As originally published in “The Shadow Magazine,” December 1931

CHAPTER I

AN INTERRUPTED FLIGHT

TWO MEN sat facing each other in a luxurious penthouse atop one of the Boulevard’s newer apartment houses. One was pale and nervous. His face twitched as he puffed his cigar with great rapidity. His companion was a sharp contrast. Short, chubby-faced, and calm, he bore the air of a man who seldom became perturbed.

The roar of Chicago’s night traffic seemed far away, yet it disturbed the nervous man. He threw his cigar in an ash stand, and walked to the window. He drew the curtains aside with caution and stared toward the twinkling lights of the Loop. Then he turned to face his companion.

“I’m through with it, Fellows,” he said, “I’m through. I want to get out — if I can. But there’s no getting out of this — “

He swept his hand toward the window, to indicate the city below. His eyes were pleading as he stared at the quiet-faced man in the chair.

Fellows was thoughtful for a few moments; then he spoke with deliberation.

“How soon do you expect trouble, Prescott?” he asked.

“Soon,” was the reply. “Very soon!”

“Tonight?”

“No. I think I can count on a few days of grace. But after that — “

Prescott began to pound one palm with the fist of his other hand. His haggard face showed signs of long, uninterrupted strain. He was nearing the breaking point. With an effort, he regained control of himself and sat down on the edge of a chair.

“Fellows,” he said, “I’ve talked too much. I did it to cover up. I thought that if I acted wise, as though I’d been checking up on gang stuff as a hobby, no one would ever suspect that Horace Prescott was in the racket, himself.

“It worked all right until I became foolish. It was when I began to play with rival gangs that they figured I was giving them the double cross.

“Now I’m slated to be put on the spot. On the spot, Fellows! You know what that means!”

The other man interrupted.

“Outside of Chicago — ” he began.

“It’s all the same,” replied Prescott. “They’ll follow me anywhere. They’ll get me!”

“Outside of Chicago,” repeated Fellows insistently, “you will be safe. I promised you that you would be protected, once you were clear of this city.

“You have done your part. You have given me the information I needed. You have had contact with both Pete Varona and Mike Larrigan.”

“Yes,” agreed Prescott, “I know how those gangs work. I’ve seen too much of them” — there was bitterness in his voice — “and when I said that the big shot, Nick Savoli, can be reached through Pete Varona, I meant it. Pete’s in with the big shot, all right.”

“You are right when you say that you talked too much,” resumed Fellows quietly. “At the same time, your future safety lies in that very fact.

“I represent a man, Prescott, who is more powerful than any of these gangsters!”

“Not in Chicago,” objected Prescott.

“Not in Chicago,” agreed Fellows. “Not here, at present. But later” — his voice was prophetic — “the situation may be different.”

HORACE PRESCOTT seemed somewhat reassured by the quiet manner of his visitor. He looked at Fellows inquiringly, hoping that the man would tell him more.

“The man I mentioned,” said Fellows, “has been planning a most astonishing campaign. Even I, his agent, do not know its details.

“I know only that it concerns the present situation here in Chicago; that gangdom is about to learn the power of this man. I came here as a confidential investigator. I learned of you through Clyde Johnston.”

“He knows a lot about me,” observed Prescott. “Johnston is a good friend of mine.

“I’ve told you my racket — selling booze to society and to exclusive clubs. The cops never bothered me. I was a society man, with a good income that came from an inheritance. That’s partly correct. Only, I’ve been making lots more by running bootleg liquor than I have from clipping coupons.”

“My instructions,” Fellows spoke again, “were to make contact with a man of your type.

“I am an insurance broker by profession. My clients are men of means. It was easy for me to learn who was active in selling liquor to wealthy customers. In talking with Johnston, I discovered that you had admitted to him that you were in difficulties.”

Prescott nodded.

“Johnston doesn’t buy liquor,” he said. “He gave me plenty of advice when he found out that I was in the racket. Old friend, you know. Thinking of my welfare. Told me to get out of the dirty game. I told him that I couldn’t.”

“Yes,” said Fellows, “he was very apprehensive about you. He told me all he knew about you when I suggested that I might find some way of helping you. He called you on the telephone when I was in his office. Hence our interview tonight.”

“I’ve played square, haven’t I?” asked Prescott pleadingly. “I told you everything, didn’t I? If you want me to write down all the details — “

“There’s no need for it,” said Fellows dryly. “I have an excellent memory. I shall make out my report later.

“The real task now is to get you clear of Chicago. In New York, you will be safe.”

“In New York!” exclaimed Prescott, in sudden alarm. “Why, there’s gangsters there who work hand in glove with these Chicago mobs — “

“That is true,” interposed Fellows, “but the man whose instructions I follow is also in New York. He will see that you are free from harm.

“You are willing to quit the racket. You have told all you know. In return, you will be sent to safety.”

The chubby-faced man drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Horace Prescott.

“This envelope contains a ticket to New York,” he said, “with reservations on the eleven-thirty train, Michigan Central. You leave tonight.

“In New York, register, under my name — Claude H. Fellows — at the Metrolite Hotel. You will receive immediate instructions from my patron.”

“Are you going with me?”

“No. I have a ticket for Omaha, Nebraska. I have certain business there.

“Remember, Prescott, that I am an insurance broker. I travel considerably. I brought my bag with me tonight. You will accompany me as though you were simply going to the station. But our routes will be in opposite directions.

“Those who follow me will be on a false trail. Yet after you have dropped off at the Michigan Central station, there will be no clew other than myself.”

A look of satisfaction appeared upon Horace Prescott’s face. He had trusted this man because he was in an uncomfortable situation. He believed everything that Fellows had told him.

Now he felt assured that tonight would be his opportunity to elude the threats that hung above him.

PRESCOTT pushed a button on the wall. A Japanese servant entered. Prescott was about to speak to him when a sound came from the street. It was the loud back-fire of a motor.

Prescott leaped to his feet and was halfway across the room before he could restrain himself. He regained his composure with effort. Traces of alarm still remained upon his face. He had mistaken the noise for a revolver shot.

“Togo,” he said to the servant, “Mr. Fellows is leaving in ten minutes I shall drive to the station with him. Tell Louie to have the car ready immediately.”

The servant left to telephone the garage. Prescott looked at his watch. He lighted a panatella and puffed nervously, then threw the cigar away.

“I’m trusting you, Fellows,” he blurted suddenly. “I know your proposition is on the level. If these rats wanted to put me out of the way, they wouldn’t use any complicated plan to do it.

“I thought, for a few minutes, that your proposition was phony; but that would be ridiculous. I’m out of the racket now. I’m going to play straight. I don’t know who your boss is; but you have plenty of confidence in him. I’m glad I was on the level with you.”

He glanced at his watch.

“Louie ought to be here by now,” he said. “You go downstairs first, with your bag. Get in the car. If you see any one prowling around, come back as though you forgot something.

“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come along in a few minutes. Leave the door of the car half open.”

Fellows nodded. He picked up his bag and left the penthouse. When he reached the street, the insurance broker saw Prescott’s limousine standing in front of the building. The chauffeur was in the front seat.

Prescott had sent the car to bring Fellows to his home; hence the observant insurance broker recognized the car immediately.

Fellows opened the back door and entered. He closed the door and peered through the window, up and down the street. He saw no one. Then, to his surprise, the car began to move.

It started suddenly and Fellows lurched back into the seat. His outstretched hand struck a human form. There, beside him, was a man, trussed with rope and gagged.

THE car stopped around the corner, just as Fellows turned on the light in the rear. So intent was the insurance broker that he did not realize the car was no longer in motion.

For the light had revealed the features of the bound man, and Fellows looked upon Louie, Prescott’s chauffeur!

“What’s the big idea?”

The voice came from the front seat. Fellows looked into the face of the man who had taken the chauffeur’s place. The speaker had the ugly countenance of a professional thug.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded, still glaring angrily at Fellows.

Before the insurance broker could reply, he was startled by a volley of revolver shots.

The sound came from around the corner, back at the entrance where the car had been standing.

“Come on!” ordered the driver. “Scram out of this car before — “

Fellows needed no urging. He knew instinctively that murder was under way. He leaped to the street and dashed back around the corner.

A car was pulling away from the curb. A body was lying on the sidewalk.

Fellows ran toward the fallen man. Shots hit the paving beside him. The men in the fleeing car had seen his action, and had fired as their car turned the corner.

Fellows ducked into the entrance; then, realizing that the danger had passed, he hurried toward the man who lay on the sidewalk.

“Dead!” he exclaimed, as he lifted the man’s shoulders. The form was limp and lifeless.

The head dropped back as Fellows raised the body. The light from the front of the building fell directly on the face. A gasp of horror came from the lips of the insurance broker.

The murdered man was Horace Prescott!

CHAPTER II

FELLOWS SPEAKS

A SMALL group of men stood about the spot where Horace Prescott’s body lay. Three uniformed policemen were on duty, ordering the passers-by to keep moving. Another gang killing was sufficient to draw a crowd — even in Chicago.

A few plain-clothes men were on the scene. The only other privileged individuals were two or three men who had eluded the vigilance of the policemen, and who were standing in the background.

The detectives were watching five persons who were temporarily under their charge.

One was Claude Fellows; with him were two men who had witnessed the shooting from a distance. The others were Togo and Louie.

The Japanese servant had come downstairs with Horace Prescott. He had heard the shots as he was returning to the elevator.

Louie had been found in the automobile by the policemen. Fellows had led them there. The car had been abandoned.

A police car drove up and two men made their exit. One was Police Captain Julius Weaver. The other was Barney Higgins, assistant detective commissioner. He was well known as an investigator of gangsters.

The detectives became suddenly alert when their superiors appeared. They had been instructed to await the arrival of Weaver and Higgins, both of whom were at police headquarters when the news of the killing had reached there.

Barney Higgins looked at the body on the sidewalk. He turned to Weaver and nodded his head.

“They got Prescott, all right,” he said. “He had it coming to him, I guess. I knew he was in the racket — but I didn’t think he was in deep enough for this.”

HIGGINS began a quick inspection of the scene. Satisfied with his observations, he rejoined the police captain. Orders were given for the removal of the body.

The detective commissioner approached the group of men near the detectives.

“These two was witnesses,” explained a detective. “This one” — he pointed to Fellows — “was upstairs with the guy that was killed. He came down and got in the car. They ran him around the corner and told him to scram.”

Higgins stared at Fellows for a moment; then turned back to the detective.

“This man” — the detective indicated Louie — “was the chauffeur. They had him tied up in the car.”

“Landed on me the minute I arrived,” volunteered Louie.

“What did they look like?” questioned Higgins.

“Dunno,” answered Louie promptly. “Couldn’t see ‘em in the dark.”

Higgins looked at him as though he doubted that the chauffeur was telling all he knew. Then he turned to study Togo.

“Jap servant,” he was informed by the detective. “Came downstairs with the guy that was bumped off — “

“Bring them down to headquarters,” ordered Higgins. “No — wait a minute.”

He looked at Claude Fellows.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Claude H. Fellows,” came the response.

“Business?”

“Insurance broker from New York.”

“Did you see the shooting?”

“No. I was in the car. The man in the front seat drove me around the corner.”

“What did he look like?”

“About medium height, I should judge,” replied Fellows thoughtfully. “Dark complexion, and an ugly face. He looked like a gunman.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yes.”

Higgins studied Fellows carefully.

“What do you know about Prescott?” he questioned suddenly.

Fellows was ready with an answer.

“I knew that he was expecting this,” returned Fellows calmly. “I met him through a friend and found that he was anxious to leave the city. He told me why.”

“Because?”

“Because of his gang connections. He gave me all the important facts concerning them.”

Higgins looked at the police captain and caught an approving nod.

“Come along with me,” said the detective commissioner. “You can tell me your story when we get to headquarters.”

Claude Fellows smiled. He had no reason to keep anything from the police. He did not know, however, what use they would make of any information that he might give them.

Higgins appeared to have considerable knowledge of Prescott’s connections. Yet Fellows was sure that he possessed vital facts which would be news to Higgins.

A YOUNG man stepped up and waved a greeting to the assistant commissioner. It was Jerry Kirklyn, reporter for a Chicago daily.

“Hello, Barney,” said the reporter. “What’s the dope on this? Looks like some mob has social aspirations, when it comes to killings. Got a story for me?”

“Later, Jerry,” said the assistant commissioner. “See me down at headquarters, after I interview the witnesses.”

He drew the reporter to one side.

“Wait until this man Fellows testifies,” he said. “We’re going to get the real low-down on Prescott’s hook-up with the mobs. But lay off until then.”

“The detectives tell me,” said Kirklyn, “that Prescott pulled out a gun and fired back when three men fell on him at the door of the lobby. He wounded one, they say. Is that right?”

Higgins questioned one of the detectives and received the man’s affirmation.

“What about it?” questioned the reporter. “Can you trace the man through the hospitals?”

“You know better than that, Jerry,” he said. “These gangsters have their own physicians. Don’t you remember the doctor they bumped off six months ago? He was a sawbones who was going to pull a double cross.

“This gangster that Prescott wounded is on his way to some crooked medico right now.”

Jerry Kirklyn eyed Claude Fellows curiously. He recognized that the chubby-faced man was not of gangdom’s realm. He was anxious for a statement, and he made a quick approach.

“You were with Prescott before he was killed?” he asked. “What do you know about him?”

“I know everything,” replied Fellows. “He told me all his story before I left him. We were going to the station in his car.

“I am willing to give the police a complete statement that will — “

“Not here,” objected Higgins. “Come along to headquarters. You can tell me about yourself on the way down.” He turned to the reporter. “You see me later, Barney.”

The assistant commissioner gripped the insurance broker’s arm. He turned and drew Fellows toward the curb.

There were a few hangers-on standing near by. One of them, a sallow-faced youth with a cigarette hanging from his lips, looked sharply at Fellows as he passed. The insurance broker entered the police car with the officers.

The man began to stroll away as the car moved from the curb. He turned the corner and walked rapidly toward a drug store which had a telephone booth sign on the window.

IN the police car, the detective commissioner disregarded Claude Fellows for the moment. He spoke to Captain Weaver.

“There’ll be a stew over this,” he said. “The newspapers have been saying it’s time we stopped these killings.

“Our policy of letting gunmen bump each other off is all right — until something like this happens. We’ve got to get the man who did this.

“Prescott was phony himself — we can prove that. Still, he was a man known in society circles. He wasn’t a gorilla type.”

Higgins turned to Fellows.

“When we get to headquarters,” he said, “you can spill what you know. In the meantime, tell me something about yourself. We can have your statement on Prescott later.”

Fellows explained his presence in Chicago in a quiet, convincing way. He spoke of his insurance business and the wealth of his usual clients.

He said nothing about his mysterious chief in New York.

“Prescott was in a tough spot,” he declared. “He wanted me to help him out. We were going to the station. I was to take the Northwestern for Omaha; he was to drop out and take the Michigan Central for New York.”

Higgins nodded. He interrupted with a few words addressed to the police captain.

“The orders to kill Prescott came from higher up,” was his comment. “Larrigan may have done it. Varona may have ordered it. If Varona is responsible, the instructions probably came from the big shot.”

“Savoli?”

“Correct.”

As Higgins turned to Fellows, the police car stopped suddenly. They were at headquarters.

Captain Weaver alighted and walked away from the car, leaving Higgins with Fellows. The assistant commissioner followed with the insurance broker. Fellows was speaking as they moved along.

Fellows had been doing some thinking during the ride. He was ready to tell the police everything he knew about Horace Prescott. It would be the opening shot in a drastic campaign against gangdom. Higgins would be able to act with the startling information he would gain.

With it all, Fellows could easily avoid mention of his real purpose in visiting Prescott. Neither Togo nor Louie knew anything of Prescott’s revelations.

Prescott had satisfied Fellows on that point. His servants had been chosen to create respectability, not to act as associates.

“I know who killed Prescott,” said Fellows quietly, as he stepped along beside Higgins. “I can positively name the men in back of it, and tell why they struck.”

Higgins stopped and clutched the insurance broker’s arm. Something in the statement impressed him.

“Wait until we’re inside,” he ordered. “I want Weaver to be in on this. I think you’ve got the dope. Remember now, play square. If you do — “

The assistant commissioner turned suddenly. A large touring car was coasting silently toward the curb.

In an instant, Higgins realized the menace.

“Duck!” he shouted, as he released his hold on the arm of his companion. “Duck for cover!”

BEFORE Fellows could respond, the staccato rattle of a machine gun drowned the commissioner’s words.

Claude Fellows was the living target of the steel-jacketed bullets. Standing alone on the sidewalk, he went down beneath the metal avalanche.

A gasp escaped his lips as he fell. It was the last sound he uttered in this life.

The motor of the touring car purred as the automobile swept away. In a few moments it was traveling at reckless speed, disappearing around the corner before any could identify it.

Higgins had escaped the attack. He rose from the spot beside the steps where he had flung himself.

He knew that the killers had not desired his death; yet he also realized that his position with the police force would not have deterred the slayers in their mad desire to blot out Claude Fellows. Only through his prompt, intuitive action, had Barney Higgins evaded a similar end.

The assistant commissioner bent over the body of the murdered man. He saw in an instant that Fellows had expired. The man’s lips were half open. They seemed on the point of speaking; about to cry their knowledge of gangdom’s crooked ways.

Claude Fellows had been wiped out; and with him, the revelations had been suppressed. He had begun to speak, and the powers of the underworld had silenced him.

“We’ll never know,” muttered Barney Higgins. “We’ll never know what he was going to tell us. We know who this man is — but that is all.”

There was conviction in the commissioner’s tone. He was amazed by this bold stroke of gangdom — the killing of a man who was about to enter police headquarters, accompanied by an assistant commissioner.

Higgins wondered what secrets had perished with this murdered man.

Yet, he connected Claude Fellows only with Horace Prescott. Had he known of the greater secret which Claude Fellows possessed, Higgins would have been completely bewildered.

For Claude Fellows had not mentioned his unknown employer in New York. Barney Higgins had no inkling of the most important factor regarding Claude Fellows.

He did not even begin to suspect that the supposed insurance broker had been the confidential agent of The Shadow — that strange, mysterious being, whose name was a word of terror to the denizens of New York’s underworld!

CHAPTER III

A VISITOR TO CHICAGO

Two days after the episode which had resulted in the death of Claude Fellows, a young man arrived in Chicago, and appeared at a restaurant known as Marmosa’s Cafe, in the Loop district.

It was afternoon, and the large restaurant was virtually deserted. A hawk-eyed waiter, standing at the top of a stairway with gilded railings, spotted the new arrival, and approached to talk to him.

“What do you want, sir?” he asked.

“I came to see Mr. Marmosa,” replied the young man.

“I will see if he is here,” responded the waiter. “What is your name, sir?”

“Harry Vincent.”

The waiter ascended the curving stairway, and disappeared when he reached the balcony. The man who had introduced himself as Harry Vincent sat down at one of the tables, and studied the sumptuous surroundings of the cafe, with both ground floor and balcony filled with tables and booths.

Vincent’s thoughts were interrupted by the return of the waiter, who beckoned to him to come upstairs. When they reached the top, the waiter turned abruptly to the left, and conducted Vincent to a partitioned office, hidden behind a corner pillar of the balcony.

Entering the office, Vincent discovered a man seated at a desk. The office was very small — scarcely more than a nook, and the man who occupied it seemed out of proportion to his surroundings.

He was heavy-set, and slightly bald. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and the chair in which he was sitting was almost invisible beneath his bulk.

“Ah!” The man’s voice was suave, and melodious. “You are Mr. Vincent, eh? I am Mr. Marmosa — Frank Marmosa. You have come here as I asked you, eh?”

“Yes. I received your wire yesterday afternoon.”

“Sit down, Mr. Vincent. Let me talk to you. I am glad that you have come, and I think that you will like it here.”

There was a chair opposite the desk — a chair crowded into the extreme corner of the tiny office. Harry Vincent took his place there, and looked quizzically at Frank Marmosa.

There was a real friendliness about the big man beyond his suavity. Vincent sized him up as a man who could be trusted, with reservations. Marmosa was presumably of Italian ancestry, but one could not have judged his nationality without knowing his name.

“My telegram surprised you, eh?” chuckled Marmosa, as he studied Harry Vincent. “Well, my boy, it was just by a chance that I learned of you.

“I have been waiting for two weeks to hear from my friend Barutti, in New York. I had asked him for a man to work with me here. I received no reply, until night before last, when Barutti called me up by long distance. He told me to wire you in Michigan; that you would be the man I needed.”

A SUDDEN light dawned on Harry Vincent. Now, for the first time, he understood the connection that had brought him to Chicago.

He had suspected that the hand of The Shadow was behind this mission, for Vincent was a trusted agent of the strange man whose name carried terror to the minions of gangdom. But he had never before heard of Frank Marmosa, and only the mention of Barutti gave him the inkling that brought realization of the situation.

Barutti operated an Italian restaurant in New York. Harry Vincent had chosen the place as a favorite eating spot, when in Manhattan.

Barutti was not a figure in the underworld; on the contrary, he operated a legitimate business. But, like many others, he had certain connections of a doubtful sort.

Two weeks ago, Harry had been dining in Barutti’s restaurant. The Italian had exhibited a letter, remarking that it was from a big man in Chicago.

“A verra big man,” Barutti had said, with a grin. “A big man in bizaness — a big man like dis” — and he had qualified the final statement by spreading his arms to indicate a person of enormous size.

Barutti had then talked with a man seated at another table in the Italian restaurant — a chap whom Harry had seen there on several occasions, and who talked both English and Italian.

From the snatches that Harry had heard of their mixed conversation, Barutti had told the other customer that his friend in Chicago had asked a favor, but that he would not grant it at present. For Barutti was going away for a month’s vacation. His friend in Chicago could wait.

Harry had also left New York for a vacation — to the town in Michigan where his family resided. He had been there ten days, and had then been startled to read of the death of Claude Fellows.

This news, furnished by a Chicago paper, had stunned Harry Vincent. He was one of the few persons who knew that the insurance broker was an agent of the mysterious Shadow. He had wondered what would follow.

The result had been a telegram from Chicago, signed by Frank Marmosa, telling Harry to come to see him immediately.

A complete theory had now formed in Harry’s mind.

His thoughts went back to that day in Barutti’s place. Barutti had shown the letter to the stranger who dined there. That stranger, Harry felt sure, was none other than The Shadow!

Immediately after the death of Claude Fellows, The Shadow must have called Frank Marmosa by long distance, representing himself as Barutti, to tell Marmosa that he had found the man he wanted.

WHILE Harry Vincent still pondered on this idea, Frank Marmosa resumed the conversation, and his words formed a cue which Harry was quick to follow.

“So you are a friend of Barutti, eh?” questioned Marmosa.

“I have known him a long while,” replied Harry quietly.

“You know him very well?”

“Quite well.”

“He told me that I could trust you in every way.”

“Whatever Barutti may have said is true.”

“Good.” Frank Marmosa’s grin displayed a row of large, white teeth. He studied Harry carefully, then motioned toward the door with his thumb.

“Shut the door,” he said.

Harry complied with the order.

“Barutti told you about me?” questioned Marmosa, in a low, confidential voice.

“He told me that you were a big man in Chicago,” answered Harry.

The statement seemed to please Marmosa. He grinned and chuckled, and looked approvingly at Harry.

“You know what it means to be a big man in Chicago?” asked Marmosa.

Harry nodded.

“You know what makes big men in Chicago, eh?” continued Marmosa. “You know what is most important, eh?”

“I think I know.”

“What is it, then.”

“Getting in right — and staying in right.”

“Very good,” chuckled Marmosa. “You understand. Barutti did well to send you here.

“Well, Vincent, I am in right; and I stay in right. When they say to me: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile, and I pay it. When some one else says: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile again.

“I pay to those who are big. They keep away those who are little. You understand? I am in right. You will be in right, too.”

The big man stared steadily at Harry Vincent. The young man met his gaze. Finally, Marmosa grinned again, and extended his hand. Harry shook it, and with that action, he realized that he was entering a new career. He had blindly made a bargain with Frank Marmosa.

“You are all right, young fellow,” said the big man assuringly. “You will work for me, eh? Good. Come along. I will show you something that will surprise you.”

HE rose and opened the door. Harry followed him along the soft carpet of the balcony. Frank Marmosa pressed a hidden spot in the wall, behind a shielding pillar, and a partition slid noiselessly aside.

The two men entered a spacious room, evidently built over the kitchen of the restaurant. The place was a glittering den of gambling.

In the center stood two roulette wheels, along the sides were faro tables, while card tables in the corners invited the play of those who preferred poker.

There was a short mahogany bar in the far corner of the room. Its brass rail shone like gold, and behind it stood a man in a white coat, polishing glasses.

“Come.”

Marmosa led Harry around the room, and pointed out the roulette wheels and the faro tables as though he were directing a sight-seeing tour.

When they reached the bar, Marmosa smilingly invited Harry to have a drink. When the young man shook his head in refusal, Marmosa’s grin broadened to his characteristic smile.

“That is good,” said Marmosa solemnly. “The men I have here — they all drink. It costs me money, but it is not the money that I mind.

“When they drink, they cannot watch. They are no longer wise. You are the man I want here. Barutti did well to get you.”

He conducted Harry back to the office, and there, by the little desk, the proprietor of the gambling den explained the purpose for which he had required a new man.

“I have many people here in Chicago,” he said, “but if they know nothing, they are no good; if they know too much, they are no good. I must keep in right with the big shots; but my business is my own.

“I must have a man who minds no business except mine; you understand, eh? He must learn to know those who come in, and who go out. He must watch this, and he must watch that; but he must not deal with any except me. You understand, eh?”

“Exactly,” replied Harry.

“More than that,” said Marmosa thoughtfully, “this man must seem as a diner in the restaurant, or as a player in the gambling room.

“I do not need a man with a gun. They are easy to get — too easy to get. I have them, but they do not look well.

“I want a man who will act as a gentleman, who will watch, and who will not drink. He must be ready to give orders to the others. You are the man I need.”

“I will be,” interposed Harry, “after I have seen your place in operation. I must, of course, first know something about it.”

“Ah!” interrupted Marmosa. “You will learn quickly. Very, very quickly. Money? I shall give you plenty.

“Barutti has told me all about you, over the phone. He says that you will work whenever I may need you; that you do not talk loud; and that you do not have the big, swelled head. All that is good. Very, very good.”

The huge man stared from the window, and Harry followed his gaze. Below them was the bustle and confusion of a Chicago street. The whole situation seemed unreal to Harry Vincent.

Here, in this quiet cubby-hole of an office, one would never suspect that the entrance to a de luxe gambling den lay only a few feet away.

“I have a man who will help you,” explained Marmosa. “His name is Joe le Blanc. He is a good man, but not the one I need. He is going away soon, to open a place of his own — a road house outside of the city.

“He is in right; he has fixed it with the big shots. I am giving him the money to start the place. But he will stay here a while until you understand what you are to do.”

Marmosa looked at his watch. Then he opened a drawer in the desk, and drew out a stack of letters. He extended his hand to Harry.

“Go away, now,” said the big man, “and come back here at seven o’clock tonight. If you need money at any time, tell me. I am trusting you because I know Barutti.

“Stay at a hotel near here, so you will not have far to go.”

HARRY VINCENT left the office and walked down the gently sloping stairs. The entire restaurant seemed different to him now.

Now he realized that the elaborate downstairs establishment was nothing more than a blind for the den upstairs. Perhaps Frank Marmosa was conducting a profitable restaurant; but that was not the business upon which he relied.

Harry registered at the Goliath Hotel, a single block from the restaurant.

Within an hour after his arrival in Chicago, Harry Vincent had stepped within the borderland of gangdom. He had obtained a position which would enable him to watch and to gain information without incurring the grave risks that threatened the average gangster. Yet he realized that even his position with Marmosa held danger in store, and he welcomed that danger.

For he knew that while he might appear to be working for Frank Marmosa, the gambling king, he would actually be working for another. He owed his real allegiance to that strange, mysterious person who was the talk of all New York — the man they called The Shadow.

One dominating thought gripped Harry’s mind. He was sure that he had divined the purpose of the work that lay ahead.

The Shadow had transferred activities from New York to Chicago, with one definite motive — to track all those who had been responsible for the death of Claude Fellows!

Harry had heard of Chicago gangsters. Now he was to encounter them. They were different from the mobsters of New York.

They worked in compact gangs, Harry knew, and their foothold was greater, so far as the police was concerned.

If the newspapers spoke truly, gangsters ruled Chicago as kings.

All his old adventures with The Shadow recurred to Harry’s mind, as he stood by the window, looking out over the vast city of Chicago, to the blue waterfalls of Lake Michigan.

He had done much to help The Shadow, and still that mysterious man amazed and bewildered him.

In and out of New York, The Shadow had struck the plots and counterplots of crafty criminals until his name had become a terror to those who fought against the law. Yet The Shadow had never been revealed. His personality was still a mystery.

Some believed him to be a detective; others claimed that he was a master mind that knew no law. Whichever might be true, it was certain that The Shadow had brought many crooks to justice, and that he was a criminologist of tremendous ability.

Yet here, in Chicago, Harry Vincent felt qualms. This was to be a new game.

It would not be a battle of wits for The Shadow, although wits would play their part. It would be a fight against tremendous odds; against groups of desperate men who ruled their realm with automatics, bombs, and machine guns.

Even The Shadow, with all his amazing power, was human. When the gangsters of Chicago were thwarted, they spoke with bullets.

Did The Shadow know the dangers that lay here? Did he realize the strength of the powerful organizations that defied the police, and openly ridiculed the law? Did he know the risk he would take if he came to Chicago?

For a few moments these questions passed in rapid succession through Harry’s mind, and for the first time since his association with The Shadow, he felt the fear of impending disaster. Then he recalled the times when the amazing superman had met and conquered those who blocked his path.

Still standing by the window of his room, Harry Vincent smiled grimly, and his lips spoke these words:

“The Shadow knows!”

CHAPTER IV

GANGSTERS MEET

MARMOSA’S CAFE was a quiet place at seven o’clock in the evening. The restaurant was well filled with diners; waiters trod noiselessly across the carpeted floor; and the orchestra in the corner played soft music that did not disturb the pleasing atmosphere of the luxurious dining palace.

Harry Vincent found Frank Marmosa in the office when he arrived. The big man greeted him pleasantly, and suggested that he have dinner on the balcony, so that he could watch those who entered.

Harry took this as an indication that Marmosa wanted to test his ability as an observer, so he took the table which the proprietor pointed out, and ordered a sumptuous meal.

While he ate, Harry watched below.

He felt a certain admiration for Frank Marmosa, even though the man was engaged in an illegal enterprise. For Marmosa’s Cafe was certainly one of the most elegant restaurants that Harry had ever patronized, and the food was in keeping with the surroundings.

It was evidently Marmosa’s purpose to attract a high-class clientele, for the diners were fashionable persons, many of whom appeared to be of the elite.

There were comparatively few persons on the balcony, and Harry noticed that no one approached the hidden spot behind the corner pillar.

It was after eight o’clock before Harry had completed his carefully chosen meal, and by that time, the crowd below had thinned out considerably. Marmosa had not returned, so Harry lighted a cigar, and puffed away in enjoyment, still watching from the balcony.

Half an hour later, he noticed that newcomers were entering the place, and he realized immediately that it was from these that the patrons of the gambling den would be gained. Marmosa had said nothing about the opening time of the gambling house, but Harry now conjectured that nine o’clock would be about the earliest.

A thin, sallow man entered the restaurant, and walked upstairs. Harry saw him disappear behind the pillar that obscured Marmosa’s office.

The man did not return immediately, so Harry again looked from the balcony, until he became conscious that some one was approaching his table, and he turned quickly to encounter Frank Marmosa and the sallow man who had arrived a short while before.

“Meet Joe le Blanc,” said Marmosa genially. “This is Harry Vincent, Joe.”

The sallow man shook hands with Harry, and sat beside him at the table.

“Vincent is a friend of Barutti,” explained Marmosa. “You know Barutti — you’ve met him in New York.”

Le Blanc nodded. Then Marmosa went away.