Two men stood across the street from the Merrimac Club. They were holding a low conversation. Their faces were turned toward the building by which they stood, yet they seemed keenly observant of all who passed them.
“Ten o’clock, Harry,” said one of the men.
The other nodded.
“We may have to wait until midnight, Clyde,” he replied. “He stays late, sometimes.”
“Yes,” confirmed Clyde, “and then he usually goes home. Still, I’m glad we’re on the job again.”
“Why?”
“Because The Sha—” Clyde Burke caught his words—”because we went off duty the night after we lost Paget in the restaurant. I’m glad to be on again. We’re not going to slip this time.”
Harry Vincent suddenly gripped his companion’s arm.
“There he is, Clyde,” he whispered. “But stay back! Remember the orders—”
Rodney Paget had appeared outside the entrance of the Merrimac Club. He stood there, staring up the street in his bored manner.
Harry Vincent, scarcely visible in the dim spot where he was located, was keenly observant. He saw Paget start a stroll toward the corner, swinging his cane as he walked. Harry followed a few seconds later, keeping on his own side of the street. Clyde Burke had slipped unnoticed into a near-by doorway.
Rodney Paget seemed in no hurry. He idled as he walked, stopping every now and then to glance upward at the surrounding skyscrapers. He finally stopped beside a subway entrance. He tapped his cigarette holder, and placed it in his pocket. Then he suddenly went into the subway entrance.
This was an unexpected maneuver. It caused a change in Harry Vincent’s plans. He changed his slow pace and hurried in pursuit.
A subway train was entering the local station when Rodney Paget reached the bottom of the steps. He was moving swiftly and had ample time to catch the train. Had he done so, he would have eluded his unseen pursuer.
But the clubman stopped short when he reached the turnstile. He had brought a handful of change from his pocket. There was no nickel among the coins.
With a slight exclamation, Paget hurried to the change booth. Before he had received his supply of nickels, the train was pulling from the station. Paget became leisurely again. He glanced about him; then went through the turnstile and walked toward the head of the platform.
When the next local came in, a few minutes later, several passengers boarded it. Among them were two men who had come to the platform after Rodney Paget.
One was Harry Vincent; the other was Clyde Burke. They entered the same car as the clubman. Neither one appeared to notice Rodney Paget; nor did they exchange any sign of recognition between each other.
WHEN the train reached Sixty-sixth Street, Rodney Paget left the car staring straight ahead. He paid no attention whatever to the other passengers. He did not notice the two men who stepped from the car.
Reaching the street, Paget turned his steps westward from Broadway. He moved slowly at first; then quickened his pace after he had turned a corner.
At Sixty-ninth Street and Ninth Avenue, he stopped and lingered near the doorway of a store. He glanced cautiously in all directions. There were a number of people in sight. None of them seemed to arouse the clubman’s suspicions.
He turned deliberately and strolled along Sixty-ninth Street, keeping well away from the curb.
He stopped part way down the block. Across the street was the side entrance to a warehouse. It was a spot back from the sidewalk; yet it was somewhat conspicuous because of a light directly above it.
Paget did not seem to mind that fact. The sight of a man in a tuxedo entering a warehouse door on Sixty-ninth Street evidently did not impress him as being outlandish. He stepped across the street and pushed open the door. A dark passageway confronted him.
Paget entered, leaving the door open so that he could see his way.
Hardly had he disappeared before another man crossed the street at a spot much nearer Ninth Avenue.
The newcomer was walking briskly. He stopped suddenly after he had passed the entrance of a warehouse.
His purpose was evident. He was about to light a cigarette. The glare of the match revealed the features of Harry Vincent.
The young man made a hasty survey of his surroundings. No one was in sight. The street was virtually deserted. Harry stepped near the wall; then turned and began to walk slowly back toward Ninth Avenue.
As he reached the door of the warehouse, he moved to the side and stood beneath the light above the door.
He was governed momentarily by indecision. His eyes gazed quickly across the street. For an instant he seemed hesitant; then, glancing at the gloomy passage into the warehouse, he entered, following the course which Rodney Paget had taken.
Had Harry’s vision penetrated the darkened windows of the house across the street, the young man would have congratulated himself upon his action.
For behind an open window on the second floor stood a man with a rifle. His gun had been trained directly upon Harry’s form. When Harry had turned away, the man’s finger had been on the trigger; but his decision had changed when Harry had entered the warehouse.
The passage which Harry followed was a gloomy one. His mind was too intent upon what lay ahead to worry about anything that he had left behind.
The door was still part way open, and the street light revealed the way until the passage turned to the right. Here the cement paving was replaced by a flight of wooden steps. Harry went upward through almost total darkness. He felt the wall on his left and his hands reached a corner.
Harry peered cautiously around the corner and saw that a clear passage lay ahead. It led to the next street, and was gloomy but not forbidding. There was no sign of Rodney Paget.
THE fact that his man had outdistanced him spurred Harry to immediate action. He was angry with himself for having been tricked by so simple an artifice. He was determined to gain the street before Paget could get away.
He stepped quickly to the uppermost step; then made a wild clutch in the air. His efforts were too late.
The wooden landing opened in the middle and Harry felt himself falling into the depths below.
His left hand was still touching the corner of the passageway; but the bare stone offered no hold. A gasping cry escaped Harry’s lips as he dropped.
He landed upon a pile of rags and newspapers. His upturned eyes caught a dim outline of the trap as its two portions closed above him. He heard the click of an automatic lock as he tried to scramble to his feet.
Some one gripped him in the darkness. He went down beneath the onslaught. Strong, active hands bound him firmly, and a gag between his teeth prevented an outcry.
Then he was carried along a dark, smelly passageway, up steps and around corners, until he lost all sense of direction. Once the scent of fresh air reached his nostrils; then he felt himself rising in an automatic elevator.
One of his hands was gradually loosening. As his captors stopped and were about to set him in what seemed to be a pitch-black room, Harry pulled the hand free and swung his fist through the air. A grunt followed as the blow struck one of the captors in the chest. The men fell upon their victim.
In the darkness, they did not know that he was only partially free. They were quick with their attack and a powerful swing threw Harry backward. His head struck a wall and consciousness left him.
BACK in the street, another man was passing the entrance to the warehouse passage. It was the third time that he had passed it, but always on the far side of the street.
Clyde Burke had seen Harry Vincent enter the open door, and had correctly presumed that he had gone after Rodney Paget. Something had prompted Burke not to follow.
He had been instructed to act as Vincent’s auxiliary; to take up the pursuit should Harry be suspected.
Hence Burke had discreetly kept from view. He had walked by in an indifferent manner, keeping himself inconspicuous.
When three men had appeared at Tenth Avenue, Burke had followed them to Ninth, appearing as a lagging member of their group. This, his third trip, was a brisk one.
Clyde passed directly under the open window where the man with the gun still remained. He escaped the eyes of the concealed observer. The man was watching the entrance to the warehouse.
On Tenth Avenue, Clyde reasoned the matter a while; then walked to the next cross street. Here he walked back toward Ninth Avenue, and saw the other entrance to the passageway. His view was quick and fleeting, from the opposite side of the street.
Clyde Burke was satisfied that Harry had followed Rodney Paget completely through the passage. He was angry with himself for having lost the trail. Now the pursuit depended upon Harry alone.
Clyde considered the situation in this light as he walked gloomily back toward Broadway.
Just as Clyde Burke left, the man in the window gave up his vigil. He was satisfied that only one person had followed Rodney Paget into the gloomy passageway. And he knew that by this time that person had been captured and could not possibly escape.
CLYDE BURKE was undecided between two courses. Both Vincent and Paget had disappeared. He must try to locate at least one of them.
Harry, he knew, would return eventually to the Metrolite Hotel, where he resided. It would be a simple matter to go there and wait for him. Rodney Paget, likewise, had a logical destination — his apartment. By watching that building, Clyde could learn when the clubman returned.
The second plan seemed the better. Suppose, reasoned Clyde, that Harry was still following Paget when the man reached his apartment? He would be glad to find Clyde there.
At least, there would be a report to make regarding the hour of Paget’s return. So Clyde proceeded in the direction of Paget’s apartment house.
He chose a spot for observations. It was across the street from the building. There, Clyde lurked in the darkness, occasionally taking a short walk up and down the street.
He had spotted Paget’s windows on his arrival. The windows were dark. It was unlikely that Paget had had time to return.
An hour passed and Clyde continued his vigil. At last he was rewarded. A taxi coasted up to the entrance of the apartment house and Paget stepped out.
Clyde recognized the man instantly by his lounging gait. Paget was not looking in his direction. Clyde sauntered slowly across the street and passed within a few feet of the clubman as he entered the apartment house.
“Fine passenger you had,” Clyde remarked nonchalantly, addressing the taxi driver. “I guess those sporty cane carriers hand out big tips, don’t they?”
“Two bits,” growled the driver.
“My, my,” said Clyde, jokingly, “where did you bring him from? Harlem?”
“Seventy-second and Broadway,” returned the driver, climbing into his cab.
Clyde watched the vehicle drive away. He had, at least, discovered the spot where Paget had entered the cab. He walked across the street and looked up at the apartment house. Lights appeared in the window of Paget’s apartment.
Clyde drew his watch from his pocket.
“Paget in at eleven forty-five,” he remarked, aloud. “Came from Seventy-second and—”
A sound attracted his attention. He turned suddenly to see a man coming from behind him. The fellow had been standing close to a building; Clyde had been too intent to observe him.
The newspaperman warded off a hand that was just about to seize his throat. Dodging, he caught his opponent’s arm and gave it a jujutsu twist. He uttered a shout of elation as the man nearly lost his footing.
Then the situation turned suddenly. The men came closer together, and Clyde caught a glimpse of his foe’s right hand as it swung toward him. He realized — too late — that the man had a blackjack. The brutal weapon struck the back of Clyde’s head. He crumpled to the sidewalk.
A taxicab stopped as the victor called to the driver.
“Help me get my friend in,” said the man on the sidewalk. “He’s been drinking too much bum booze—”
As the driver alighted, the man suddenly turned and ran down the street. The taxi driver stood in astonishment until he noticed a policeman approaching from the opposite direction.
The blue-coat drew a revolver and fired two wild shots as the fleeing man turned the corner.
He pocketed his gun with an angry gesture. Another man came running up and pointed to the form of Burke.
“That’s one of them,” he exclaimed, to the officer. “I saw them across the street. I think the other bird was trying to hold up this guy.”
“Grab ahold,” ordered the policeman.
They loaded Burke into the taxicab and started for the hospital. A doctor examined the victim upon their arrival.
“Hit with a blackjack,” he said. “Possible fracture of the skull. He’ll probably come around all right.”
It was several hours later when Clyde Burke opened his eyes. He clutched the covers of the hospital cot with weak, helpless fingers. He looked about him in a bewildered way. Then he shut his eyes and tried to forget the throbbing in the back of his head.
“He’s doing well,” he heard a voice say. “No fracture, but every evidence of a brain concussion. Keep him quiet.”
The words made very little impression upon Clyde’s mind. He was in a dizzy mental whirl, trying vainly to recall something important that concerned Harry Vincent.