MARSLAND MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE
CLIFF MARSLAND sat in the lobby of Larchmont Court, watching the people who entered and left. His vantage point was a comfortable chair in a corner of the lobby.
Although he was not far from the clerk’s desk, his place was well chosen. He was inconspicuous; yet he could observe every one who went by.
Cliff had spent a great deal of time in that chair, yet he was not bored with waiting. A man who had just completed a term in Sing Sing was not the one to object to such comfortable surroundings. Patience had become an acquired virtue with Cliff Marsland.
As he lighted a cigarette, Cliff shifted his position slightly. A twinge in his shoulder made him wince. It was a reminder of that night when he had fought his way from the Hotel Spartan — that night when he had met The Shadow.
A week had passed since then, and Cliff’s wound was nearly healed. Occasionally it bothered him, as it had just done, and the pain was a cause for reflection.
Cliff could not recall exactly what had happened after he had made his dash for safety.
He remembered that some one in black — The Shadow, of course — had caught him as he was about to fall. He recalled the moving sedan and the distant shots of the pursuers. After that, all had been blackness until the next day.
He had been very weak when he had awakened, to find himself in what seemed to be a hospital room, with a nurse in attendance. A doctor had come in later, to examine his wounds. The physician had smiled encouragingly.
Cliff had remained there one night and another day. Then, on the second evening, he had received instructions. They had come in a letter which the nurse had delivered to him.
The letter was written in ink. After Cliff had perused its contents, the writing had disappeared. The note had instructed him to leave the house where he was staying.
He had done so, the nurse leading him down a dark flight of stairs, to a driveway. There, an automobile was waiting, manned by a chauffeur.
A long trip had followed. The car had swung along on country roads; it had skirted several towns; finally it had reached a broad highway.
There, it had eventually found its way into the Holland Tunnel — the first spot that Cliff had recognized, even though he had never gone through the vehicular tube before. He knew that he had been located somewhere in New Jersey, an hour’s ride from New York. That was all.
The car had taken him to Larchmont Court. There the driver had driven away.
AT the desk, Cliff had given his name as Clinton Martin — a name which had been mentioned in the letter. He had been ushered to a small suite reserved for him.
There he had found articles of apparel and everything else that he might need, including a well-stocked wallet and a check book on a prominent Manhattan bank.
He had filled out a card and mailed his signature to the bank, using the name Clinton Martin. Evidently he could draw on whatever funds he might need.
He had spent the next few days in idle recuperation; and this one chair had been his chief place. It had been designated in another letter — written in that same disappearing ink.
The letter had contained new instructions, and with it was a code of dots and dashes, which Cliff had memorized, and then destroyed. It was to be used later on, the letter said.
His present work was very simple. He was to watch every one who approached the desk and inquired for a certain suite on the twenty-first floor — the suite occupied by a man named Francis J. Durgan.
In this, Cliff had been successful. He had formed a casual acquaintance with the night clerk, and the fellow had proved to be loquacious. He had aspirations of becoming a house detective, and he liked to mention names in an undertone whenever Cliff approached the desk.
Cliff had observed Durgan on several occasions. He had also spotted for future reference two or three other men — one of them being Mike Wharton, Durgan’s confidential aid. But so far, Cliff had seen no one who answered to the description of Ernie Shires.
Cliff smiled at the thought of Shires. Cliff was watching for the actual slayer of Tim Waldron while he, Cliff Marsland, was reputed to be the murderer by the underworld!
Only The Shadow knew why Cliff had gone to Sing Sing. The name of Cliff Marsland was falsely heralded in gangdom. He realized that he had become a talked of personage in the bad lands of New York; yet at the same time he remained a mystery. For he was virtually unknown, and no one had shown any signs of recognizing him during his residence at Larchmont Court.
Two of the gangsters who had spotted him at the Hotel Spartan were dead as a result of the gun fight. The others were in the toils of the law.
None had known Cliff Marsland prior to his career in Sing Sing. He had appeared from nowhere, had defied the police after a bold bank robbery, and had gone to prison, a self-confessed criminal.
So here he was, this evening, silently observant and virtually free from recognition, unless some freak of fate should reveal his identity.
Cliff glanced at the clock above the desk. It was not yet eight. Durgan had gone out in the afternoon, and had not returned. Probably no visitors would arrive for some time to come.
Cliff yawned and settled back in his chair. A moment later, he became alert.
A woman had entered the lobby, and had walked to the desk. Cliff had seen her before. He knew her name. Madge Benton — Killer Durgan’s moll. The clerk had pointed the girl out to Cliff three days ago. Since then, he had seen her often.
CLIFF’S eyes were keen as he watched the girl, speaking to the room clerk. She was attractive, despite her freakish mode of dress. Too many sparkling rings. Too much make-up. Her blond hair, although effective in appearance, indicated peroxide treatments.
Cliff mentally compared the girl with others whom he remembered from years ago; and the others profited by the comparison — particularly one.
Cliff’s reverie stopped as he realized that the girl was watching him from the corner of her eye. This was not the first time that it had happened.
Durgan and other men in the lobby had paid no attention to the motionless man in the corner; they had apparently not known that they were being observed. But the girl had noticed it on each occasion.
Now, she turned to look back at the door. Her gaze met Cliff’s. The girl smiled. Cliff’s lips moved slightly.
The girl turned to the clerk and purchased some postage stamps. She walked deliberately toward Cliff and sat at a writing table only a few feet away.
She produced three envelopes from her bag, applied the stamps, and began to write the addresses. Both Cliff and the girl were out of range of the clerk’s view. The lobby was virtually deserted.
One envelope dropped from the table. It fell close beside Cliff. He saw it, but made no motion. The girl completed her writing. She looked for the missing envelope.
Cliff smiled as he watched her without turning his head in her direction. The girl was looking everywhere except toward the spot where the envelope had fallen. An expression of vexation appeared upon her face.
Cliff reached down and picked up the envelope. Rising, he stepped to the desk and laid the envelope before the girl.
“Thank you,” she said quickly. “Thank you — so much.”
She was looking straight into Cliff’s face, and her blue eyes sparkled. Cliff returned her gaze; then he made a motion as though about to turn away. The girl spoke again.
“That was a very important letter,” she said. “I wouldn’t have lost it — for anything! I want to thank you again!”
Her voice was appealing. Cliff smiled.
“I’m glad that I found it for you,” he said. “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t have been of greater service—”
The girl laughed softly. Cliff was standing beside the desk. Her hand crept over and pressed against his arm.
“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” the girl questioned.
“Probably,” replied Cliff. “I live here.”
“So do I,” was the reply. “I see a lot of people here — people that I’d like to talk to — like you, for instance — sitting around all day, with nothing to do.
“Right now” — with her right hand still on Cliff’s arm, the girl glanced at a watch on her left wrist — “I’ve got nothing to do for another hour. Guess I’ll go out for dinner. It’s pretty late, but I haven’t eaten yet.”
“Dinner is a good idea,” suggested Cliff. “Suppose we go together?”
The girl nodded eagerly. Her hand pressed Cliff’s arm. She leaned back in the chair and glanced into the lobby to make sure that they were not observed.
“Meet me outside,” she said in a low voice. “Five minutes from now — around the corner — by the cab stand! All right?”
“All right,” agreed Cliff.
THE girl left the lobby. Cliff resumed his accustomed chair. He lighted a cigarette and watched the clock. When the five minutes had elapsed, he picked up his hat, which lay on the floor beside him, and walked out into the street.
He found the girl awaiting him, away from the lighted front of the hotel. There was a cab by the curb.
“Downtown?” questioned Cliff.
The girl nodded. Cliff helped her in the cab. The girl leaned through the partition and gave the name of a restaurant on Forty-third Street.
“You’ll like the place,” she said to Cliff. “We won’t meet anybody that I know. They don’t go there.”
Again the girl’s hand pressed Cliff’s arm. Then her voice assumed a warning tone.
“I like you, big boy,” she said. “I want to tip you off before it’s too late. You’re taking a chance when you go out with me. I thought I ought to tell you.
“I’m Madge Benton — and I’m Durgan’s girl! Do you know who Durgan is?”
Cliff spoke as he was opening a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to the girl as he replied.
“You mean Killer Durgan?” he said, in an indifferent tone.
“Yes,” answered Madge, as she took a cigarette. “But he’s Francis J. now — they don’t call him Killer — but—”
She stopped and looked at Cliff. He detected a quizzical expression in her eyes as they passed by a street light.
“You mean he’s a dangerous sort of fellow,” said Cliff. “Is that the idea?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “He’s a brute! The only men that I know are like him, and he’s the worst of the lot” — there was bitterness in her voice — “so I’m putting you wise. If he knew I was out with you — well, he’d try to bump you off, that’s all!”
“He might try,” said Cliff quietly.
“You don’t know Durgan,” said Madge warningly. “I know lots of gunmen. They’re the only men I do know. I like them. They’re on the level. But they’re toughest when it comes to their molls.
“I shouldn’t be here with you tonight. But I’m sick of Durgan. I liked you the first time I saw you, big boy” — there was an appeal in her voice that made Cliff realize the admiration she held for him — “and I just had to make friends with you. It’s because I like you that I’m putting you wise” — her hand pressed more tightly against Cliff’s arm — “and I won’t think bad of you if you give me the gate now and for all. That’s how I feel!”
THE tone of the girl’s voice convinced Cliff of what he had suspected all along; that Madge had been waiting the one opportunity to make his acquaintance.
Cliff had known many women. Although there was one who stood out in his memory, he remembered the others. He had never found it difficult to win a woman’s love; and when a girl talked as Madge was talking, he knew that she would never betray anything that he might say.
He felt that fortune had smiled upon him. Through Madge, he could learn of Killer Durgan. He decided to win her confidence.
“So you like gangsters,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” responded Madge. “They’re regular guys. But don’t ever have a run-in with one like Durgan—”
“Do you know a man named Cliff Marsland?” interrupted Cliff.
“The guy they say bumped off Tim Waldron?” questioned Madge, in an awed tone.
“Yes.”
“No. I don’t know him.”
“You do now!”
A gasp came from the darkness beside Cliff. It was several seconds before the meaning of his words had impressed the girl.
“You don’t mean” — her voice was breathless — “you don’t mean that you are—”
“I am Cliff Marsland!”
“Say” — Madge’s tone was filled with admiration and approval — “you’re some guy, big boy! Gee! I never thought that you were Cliff Marsland!
“They’re all talking about you — they figure you’re a big shot — the way you busted up that flock of gorillas. Durgan never pulled a stunt like that. They’ve been wondering where you were and here it was you, right in our hotel!”
“My official name,” said Cliff quietly, “is Clinton Martin. Remember that. As for your friend, Killer Durgan” — there was sarcasm in his voice — “don’t worry about what might happen to me if I met him!”
There was nothing boastful in Cliff’s tone. His words made a marked impression upon Madge. She nestled beside him in the cab.
“You’ve been doing a stretch in the Big House, haven’t you?” she said softly.
“Yes,” replied Cliff.
“Are you looking for a moll?”
“Not now.”
Madge laughed. His reply made her snuggle more closely. Then she became suddenly serious.
“How about before,” she said, “back before they put you away? Was there a moll then?”
“Yes,” replied Cliff, “there was. But that’s long ago, Madge. That’s all been forgotten.”
“Gee, Cliff!” the girl exclaimed. “I’m glad to hear that! You’re on the level, all right. Gee, I’m glad I got you here! You’re the guy I’ve been looking for. I’ll ditch Durgan—”
“Later,” said Cliff quietly.
“All right,” agreed Madge. “But it won’t be too long, will it, Cliff?”
“No. Not too long.”
The cab pulled up in front of the restaurant. The driver opened the door. Cliff Marsland stepped from the taxi with Madge Benton clinging closely to his right arm.