish. From some place close by, he had telephoned the man, to tell him that the way was clear to Rowden’s penthouse. With cover-up men absent, Furbish could leave the Maribar as safely as he had come there.
That, at least, was The Shadow’s belief – but it would be correct for only the next fifteen minutes. Spark Ganza was ready to drive for the Maribar Hotel with more than a score of henchmen, there to challenge the new move that The Shadow had so suddenly introduced.
CHAPTER XIII – SHATTERED HORDES
SPARK GANZA had guessed right. It was The Shadow who had ordered George Furbish’s prompt visit to the Maribar Hotel. Furbish had arrived there in the taxicab. Carrying a heavy satchel, he had stopped at the desk to inquire for Major Rowden.
Seated in the lobby were two men who had strolled there separately, a short time before. They were Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, redoubtable agents of The Shadow. They had recognized the cab when it arrived. They knew that the passenger was George Furbish.
Though they were watching the desk, The Shadow’s agents did not identify Barthow as one of Malfort’s inside men. Barthow had acted smoothly in the pinch. There was another clerk on duty with him. Ordinarily, Barthow would have stepped into the picture when he heard some one inquire for Major Rowden. But Barthow had also heard Furbish give his name; and he had wisely let the other clerk call the penthouse.
That bit of quick thinking had given Barthow the chance to step into the office unnoticed and put in the call that had so promptly reached Spark Ganza.
In the lobby, Furbish waited at an elevator, curbing his nervousness. When a door opened, Furbish stepped aboard a car that was manned by a tough-faced operator. Another passenger strolled into the elevator just before the doors closed. This passenger was Harry Vincent. Hands in his pockets, The Shadow’s agent was gripping a ready revolver.
Two guests of the hotel were also on board. They called their floors; the elevator stopped at the ninth and the fifteenth. Furbish gave his destination. As he said “Penthouse,” the elevator operator turned around and gave a sharp look. He saw Harry and growled:
“What’s your floor?”
Harry was watching the lights that indicated the elevator’s progress. They had just passed the seventeenth floor. With a light laugh, as though aroused from an absent-minded mood, Harry remarked:
“Sorry. I wanted the sixteenth. Go on up, operator. I’ll ride down with you.”
The operator grumbled; then decided to follow the order, particularly as Furbish stated suddenly that he was in a hurry. The elevator rode up to the penthouse. Furbish stepped off, while Harry remained on board. The car descended to the sixteenth, where The Shadow’s agent left it.
Four minutes later, Harry rang for an elevator and descended to the lobby. From the moment he arrived, he was under scrutiny of various watchers. It was obvious that the elevator operator was one of Malfort’s men; that the fellow had flashed the word for others to keep an eye on Harry.
A LONG-LIMBED man who looked like a house detective was standing by the cigar counter, playing a bagatelle game. He watched Harry buy a newspaper and stroll to a chair to read. There was tension in the lobby; the camouflaged crooks who worked for Malfort were at a hair-trigger pitch. Though they had been told to let Furbish pass, any slight incident might prove sufficient to make them show their true characters.
Foreseeing that, The Shadow had left nothing to chance. He had ordered Harry Vincent to convoy George Furbish to the penthouse; and Harry had put the job across. It was likely, however, that any new move on Harry’s part would bring trouble in the hotel.
A clock above the lobby desk was clicking off the minutes, its large hand jolting forward at every sixty seconds. Although certain watchers gave glances toward the clock, Barthow did not. The clerk was Malfort’s key-man here. He was covering his part to perfection. Barthow had a watch beneath his counter. He was noting the time while he attended to regular duties.
A dozen minutes had gone since Furbish’s arrival. Soon Spark Ganza and his full crew would be closing in about the Maribar.
A buzz sounded from an opened elevator. The operator stopped a chat with the bell captain in order to answer the call. The indicator board in the elevator showed that the ring had come from the penthouse floor.
Another man other than the operator had noticed the light on the indicator. That observer was Cliff Marsland. He had chosen a chair from which he could watch the indicators in all the elevators. Cliff had come into the lobby alone, no watchers had taken him to be a friend of Harry’s. The call from the penthouse centered all attention upon Harry; no one noticed Cliff as he sauntered toward the elevator.
The operator – a different man than the one with whom Harry had ridden – was the first of Malfort’s tools to recognize that Cliff was in the game. The operator learned the fact too late. The elevator was already riding upward when Cliff spoke.
“Hurry this trip up,” he told the operator, in an impatient tone. “Get up to the top and down again. I left a package in the lobby. I want to get it.”
The operator evidently had instructions to stall Furbish’s departure. He eyed Cliff and made a suggestion.
“Get off at your floor, sir,” said the operator. “I can have one of the bell boys bring the package up to your room.”
“I’m getting the package myself,” returned Cliff. “You heard what I said. Show some speed.”
Cliff’s hand had gone to his coat pocket. It was slowly emerging. The operator took the hint. He increased the car’s speed to the penthouse and banged the doors open. Furbish stepped aboard the car, carrying the same satchel. His satisfied smile told Cliff that the transaction had been completed. Furbish had delivered a quarter of a million dollars in currency of high denomination. He was carrying out the equivalent in jewels.
THE operator closed the doors and darted a sidelong glance toward Cliff. That one look convinced him that The Shadow’s agent would stand for no delay. The operator let the car ride downward, ignoring signals that called for stops at different floors. The elevator reached the lobby in record time.
When Furbish strode from the elevator, Cliff followed, his hand still ready for a quick draw of a gun. At the same moment, Harry Vincent popped from his chair and took up the trail. He, too, was prepared. Closing in behind Furbish, both agents of The Shadow were ready to wheel about and open fight with any of Malfort’s men.
If Barthow had been ready to risk commotion in the lobby, he would have desisted when he saw this threat. Barthow, however, was nonchalant. The time limit was almost ended. He preferred to leave Furbish to men outside. Barthow, however, had underestimated the quick trip that the elevator had made with Cliff aboard. He had also failed to realize how quick a departure Furbish would make when he reached the street.
The Shadow’s taxi was actually in motion when Furbish stepped aboard. Its driver was the swiftest hackie in Manhattan, The cab whined forward in high-speed second gear. It was clearing traffic, roaring eastward with its passenger when Harry and Cliff reached the street.