DIP TRAILS TROUBLE
DIP RIKER had one misfortune: his face. Had it not been for his ugly, fang-toothed features, he might have been the leader, and his friend Flash Donegan the underling. But Dip, wherever he went, was a marked man. That was the reason why he exercised extreme caution whenever he had any special task to perform.
This evening — Thursday — he had a definite duty. He was to watch and follow the man who had paid a visit to the old house where Clinton Glendenning lived. Harry Vincent was Dip Riker’s quarry.
Flash Donegan had assigned Dip to the job because he knew that Dip could do it. At the same time, Dip labored under a handicap. He was afraid to show himself too often in the lobby of the Hotel Metrolite, where Harry Vincent spent most of his idle hours.
It was after six o’clock when Dip, realizing that the important evening was at hand, decided that it would be best to keep a closer watch on his man. He had spied Harry in a lounging chair, in the hotel lobby, by looking through the revolving door. The young man seemed half asleep.
Dip entered, keeping his face turned away. He went directly to the cigar counter, and purchased a newspaper. Sitting down, he hid his features behind the outspread pages, and managed to keep a sly watch on Harry without running risk of being noticed.
Dip’s hunch proved a good one. Within ten minutes after his arrival, he heard a boy paging Mr. Vincent. Harry looked up and inquired. The boy pointed to a telephone on the lobby desk.
Here, again, Dip was in luck. The telephone was not more than fifteen feet from where he was sitting.
Harry Vincent appeared to have trouble being heard when he spoke. Dip drank in every word. By the time the conversation was well begun, the wolf-faced gangster was gaining useful information.
“Yes,” Harry declared, “I’ll be here… At seven o’clock? Sure… Yes, I can wait until half past… Eat with you here?… All right, Bill… I want to get away shortly after eight o’clock… No, I can’t take in a show tonight… Sorry… I’m going out, I say… Out… Not before eight o’clock… All right… Between seven and seven thirty…”
Harry complained to the clerk about the bad connection; then asked for the key to his room. His parting admonition was that he would be in his room until some one called; after that, he could be found in the hotel dining room. Then Harry strode toward the elevators.
Dip Riker slipped from the lobby. His mind was settled now. No use to be seen around the Metrolite until eight o’clock. That gave him time for a run up to Frankie Gull’s place.
It was damp tonight. Dip decided that a swallow of bootleg liquor would be good for his constitution.
THREADING his way up Broadway, Dip employed his customary plan of baffling all followers. He stopped at a crossing, as though about to go to the other side of Broadway. But his eyes were secretly watching the cross street. He was getting ready to throw an obstacle in the way of any follower.
Just as the signal was given for traffic to cross Broadway, Dip darted over the side street. A surging mass of automobiles shot forward. Dip, hurrying up Broadway, was free from pursuit, for the hurtling traffic barred all followers.
Thirty yards on, Dip utilized another trick. He doubled into an arcade, and swung back to the very side street which he had crossed. He arrived there just as traffic ceased, and slipped back to the other side. Then he timed his course and crossed Broadway exactly as he had originally planned.
Up past the arcade which Dip Riker had entered, a husky, heavy-set man growled to himself. He had been following Dip Riker. He had been baffled by the foxy gangster.
Although he had lost the trail, this pursuer was evidently informed on Dip’s habits, for he lost no time in wending his way toward Frankie Gull’s.
When the husky chap entered the place, he found that his hunch was correct. Although he had lost the trail a short distance from the Metrolite, he had picked it up here.
He spotted the mean-faced gangster standing at the end of the crude bar. Without more ado, the newcomer sidled over and nudged against the man at the bar. Dip flung him a sullen look. The stranger grinned.
“Say” — his voice was low — “you’re Dip Riker, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” growled Dip. “What of it?”
The newcomer leaned close and whispered into the gangster’s ear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” were his words. “Just came in from Chicago. Ran into Pete Boutonne in Buffalo. He told me to look you up.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Gravy, fellow, gravy! Pete tells me you don’t like these rods that hang around New York. Said you fixed him up with a job, because he was clear of all the mobs. Then he had to scram out of New York, so you let him go. Thought he’d be doing you a favor if he sent me to see you.”
Dip Riker was interested. He remembered that Flash Donegan was on the point of letting Marty Jennings go. When that would occur, it would be Dip’s job to bring in a new gunman.
Dip had no one in mind at the present. It was worth while to become acquainted with a Chicago gat-wielder who was recommended by one of Donegan’s old standbys.
“What’s your name?” asked Dip.
“Cliff Marsland,” was the reply.
Dip’s eyes opened. Cliff Marsland! Dip had heard of him in the bad lands. Cliff Marsland was known there as a killer — a man who had done a stretch in the Big House called Sing Sing.
After his release from prison, Marsland had mixed in the New York rackets; then he had disappeared. The rumor was that the town had gotten too hot for him. Dip wanted to make sure.
“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “Why did you scram?”
Marsland laughed.
“It wasn’t the mobs that worried me,” he declared. “I mixed it with a few of them, but the bad boys were all wiped out about that time. It was the cops that made me scram. They were watching for any guy that had been up in the Big House.
“A couple of my old pals went the route, and I thought maybe the cops would hook me up with it. So I beat it for Chi.
“Now I’m back. It was all a false alarm. I could walk into headquarters to-morrow, and there wouldn’t be a squawk.”
The words rang true. Furthermore, they explained a point about Cliff Marsland that Dip Riker had heard discussed. Gangsters had wondered where Cliff Marsland had gone. He had dropped out of the underworld with surprising suddenness.
So he had been in Chicago! That settled the matter.
DIP, usually of sound judgment, was positive that Cliff Marsland’s story was correct. But he was miles from the truth.
Neither Dip nor any other gangster knew the real truth about Cliff Marsland. They had no idea that Cliff was actually an agent of The Shadow — that he was not a killer by profession.
Cliff was married to the daughter of a theater owner. His wife and his father-in-law were now in Europe. During their absence, Cliff Marsland was back in service with The Shadow.
It was true that Cliff had been convicted, and had served time in Sing Sing. He had not, however, committed the crime for which he had paid the penalty. That was a secret which only Cliff and The Shadow knew.
“How do you like this joint?” questioned Dip, anxious to make the acquaintance of the notorious Marsland.
“Terrible,” growled Marsland. “Don’t come up to the joints they’ve got in Chi. I can show you a better dump than this — right here in New York.”
“Where? questioned Dip.
Cliff named an address. Dip reflected. The place mentioned was nearer to the Metrolite than Frankie Gull’s. Dip had an idea it would be a better place to be located.
“Come along,” suggested Cliff.
Dip acquiesced. The two men sauntered from Frankie Gull’s. It was not yet half past six. Dip decided to spend half an hour with Cliff, to sound him out.
Cliff took Dip to a dark door on a side street, near Sixth Avenue. No ceremony was necessary. Cliff simply opened the door, and they went in, to find a bar larger than the one at Frankie Gull’s.
There were tables in the corner, and the two sat down at one of them. A waiter brought drinks and sandwiches. Dip gulped down the contents of his glass. Cliff held his glass poised at his lips.
“Good place, eh?” he questioned. “Look at those imported bottles on the shelf.”
Dip glanced behind him. When he had finished a quick inspection, he turned again to Cliff Marsland. The firm-faced man was setting his glass upon the table empty. Dip had not seen him pour the liquor against the wall.
Conversation began, and both men talked briefly. Dip took a strong liking to Cliff Marsland. Dip Riker was closemouthed and seldom told all that he knew, and Cliff appeared to be a man of the same stripe. The one great difference lay in their appearance.
With Cliff, as with Flash, Dip was at a disadvantage. For Cliff Marsland was a man of well-chiseled features. His face showed strength and purpose; it bore none of the characteristics that marked the ordinary gangster.
Another drink was served. Cliff took advantage of Dip’s glance at the clock to again decorate the wall with the contents of his glass. It was nearly quarter of eight. Dip Riker shifted in his chair.
“Guess I’ve got to be goin’, Cliff,” he said. “You ain’t leaving town right away, are you?”
“No. Not if there’s anything stirring here,” Cliff informed him.
“Where can I find you?”
“How about Frankie Gull’s?”
“O.K. Listen, Cliff, I’ll see you there to-morrow. Drop in around six o’clock. I’m not saying that there’ll be anything doing — not for a while, anyway — but we can talk then. I’ve got to see — to see another guy, you know. Maybe Pete told you that.”
Marsland nodded. “Yes. That’s what he said. Pete’s a great guy. When he left you, he slid out of the racket. Running a garage up in Buffalo, now.”
THIS information impressed Dip. He had not heard from Pete for some time. He did not know that the man’s whereabouts were well known to some of his old pals in New York, and that Cliff Marsland had obtained the information through The Shadow.
“To-morrow night, then,” declared Dip.
“O.K. Have another drink before you go,” Cliff urged.
Dip stepped up to the bar to accept Cliff’s invitation. The man from Chicago paid for the drinks, and Dip gulped his liquor. Cliff set his full glass down as the bartender gave him some money in return.
“How about this?” demanded Cliff. “trying to short-change me, eh?”
The bartender thrust out his jaw in defiance.
“What’re you tryin’ to pull?” he demanded. “I ain’t no sap!”
“Look at this, Dip!” exclaimed Cliff, turning to his new friend, and holding out the money. “Trying to knock me off for half a buck. What do you think of that?”
The altercation caught the attention of the only other men in the room — four tough individuals who were sitting at a table. One of them came forward. Dip was not acquainted with the place.
He did not know that this man was the proprietor; and that the other three were his friends. Cliff was familiar with that fact, however. He saw that Dip resented the interference, so he turned to the bartender, leaving the proprietor to Dip.
Quick words followed. The proprietor gripped Cliff’s shoulder. Cliff turned and pushed him aside; then swung quickly back toward the bartender, who was weighing an empty bottle between his hands.
“Try to club me, will you?” demanded Cliff.
With that, he flung himself over the bar and seized the man in the white apron.
Dip looked just in time to see the bartender swing his arm back with the bottle. He thought that Cliff was trying to save himself. He did not realize that Cliff was actually the aggressor.
The proprietor made a grab for Cliff. Again, Dip misunderstood the action. He did not know that the interfering man simply wanted to prevent a fight. Dip swung a powerful punch to the fellow’s jaw. The proprietor dropped like a chunk of heavy wood.
Cliff was grappling with the bartender, wresting the bottle from the man’s hand. Dip started to pull a gun from his pocket, but he never got that far.
The three men at the table were upon him as one. Down he went, beneath a whirl of flying fists. A hard object cracked him in back of the ear, and Dip Riker knew no more.
When he came to his senses, he was lying on a bench in a back room. Cliff Marsland was bending over him. Beside Cliff, Dip recognized the features of the proprietor. Seeing Dip’s eyes open, Cliff explained the situation.
“This fellow owns the joint,” he said. “You shouldn’t have slugged him. I was wrong making a pass at the barkeep. He got my goat, that was all; when he picked up the bottle, it made me mad. After I took it away from him, the fight was all ended.
“But the boys had to jump on you, or the cops might have come in. They don’t want any target practice around here.”
“It’s O.K. now,” volunteered the proprietor. “I wasn’t going to hurt your friend here. Cliff knows me well.”
Dip sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He sank down again. This went on for several minutes. Then the groggy gangster sank into a half doze. A while later he opened his eyes once more.
He began to understand fully what had happened. He shook hands with the proprietor, and leaned back against the wall.
“What time is it?” he questioned.
The proprietor consulted a watch.
“Nearly nine o’clock.”
An oath came from Dip.
“I gotta be goin’!” he exclaimed. “No” — he paused to reflect, and nodded stupidly — “it’s too late. Got a phone in this joint?”
THE proprietor pointed to another room. Dip rose and staggered in that direction. He was too dazed to think of closing the door behind him. He did not realize that Cliff Marsland was capable of hearing every word he uttered. Dip dialed a number and received an immediate reply.
He spoke to Flash Donegan.
“Hello, Flash,” were Dip’s words. “Listen. I’m too late to get that guy… Yeah, this is Dip. I got knocked cold, Flash. I’m still groggy.”
There was a pause, during which Dip evidently heard condemning words from the other end of the wire.
“You know where he’s goin’, Flash,” Dip protested. “Why don’t you get up there an’ nick him?… I getcha now! Marty an’ Lance are goin’ to take him for a ride. You’re stickin’ where you are. They’re callin’ you before they give him the works, eh?”
Dip hung up the receiver. Tottering, he made his way back into the outer room. He sat on the bench alone. Cliff Marsland was no longer there.
Cliff had slipped into the barroom the moment that Dip’s conversation had ended. He was thinking — grimly. His work was to watch Dip Riker, so Harry Vincent could go his way unmolested. Another enemy — Flash Donegan, was being covered by The Shadow himself.
But from Dip’s conversation, Cliff divined that Flash was laying low tonight — that Harry Vincent’s real menace consisted of two unknown hoodlums — men to whom Dip had referred as Marty and Lance!
There was no time to lose. Cliff had double work to do. He must put Dip Riker out of the picture; he must send a warning to The Shadow, so that Harry could be saved.
More than that, Cliff realized, his warning must be specific. He must learn where these two gangsters would be. There was one man who might tell. That was Dip Riker. A quick plan flashed through Cliff Marsland’s brain.
He stepped up to the bartender. The man was grinning in a friendly manner, now.
“That friend of mine,” said Cliff. “He’s pretty groggy. Mix up a drink for him. Make it snappy.”
While the bartender was complying, Cliff’s fingers went to his vest pocket. There he opened a little box and obtained two small pills.
Receiving the glass from the bartender, Cliff went to the room where Dip was sitting. On the way he quickly dropped the pills into the glass.
These were knock-out drops that Cliff had brought along in case there would be no other way to handle Dip Riker. Cliff knew the potency of those pills. Four of them would put a man to sleep. Two, Cliff was sure, would produce dizziness. He intended to make Dip Riker speak — without knowing it.
“Drink this,” said Cliff.
Dip imbibed the fluid with eagerness. He roused a trifle; then began to rub his forehead.
“Feelin’ bum again,” he complained. “Wait’ll I flop on this bench. My head feels like it was crackin’ open—”
Dip was lying down, holding both hands to his head. He seemed to be losing all sense of where he was. Cliff leaned close, and spoke in a convincing tone.
“Say, Dip — there’s a fellow named Flash calling you on the telephone. Says he’s got to speak to you, right away.”
Dip sought to rise, but sank back on the bench.
“You talk to him,” he said wearily; “tell him I’m sick—”
Cliff went to the other room and returned.
“He wants you to go up with Marty and Lance,” he said. “He wants you to start right away.”
“I can’t go,” said Dip weakly. “Can’t go, I tell you. Can’t get away from here—”
“I’ll put you in a cab,” responded Cliff. “The air will do you good. Tell me where the place is, so I can give the address to the driver.”
“Place where Marty is?” asked Dip. “It’s way uptown. Way up, by—”
Drowsiness had overcome the gangster. His words became an incoherent mumble. Cliff shook him by the shoulders. The man must talk! Harry Vincent’s life depended upon it. There was not an instant to lose. Dip Riker must complete that sentence!
But Cliff’s efforts were futile. The gangster lay dead to the world. The knock-out drops had worked too well!
Wild schemes came to Cliff. Should he call Flash Donegan, pretending that he was Dip Riker? Cliff knew the number, but realized that the plan was useless.
Harry Vincent — on his way to certain death — not knowing that danger lay in his path. How could he be saved?
Valuable minutes passed. Cliff, for the first time, realized that he had not informed The Shadow. That was the least he could do to save Harry, even though The Shadow, without knowledge of where Marty and Lance were, would be as handicapped as Cliff.
SCURRYING to the other room, Cliff seized the telephone and dialed a number. Despite his hurry, he was wise enough to close the door behind him.
A quiet voice came over the wire.
“M reporting,” announced Cliff, in a low tone.
“Burbank,” was the reply.
Burbank was The Shadow’s inactive agent, a man who seldom left his station, but one who handled the threads that connected The Shadow with such operatives as Cliff and Harry.
In tense words, Cliff gave his information. His voice was hopeless, for he knew that even when Burbank had relayed the message, it could be of no use, unless — a faint hope — The Shadow knew where Marty and Lance were located.
This was hardly likely. Cliff had been told to obtain all available information. Evidently The Shadow had not yet discovered the workings of the gang that Flash Donegan ruled.
Burbank’s voice seemed reassuring, but all hope faded with Cliff when he hung up the telephone. Harry Vincent was on his way to an unknown snare. Flash Donegan would be informed of his capture. The racketeer would deliver the death sentence.
Before The Shadow could possibly act, Harry Vincent would be no more!
All because Cliff had overloaded Dip’s drink with knock-out drops. If he had only used one, instead of two! But that was too late to rectify.
Cliff hastened to the other room to find Dip Riker still insensible. Vainly he strove to rouse the man. The dose had been too potent. Knowing the power in those drops, Cliff groaned. Dip would be unconscious for another hour — at least!
A feeling of intense helplessness swept over Cliff Marsland. It was mingled with a sense of blame and remorse.
Cliff had failed in his task. Harry Vincent was going to his doom! And where was The Shadow?