They were enough. Wildly, the man on the stairs dived downward. At the bottom, he yanked open the door and leaped out into the street.
A flashlight blinked a tiny circle at the head of the stairs. Keen eyes saw Joe Cardona. The detective was coming to his senses. A soft laugh — token of The Shadow. Keenly, The Shadow saw into the room where Crazy Lagran lay dead.
The stoolie killed; Cardona coming to life. No reason for The Shadow to remain. Too late to prevent Crazy’s death, he had arrived in time to save Joe Cardona. Sweeping past the detective, he reached the street. There was no one in view, but The Shadow heard the shrill of a police whistle. Evidently the last shots had been heard. Swiftly, The Shadow took to the night.
ONE block away, Hawkeye was on the move. Again the hunch-shouldered agent was taking up a trail.
For Hawkeye had come to Mosey’s hock shop. While The Shadow had entered by the rear wall, Hawkeye had been out front.
Hawkeye had seen a man come lurching from the doorway by the hock shop. He had taken up that trail.
Right now he was less than half a block behind a thickset man who was heading through the darkness.
Hawkeye’s quarry reached the nearest avenue. He started to walk along at a rapid pace. He — like Hawkeye — could hear whistles; the whine of a siren. They were too close for comfort. The fellow kept moving.
Hawkeye looked about in anxious fashion. His eye spied a taxi parked near an “el” station. Hawkeye grinned. No cab would be here as a rule, especially when the dragnet had this district on the go.
Hawkeye hurried to the cab.
Leaning in by the driver’s seat, he blurted quick words. A nod came from the shrewd-faced man behind the wheel.
The cab shot forward as Hawkeye dropped clear. Ducking into a doorway, Hawkeye watched the vehicle head up the street.
The man at the wheel of that cab was Moe Shrevnitz, another of The Shadow’s emergency aids. Cruising about the bad lands, Moe had been helping in the search for Miles Crofton’s hideout. Moe had happened to be at the spot where Hawkeye needed him.
The cab rolled along easily. It passed the thickset man who was pacing up the avenue. Moe jammed the brakes and swung over by the curb.
“Taxi?”
Moe saw the man nod. He caught a glimpse of a hard face. He opened the door. His fare clambered aboard. He growled a destination:
“Hotel Revano.”
“Where is it?” questioned Moe, leaning close by the window.
The man gave the address. Moe nodded. All the while, his right hand, on the seat beside him, was scrawling the name Hotel Revano upon the top sheet of a handy pad. Moe straightened up. He released the emergency brake. His hand yanked the paper loose and crumpled it.
The cab swung out from the curb. The ball of paper went spinning clear, unnoticed by the growling passenger. One minute later, the cab had turned a corner. But Hawkeye was coming up. He had seen that wad of paper fall.
It took Hawkeye just four minutes to get to a telephone. He put in a prompt report of Moe’s cooperation. Then he strolled out from the little store where he had found the phone booth. Wisely, Hawkeye headed away from the bad lands.
MEANWHILE, Moe was driving for the Hotel Revano. He made good speed at the start, getting clear of the district that he knew his fare wanted to forget. But after that, Moe picked his streets badly. Traffic crossing avenues; thoroughfares half barricaded with repair work — these increased his running time.
The passenger was peeved by the time they reached the hotel. He paid Moe the fare and walked into the lobby, growling as he went. Moe leaned from his cab and waved to the door man. The uniformed attendant approached.
“Say, buddy,” volunteered Moe, “I’m sorry for you. If all the guys that come here are like that cheap skate, your job must be tough.”
“How much did he tip you?” asked the doorman.
“Not a jit,” returned Moe.
“What did you do?” questioned the hotel attendant. “Take him five miles out of his way?”
“No. Why?”
“That guy usually hands out a tip. Maybe he was sore about the way you drove him. Maybe he was just in a hurry.”
“Him? That cheap guy? Say — I guess I’m lucky to have got my fare out of him. He don’t look like a bird with dough.”
“Guess again,” laughed the door man. “That’s Chuck Galla. Friend of Trip Burgan, fellow that lives here.”
“Trip Burgan?”
“Yeah — used to be a big-time gambler. Got money and hands it out pretty free, too.”
“That don’t sound bad. I guess maybe this guy just forgot the tip. Well, that’s the way it goes. Say, buddy, there’s two taxis here at your stand already. Think I’ll get a break if I fall in line?”
“Sure. There ought to be some cab calls any time now. Better roll in while you can.”
Moe backed his cab. As soon as he was in line, he scrawled out the information that he had received. He tore the paper loose and folded it with one hand. Then he settled behind the wheel and waited.
Not long. Alert though he was, Moe failed to hear the rear door open. His first inkling that any one had entered the cab came when a soft hiss was voiced through the window by Moe’s ear.
The taxi man lifted the folded paper. A gloved hand plucked it from his grasp. The door on the street side of the cab opened softly. Blackness emerged; the door closed. Moe’s job was done.
The Shadow had called Burbank. He had learned Hawkeye’s news. Moe’s dallying had enabled The Shadow to reach the Hotel Revano a few minutes after Chuck Galla.
Joe Cardona had found a trail to Crazy Lagran. That trail had ended with Crazy’s death. But there, The Shadow had entered. Through his agents, he had gained where Cardona had lost.
Already The Shadow knew the name of Crazy’s murderer. He had learned the identity of Chuck Galla; he had located Trip Burgan, the big shot whom Chuck was serving. The man hunt in the underworld had brought results at last.
CHAPTER XVI. TRIP’S ORDERS
TRIP BURGAN was standing by the window of his inner room. Cigarette between his lips, the ex-gambler was staring out toward city lights.
Chuck Galla, seated in a chair, was watching him. The underling had broken the news of Crazy Lagran’s death.
“So Cardona never lamped you, eh?” inquired Trip. “Well, that’s one good point. But you should have bagged Crazy before Cardona got there.”
“How’d I know Cardona was coming in?” queried Chuck.
“I told you to watch the dragnet,” retorted Trip. “If you’d had your eyes wide open, you’d have done better.”
“It wasn’t the dragnet, Trip. There wasn’t nobody else near there. Say — if the bulls had been around the hideout, I’d never have made no get-away.”
Trip considered this statement. He stared from the window, thinking. Chuck began to feel uneasy as he watched his chief. Seated with his back almost to the door, Chuck kept waiting for Trip to turn in from the window.
Motion from the doorway. The door itself was moving. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it opened inward until its edge provided a space a fraction of an inch in width. Trip did not see it. He was looking from the window. Nor did Chuck, who was watching Trip.
Blackness seemed to creep in from the opening. Long, splotchy blackness that stretched across the floor.
A flattened blot took on the sinister aspect of a hawk-nosed silhouette — a perfect profile that became motionless upon the floor.
“I was lucky, Trip,” admitted Chuck, suddenly. “But I used my noodle being lucky. That’s what counts. For all Cardona knew, it might have been the Unseen Killer that bumped Crazy.”
Trip chuckled. The thought pleased him. He swung in from the window. Facing his lieutenant, Trip failed to notice the profiled blackness on the floor.