THE MAN WITH THE CLEW
JOE CARDONA betrayed a smile of satisfaction as he talked with Inspector Klein at headquarters. The Glendenning case was turning out as he wanted it. Even though the old man had declared his innocence, there would be no difficulty in proving his guilt.
“We’ve got everything on him, chief,” declared the detective. “I’ll have a confession out of him before I’ve finished!”
“He’s a tough nut to crack, Joe,” the superior commented.
“I’ll admit that. But he loses his temper when we mention Buchanan or Don Hasbrouck, the private detective hired by Buchanan’s family. He admits he hated Buchanan, and he says he never liked Hasbrouck.”
“What about Blefken?”
“Glendenning pretends he never met him. I guess that’s because of the thumb prints. Glendenning knows we’ve got him there.”
Klein nodded his agreement with the theory.
“We’re going to locate Buchanan’s body,” declared Cardona emphatically. “Those diaries will point the way. No question about it.
“There was a box shipped out of the old man’s house. Larkin told me about it. Sent to an address in Philadelphia. The police down there are working on it. I expect a report tonight. Any time now.”
“You’re a wonder, Joe! You go after one murder and uncover three. I wish I had a dozen men like you.”
“I don’t,” returned Cardona. “I don’t claim to be a wonder, chief. Just use my noodle that’s all. I’m not one of those superminds, like—”
“Like The Shadow,” suggested Klein.
Cardona smiled. Then he became thoughtful.
“Say, chief,” he said. “It’s funny The Shadow hasn’t appeared in this. Maybe he kept out of it because it was all over so quick—”
“It would be better if he kept out of our business altogether. Maybe he’s all right, but—”
“Listen, chief. The Shadow’s on the level. Maybe he doesn’t work by police methods. I’ll grant that. But he’s helped me out of some bad jams, just the same.”
“Well, we can forget him this time.”
The men ceased their conversation as Williamson entered. The solemn-faced detective approached Inspector Klein.
“One of our stools got bumped off last night,” he said.
“Where? Who was it?”
“Louie Shunk. ‘Crazy Louie,’ they called him. He’s been watching a couple of tough rod men — Tony Caprona and Gringo Butz. He swore they weren’t wise to him; but they must have been the ones that got him. His body was found up in Harlem, an hour ago.”
“Hm-m-m,” mused the inspector. “Have you got another stool who can check up on them?”
“I think so.”
“Put him on the job, then; and don’t take any chances. Have a plainclothes man keep tabs on the stool. They’re bad boys, Caprona and Butz.”
“They are,” agreed Joe Cardona. “They’re the ones who were signing up with Bush Holman. We’ve been watching them ever since.”
“You ought to be in on this job, Joe,” observed Klein.
“I will be,” declared Cardona, “if it gets ripe. Right now, I’ve got plenty on my mind.”
THE phone bell rang. Cardona answered. The others watched him intently. They saw the detective’s face light up. His replies were short, quick exclamations.
“You’ll call again in fifteen minutes?” was his final comment.
Receiving an affirmative reply, Cardona hung up the phone and turned to Inspector Klein.
“They’ve found Buchanan’s body!” he declared. “And it’s in Philadelphia. They’re going to call me again, with the details. This is big, chief. Everything I want now, except—”
“Jerry Middleton.”
“You guessed it. That and Buchanan’s body. Middleton must know the low-down on the whole affair. How, I’ve no idea. Maybe Glendenning tried to get him. If he hadn’t got away, that night at Blefken’s—”
“You’ll find him, Joe!”
Inspector Klein spoke encouragingly. He knew that the Middleton matter was a sore point. Cardona had accomplished wonders in this case. His blunder had been forgotten, even by the newspapers, and the inspector didn’t want to recall the incident.
But the fact still remained that Jerry Middleton would be a useful witness against Clinton Glendenning.
“I’m doing everything I can,” declared Cardona. “We’re trying to find that taxi driver. He might help us out. It’s funny, in a way, that he hasn’t showed up. Scared, I guess. That’s the only way I can figure it.”
“Well,” interrupted Williamson, “I’m going on my way. I’ll follow your instructions, inspector. I’ll look up that stool and see what can be done. If he can trail Caprona and Butz, I’ll have John Higby follow him.”
The detective went from the room. Before Klein and Cardona could begin another discussion, the telephone rang. The ace answered it, and his face showed disappointment when he discovered that it was not another long-distance call.
“Burke?” he queried. “Yes. Williamson’s covering that case… What? Well… No… Oh, you’ve heard that, eh? Does any one else know it? I mean, any other reporters… Good! Lay off it, then.
“Yes, Crazy Louie was working for us. He was checking up on a couple of gangsters… Yes, that’s why I don’t want it to get in the papers. It would wise them up. Keep off it, and there’ll be a good story for you later on.
“Say, that reminds me, I may have something real tonight. Where are you? At the Classic… All right, stick there until you hear from me.”
Cardona clanged the receiver and turned to Klein.
“That fellow Burke’s a fast worker,” he said. “Checking on Crazy Louie’s death already. Had a tip the guy was a stool. You heard what I told him. He’ll hold it — especially after he gets the news from Philadelphia.”
The detective sat strumming his fingers against the edge of the table. He was waiting for the next long-distance call.
Inspector Timothy Klein was chewing the end of his cigar. There was a noise at the door. Cardona swung around to view a man in a taxi driver’s uniform.
“You’re Detective Cardona?” asked the newcomer.
“Sure,” said Cardona, studying the man closely.
“Well,” said the cabman, “I guess you’re the fellow I want to see. But listen, you ain’t goin’ to hold me here, are you? I can tell you where I live — anythin’ you want to know. I ain’t got much to tell you—”
“Say!” exclaimed Cardona. “Are you the man who took that note to Charles Blefken?”
The man nodded.
“Where did you get it?” demanded Cardona. “Tell us all you know about it!”
“You ain’t goin’ to hold me, are you?” pleaded the man.
“Not if you answer all the questions I want to ask you. We’ll let you go. What’s your name?”
“DUNC MILLER,” said the cabman. He had evidently anticipated the question, for he pulled his identification cards from his pocket.
“I’ve got my cab outside. I didn’t tell Blefken all I knew about the man who gave me the note, because the fellow asked me to keep mum. He came up to me on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, over by Eighth Avenue. Gave me the note and the century spot.”
“Yes? What did he look like?”
“Good-looking chap. Talked very keen, but nervouslike. He had on a dark suit. He was kinda white — his face. Looked like somebody was after him.”
“Middleton, all right! Go on.”
“That was all — then,” said the cabman. “When I read about Blefken being killed, I figured this was the fellow you were after. But I thought sure he’d beat it, and I was afraid to butt in. I don’t want to buck any gunmen.
“This afternoon, I was reading the papers again, and I see now that you only want him for a witness, and that you’ve got the real murderer all sewed up.
“Well, I was thinking about telling what I knew, but didn’t know whether it would do any good, until tonight — well, tonight I see the fellow again.”
“Where?” Joe Cardona’s voice was eager.
“Right up by the same corner. I followed him along, and he went down a little street until he came to an old house. He went in through the side. I watched, and a light showed in the back room on the second floor.
“Here’s the address.” The man fumbled in his pocket and brought out a sheet of paper. “Look, I’ve drawn the way the house looks. Right here is the door—”
“Great!” said Cardona. He showed the paper to Inspector Klein. “I’m going up there right away. If Middleton’s still around, we’ll nab him.”
“Better take this fellow with you,” said Klein.
“I thought you weren’t goin’ to hold me, chief,” protested the cab driver.
“I’ll do better than that,” said Cardona. “You’re going to be here a while, aren’t you, inspector?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll ride up in this man’s cab. I’ll stop off at the Fourth District and pick up Clark. If that call comes in from Philadelphia, hold it. I’ll ring in from the district station.”
Cardona and the cabman hurried to the street. The detective climbed into the cab, and the vehicle sped uptown. It had hardly passed the nearest corner before a car shot after it.
Flash Donegan was at the wheel of the pursuing automobile. Beside him was Cliff Marsland. Flash and his companion had seen the cab stop at headquarters. They had seen Cardona come out with the taximan.
Therefore, while Flash evidently had a purpose in trailing the cab, he was not staying too close to it.
Cliff had no definite idea concerning Flash Donegan’s purpose. He was now a member of the racketeer’s newly formed mob. He had met Flash Donegan the night that Dip Riker had suggested he be added to the organization. He had passed Donegan’s keen inspection.
Tonight, he had been called upon this special duty. Flash was noncommittal, but Cliff knew that the gang leader was bound upon an important mission. Flash had selected Cliff because he appeared to be the most capable gat wielder of the outfit.
Flash spoke while they were riding uptown. It was one of the first times that the suave man had expressed himself.
“Get ready, Marsland,” was Donegan’s statement. “We’re going to work quick when we get started. I’ve been on the lookout for this bozo.
“I’ll do the talking if I get the chance. You handle the rest. Dip tells me you know how to shove a gat in a guy’s ribs and make him savvy. I believe him!”
The trailed taxicab stopped half a block away from the district station house. Joe Cardona alighted and spoke to the driver. Flash pulled up his car a short distance behind. Cliff admired the nerve of the racketeer. They were close enough to overhear Cardona’s words.
“Stick here,” the detective said. “I’m going inside. If I don’t come out right away, somebody else will. After we get near the place, you’re finished for the night. All right?”
THE taxi driver grunted an affirmative reply. Cardona disappeared. Then it was that Flash Donegan showed the quickness that had gained him his nickname.
Nudging Cliff, he clambered from the car. Cliff followed, as Flash approached the taxicab and appeared suddenly beside the driver.
“Get going,” ordered Flash, as he opened the door of the cab.
Dunc Miller responded. Flash had one hand upon the handle of the door. His other hand held an automatic. The gun was thrust into the startled taximan’s ribs.
Cliff jumped in the taxi, and Flash Donegan followed. Only for a second did he leave the man uncovered. Now, his gun was through the window from the rear seat, jabbing into the back of the driver’s neck.
The cab was in motion. As it swung up the street, Flash spoke rapidly. He was giving instructions and asking questions at once. The cab driver was following both.
“Go around the block,” ordered Flash. “Now give me the dope. What did you tell that dick?”
“I told him — I told him — ” the man stammered.
“No stalling!” came Donegan’s command. “Spill it quick, or you’ll swallow lead!”
“I told him I’d found out where a guy named Middleton lives,” blabbed Miller.
“All right,” growled Flash, “that’s what I want to know. Speak quick! Write this, Cliff.”
Cliff Marsland quickly scrawled the address that the taximan gave. Flash continued his interrogation, but by the time the cab was completing the circuit of the block, it was evident that Dunc Miller’s supply of information was exhausted.
Flash leaned back from the front seat, his automatic still in readiness. He nudged Cliff Marsland.
“Give me that paper,” he whispered. “I’m getting out. You stay with this cab. Make him drive up an alley and give him the bump.
“Pick a spot over by the Club Yama” — Flash gave the location of an East Side night club — “and meet me in there. How long do you need?”
“How long do you want me to take?”
“Half an hour.”
“O.K.,” Cliff concurred.
Flash ordered the cab driver to stop. The racketeer leaped from the vehicle at the end of the block where the police station was located. Cliff saw him sauntering to his car. Joe Cardona had not reappeared.
“Move along,” growled Cliff.
He was thinking tensely as the cabman obeyed. The big objective tonight was Jerry Middleton. Cardona was on his way to find the missing man.
Evidently, Cardona had been delayed in the detective district. There would be another delay — how long, Cliff did not know — when the detective found the cabman missing.
Flash Donegan was also after Middleton, and he had a better chance than Cardona to get there first. But the racketeer was not going in person. For he had made an appointment to meet Cliff in thirty minutes at the Club Yama.
A race between the forces of law and the hordes of crime! It was Cliff’s duty to arrange another entry. Some one must get there for The Shadow — and that person must reach Middleton before the others!
CLIFF could not perform the mission himself. He knew that he must not jeopardize his position with Flash Donegan. That appointment at the Club Yama must be kept. There was only one course — Cliff must get word to The Shadow!
They were approaching a lighted corner, and Cliff saw a large drug store. Leaning forward, he poked his automatic into the cab driver’s ribs. As the man shuddered, Cliff ordered him to stop by the curb.
“Listen, you,” said Cliff, in a low, emphatic voice. “I’m supposed to bump you off. See? But I’m going to let you get away. I’m treating you right, see?”
The man stammered his thanks. Cliff paid no attention. He must impress the man with a sense of constant danger.
“I’ve got a reason for it,” continued Cliff, softly and rapidly. “I’ve got a hunch I can use you some time. Later on. But if this guy that was with me knows you’re alive — it’ll be the end of you. He’ll get you.
“Your only chance is to scram. If you squeal to the police, your life won’t be worth a nickel. Here’s some dough” — Cliff thrust a roll of bills into the startled man’s hands — “but you’ll never live to use it if you forget what I’m telling you!”
“I’ll do anything!” blurted Dunc Miller. “Anything that you say is best! I don’t want to die!”
The man was petrified with fear; he was clutching this one straw of safety. Cliff was sure that he would obey.
“Run your cab in an alley and leave it there,” ordered Cliff. “Over on the East Side. Pick a place with empty houses around, so it would look like I could have hidden your body. Then light out for Buffalo.
“Call at general delivery for mail — your name will be Willard Watson. You’ll hear from me. This thing will blow over. You’ll be back in New York. I’ll see you get your cab again. Got that?”
“Yeah,” replied the cab driver, clutching the roll of bills.
“Then move,” ordered Cliff. “And remember, don’t slip up on my instructions, or you’ll get this.” As a reminder, Cliff stroked the muzzle of his automatic across the back of Miller’s neck. The cab driver quailed at the touch of the cold metal.
Cliff was on the sidewalk, now. The cab pulled away and sped for the nearest avenue. Cliff hurried to the drug store. He reached an empty telephone booth and called a number. Burbank’s voice responded.
In quick, brief phrases, Cliff gave his report. Burbank’s quiet, patient voice checked the information. Cliff hung up the receiver.
The word was in. His job now was to meet Donegan at the Club Yama.
EVEN as Cliff Marsland was leaving the drug store, a telephone was ringing in a room of the Dolban Hotel, near Ninety-sixth Street. Harry Vincent answered it. He had moved up to the Dolban to keep away from observation by Flash Donegan’s underlings.
Burbank’s quiet voice greeted Harry’s response.
“Emergency,” came Burbank’s warning. “Go direct to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. Call back for instructions.”
Within three minutes, Harry was on board an uptown subway train. The hidden wheels of The Shadow’s secret machinery were clicking. The Shadow’s agent was in the race to reach Jerry Middleton — not only in the race, but leading the field.
The man with the clew had visited Cardona. Dunc Miller’s information was now turned to use for The Shadow!