Two men sat at a table in a corner of the spacious Club DeLuxe. The popular night club was rarely crowded at nine o’clock on a Wednesday evening. Hence the spot which the men had chosen was well away from observation. No one was within thirty feet of them.
Both men were well dressed. They bore a similarity of appearance. There was one noticeable difference — their expressions. One had a firm face, a steady gaze, and well-chiseled features that gave him a distinctive profile. The other possessed a brutal countenance, sullen and merciless. Facially, there was no resemblance between Cliff Marsland and “Clipper” Tobin.
Cliff replaced his coffee cup on the table. He glanced about him to make sure that no one was near.
Clipper duplicated the action. The closest person was a young man who had taken a table well beyond earshot. Cliff turned toward his companion and put a direct question to the tough-faced gangster.
“Out with it, Clipper,” he said in a low voice. “It’s time I knew the layout for tonight.”
“You’re gettin’ your grand, ain’t you?” came the sullen reply.
“Sure,” said Cliff. “That’s why I want the low-down. If you expect the help you want, you’ve got to shoot straight with me. That’s all.”
“I’m shootin’ straight, Cliff!” retorted Clipper. “‘We ain’t likely to run into no trouble tonight. I’m goin’ to do the job; you’ll be there in case we run into a second guy. We’ve only got to get one gazebo. It don’t take two of us to do that.”
“All right!” said Cliff quietly. “Suppose you go it alone then. I’ll give you back your money.”
Clipper’s eyes sparkled angrily. His vicious glance was met by Cliff Marsland’s firm stare. The tough gangster had met his equal. He realized that he could no longer play pretenses with Cliff Marsland.
“Listen, Cliff,” he said in an appeasing tone, “I’ve told you before that I ain’t the boss. I’m gettin’ paid, like you. The fellow that slipped me the dough figured that only one guy needed to know the lay. I’ve done jobs for him before. This is your first crack. You can’t blame him for bein’ careful.”
“He told you to get a man to work with you,” was the retort. “That much was left up to you. I can’t see why you’re holding out.”
“I ain’t doubtin’ you, Cliff,” appealed Clipper. “I picked you as soon as I heard you was on the loose. I heard about you from guys that knew you up in the big house when you was doin’ a stretch a few years back. You did some good bumpin’ off after that, too, they told me.”
Cliff smiled to himself. He knew that his reputation in gangdom was intact. What Clipper Tobin had said was true. Cliff had served a term in Sing Sing for a crime which he did not commit. After that he had fought among racketeers, but he had been on the side of gangland’s most feared avenger — The Shadow.
This was unknown to Clipper.
Cliff remained silent while his mind flashed back through the past. Out of the corner of his eye he was noting the man at the other table. Clipper observed his companion’s silence, but misconstrued it. He decided that Cliff was becoming lukewarm.
“Listen, Cliff,” he said, “the guy that hired us doesn’t know you. You’re right when you said he left it up to me. I didn’t tell him your name any more than I told you his. I just said that I had found a killer — to leave the rest to me. He took my word for it; but he said for me to use my noodle, and to do the job without much chatter.
“At the same time, you’re goin’ to wise up pretty quick to what we’re doin’. We ain’t goin’ to lose no time after we get outa this joint. So I’ll play the game an’ tip you off right now. That is, if you’re satisfied with what you’re gettin’. I am. Is that enough for you?”
Cliff laughed.
“Say, Clipper,” was his response, “I’d have gone along with you for half of what I’m getting. I’ve got dough. One grand isn’t a lot of cash. But what’s a killing? I’ve seen plenty of times when I’d handle one for the fun of it.”
A sordid grin came over Clipper Tobin’s ugly face. This was the sort of talk he liked to hear.
“I told you we’re safe on this,” he declared.
“I took your word for it, Clipper.”
“You’re goin’ through with the job O.K.?”
“Just as I’ve intended from the start.”
Clipper saw no double meaning in Cliff’s last remark. He leaned over the table and fairly hissed his next words.
“All right, Cliff,” he said. “I’m wisin’ you up. The mug we’re goin’ to bump is Arnold Bodine!”
CLIFF MARSLAND evidenced no surprise other than a steady stare that caused the grin to spread on Clipper’s face. They formed an odd pair; Cliff, unmoved by Clipper’s startling statement; Clipper with the triumphant look of a man who has delivered a bombshell.
“Is that all?” asked Cliff.
Clipper stared back in surprise.
“You ain’t kiddin’ are you?” he questioned.
“Certainly not!” was the retort. “Bodine’s a has-been.”
“He’s still gettin’ his.”
“Well, he’ll get it in a different way tonight.”
Again Clipper Tobin was pleased by his companion’s attitude. Still, he could not help but think that Cliff was minimizing the danger.
“You know where Bodine hangs out, don’t you?” asked Clipper.
“Sure,” was Cliff’s reply. “At the Goliath Hotel.”
“You know how many bodyguards he’s got, don’t you?”
“I’ve heard he has five.”
“You heard right. I guess that makes you wonder, don’t it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I figured right away that you’ve got some way of sliding around them. Otherwise it would take more than two of us to do the job.”
“You’ve got a head on you, Cliff,” said Clipper admiringly. “Well, you’ve got the right lay — although I’ll surprise you when I give you the inside. What d’you think is Bodine’s weakness?”
“Too many bodyguards!”
“Why?”
“He isn’t paying them enough, probably,” Cliff explained. “He’d be better off with two — giving them as much as he’s handing five.”
“That’s it.” Clipper nodded. “Well, here’s the low-down. One of the five has squealed. He’s let out somethin’ that nobody knew.”
“Which is—”
“That Bodine’s layout up at the Goliath Hotel is a blind. He’s got his real hideout somewhere else. Those five bodyguards are all baloney. He don’t need any. Those guys get paid for doin’ nothin’ but keeping mum. They’re not supposed to know where his hideout is — but one of them found out and spilled the dope.”
“How?” Cliff was taking advantage of Clipper’s sudden volubility. Now that the man had begun to talk, he was going through with it.
“He was offered some dough to tell what he knew about Bodine.”
“Where’s Bodine’s hideout?”
Clipper threw a hasty glance to make sure that no one had approached. His eyes sought the clock above a distant counter.
“In the Maurice Apartments,” he said. “Eight blocks from the Goliath. We’re goin’ there now. He calls himself Andrew Davis.”
Cliff slipped his right hand into his coat pocket. He was leaning against the wall. His arm appeared motionless; but his hand was busy. He was scrawling quick items of information on a small pad in his pocket, using the stub of a pencil.
“Ready?” questioned Clipper.
The gangster’s eyes were directly on Cliff, but he did not detect the secret action. Cliff nodded and arose.
His fingers were twisting the sheet of paper into a small ball. His hand came from his pocket, and the pellet dropped into his hat as he reached to get it.
The two men walked across the cafe; as they passed the table where the lone man was seated, Clipper scrutinized him suspiciously. The man was busy eating, and apparently did not notice Clipper’s action. It was Clyde Burke, of the Classic, but Clipper did not recognize the reporter.
Cliff Marsland, following close behind Clipper, did not even glance in Clyde’s direction. As he passed the table his hat brushed against it, and the pellet of paper rolled on the tablecloth. Clyde set his napkin on the table at that particular instant and trapped the little wad with its precious information.
NO observant eye could have detected what had happened. Clyde Burke acted as though he were being watched. He had captured the ball of paper unseen; now he drew it to his lap with the napkin. With one hand beneath the table, he unrolled the wad. The message lay upon his lap. The penciled scrawl was plainly visible by a light that came from a pillar behind the reporter.
Out to get Bodine. Hideout Maurice Apartments. Fake name Andrew Davis.
Clyde made no motion. He sat at the table for a full minute without even glancing toward the door where the two men had gone. He was allowing sufficient time for them to leave the Club DeLuxe. His first action was to call for the waiter and pay the check.
Leisurely he strolled to the entrance. There was a telephone booth there, but he ignored it. Better to make his call outside.
The Club DeLuxe was located on the second floor. As Clyde was striding down the stairs he encountered one of those chance interruptions that so often play an important part in the best-laid schemes. Three men were coming up the steps. Clyde, swinging downward, accidentally stumbled against one and threw the man toward the wall. An angry response was the result.
“Sorry,” remarked Clyde.
“Yeah?” came the vicious retort.
Clyde found himself staring into the eyes of a tough-looking individual, evidently a gangster-habitue of the Club DeLuxe. The man had been drinking, but he was by no means incapable. He had apparently reached that early stage of drunkenness that produces pugnacity. The man reached forward and clutched Clyde by the shoulder.
“You know who I am?”
Clyde was intent on his errand. He sought to mollify the man, but as he began to speak the fellow became more violent. Despite a warning cry from one of his companions, he swung a quick blow at the reporter’s chin.
Clyde warded it aside. He thought quickly. A fight now would be unwise. The other men might side with their friend. At the same time, it was necessary to get away. As he parried the blow he made no effort to punch back. Instead he stepped back a pace, avoided a second swing, and started down the steps.
It was then that his opponent, angered at Clyde’s agility, threw himself forward.
Clyde could not avoid that plunge. He raised his hands in protection and lost his footing as he stepped backward. The weight of the man’s body landed upon him, and Clyde Burke was thrown headforemost down the steps. He felt a strange dizziness as he was hurtling downward; then his head struck against something and all was black.
He opened his eyes to see a group of faces peering at him. He recognized the features of the rowdy who had attacked him. This fellow, despite his tough appearance, seemed the most apprehensive member of the crowd.
“All right, buddy?” he asked.
Clyde nodded. Two other men propped him against the side of the wall. He noted that the cafe manager was present. That partly explained the change in his attacker’s attitude. Another reason was immediately put forward.
“You’re from the Classic, ain’t you?”
Clyde nodded again.
“Didn’t mean to hurt you. It was my fault, startin’ things,” came the apology. “You must ‘a’ tripped when I grabbed you. Wasn’t that what happened, boys?”
The fellow’s companions chimed their agreement. The manager of the Club DeLuxe spoke to Clyde.
“All right now?” he asked.
“All right,” said Clyde, rubbing a bump on the side of his head. “Say— how long have I been out?”
“Pretty near ten minutes.”
Clyde suppressed a gasp of alarm. Cliff Marsland and Clipper Tobin were on their way to Bodine’s place. It was not at the Goliath Hotel, where he knew The Shadow would be on watch! Ten precious minutes had been lost. He must let The Shadow know!
Rising clumsily to his feet, he shook hands with the man who had battled with him and grinned as though the matter was of no account. Every one seemed relieved.
“I’m supposed to be down at the Classic office,” he explained groggily. “I’m not hurt — let’s forget it.”
“Have a drink?” questioned his late opponent.
Clyde shook his head.
“Want a cab?” inquired the solicitous manager.
“No,” was the reporter’s response. “I’ll take the subway.”
He steadied himself against the rail and fought off a spell of dizziness. He was anxious to avoid further delay. He waved his hand in a friendly manner and went down the steps, trying to appear at his best. His head was swimming when he reached the sidewalk.
THE bright lights of the avenue confused him. He walked toward the corner, spied a drug store, and entered. As luck would have it, all the phone booths were occupied. Clyde decided to go elsewhere, but his legs seemed too weak. He sat on a stool at the soda fountain and rested, his head throbbing, all about him confusion.
Some one left a booth and Clyde staggered into the compartment. He dropped his nickel and tried to dial. There were black spots before his eyes. His finger slipped. He began again.
With great effort he managed to dial the number. He waited patiently, the ringing over the wire conflicting with the throbbing of his head. At last he heard a quiet voice, seemingly far away.
“B,” he said in response.
“Report,” came the word.
Clyde’s lips were to the mouthpiece of the phone. There was no opportunity for artfully worded phrases.
His grogginess was coming on again in this stuffy booth.
“Bodine,” he said in a low voice. “Not at Goliath. At Maurice Apartments. Phony name — Andrew Davis. On their way to get him. Hurry.”
A word of understanding came over the wire. Clyde hung up the phone and sat with his head in his hands. There was a rapping on the door of the booth. Some one else wanted to make a call.
Clyde came out, made his way to the street, and leaned against a wall while the fresh air began to revive his sickened senses. It must have been fully twenty minutes after the men left the Club DeLuxe before he sent his message through. But now all was well.
He had reported to Burbank, The Shadow’s confidential aid. The message in turn would be relayed to The Shadow. Before Arnold Bodine’s enemies had arrived, The Shadow would be there — unless Clyde’s call had been too late!