Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 046 - The Wealth Seeker

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THE WEALTH SEEKER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. AT RED MIKE'S
? CHAPTER II. PLANS OF CRIME
? CHAPTER III. BIRDY TALKS
? CHAPTER IV. FACTIONS FIGHT
? CHAPTER V. THE SHADOW'S CLEW
? CHAPTER VI. AT SATRUFF'S
? CHAPTER VII. THE RAIDERS
? CHAPTER VII. CARDONA'S QUIZ
? CHAPTER IX. DORAND ASKS ADVICE
? CHAPTER X. FROM THE UNDERWORLD
? CHAPTER XI. CROOK MEETS CROOK
? CHAPTER XII. TRAILS DIVERGE
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND RAID
? CHAPTER XIV. OUT OF THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER XV. SATRUFF EXPLAINS
? CHAPTER XVI. WESTON ORDAINS
? CHAPTER XVII. TEX GIVES ORDERS
? CHAPTER XVIII. SATRUFF PREPARES
? CHAPTER XIX. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XX. IN THE STRONG-ROOM
? CHAPTER XXI. HARLOW TELLS
? CHAPTER XXII. THE HIDDEN FRIEND
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE FINAL STROKE
CHAPTER I. AT RED MIKE'S
EVENING had come to the bad lands of Manhattan. The fading of dingy dusk had brought an insidious
gloom to the district which marked the strongholds of the underworld. Skulking figures of shifty mobsters,
quick steps of persons bound on innocent business, the stalwart forms of patrolling policemen—these
were the manifestations that marked the beginning of a new period of danger.
Gangdom had come to life after dark. Ways of crime, neglected while daylight held sway, were once
more in the making. Every empty house, every deserted alleyway, might be the lurking spot where evil
men awaited the word to wage war against the organized forces of the law.
This district was the breeding place of crime. Mobster hide-outs and meeting places were all too
frequent. Yet the police, although they knew the evils that existed, were handicapped by the very law
which they served.
Unless violence broke out within the precinct, or orders were received to arrest men wanted for crime,
the patrolling officers could make no legal inroads. They were forced to ignore the dives where crime
was instigated; to wait until rats of the bad lands came forth and committed evil in respectable districts.
Then would come the task of stopping the rats as they scurried back to cover. But once the furor had
ended, the old routine would rule the bailiwick of crime.
This night was typical of underworld activity. There was no doubt that crime was being fostered almost
within hearing distance of the patrolling policemen. The men in uniform could not learn such details.
Marked as men of the law, they were handicapped.
Spies, alone, could gain the secrets of the underworld. Yet even detectives who appeared within this area
were easily spotted by shrewd-eyed watchers. Stool pigeons served as secret workers for the law; they,
too, were insufficient, for they were outcasts who feared mob rule.
Indeed, the denizens of gangland were contemptuous of the law. So far as the police were concerned,
they feared no interference with their plans. There had been a time when plotting gangsters moved
abroad with very little effort to cover up their actions. Yet on this night—as on many more before it—the
stealthiness of those who skulked was evidence of some hidden foment beneath a surface that seemed
more than usually calm.
ON one narrow street where passers-by hastened on their way and every doorway seemed to shelter
prying eyes, a man was strolling alone. There was both caution and challenge in his attitude. His step,
though regular, was not quick. His course, though favoring the shelter of darkness near the buildings, was
not furtive.
A patrolling policeman eyed this passer as the man came within the dim glare of a street lamp. The officer
saw a firm, square face that denoted self-assurance. The features were not of the usual gangster type;
they lacked the uncouth coarseness so prevalent in the underworld. Nevertheless, the man's confidence
marked him as one who was familiar with this district.
The policeman sauntered on. When he paused to look over his shoulder, he noted that the man had
disappeared. He supposed that the walker had increased his pace to reach the next corner.
He was wrong. The man with the firm face had made a quick turn into a side alley and was now moving
easily toward a sunken doorway some distance from the street that he had left.
Arrived at his destination, this individual descended the short steps to the door and rapped for entrance.
As soon as the portal opened, he shouldered his way into a stone-walled room. He nodded curtly to a
brawny, red-haired fellow who stood behind a rough wood counter at one end of the room. He took his
seat at a table; the proprietor brought him a bottle and a glass.
There were more than a dozen men seated about this stone-walled room. They were a hard lot, these
rowdies of the underworld. Their conversation seemed to lull as they paused to throw sidelong glances at
the man who had entered. Then the subdued buzz was resumed. Evidently the face of the arrival had
gained recognition.
Such was the case. This hang-out was known as "Red Mike's," in honor of its ruddy-faced proprietor.
Only the most capable of gunmen were allowed within the place. Admission here was a mark of
gangland's approval.
The man who had entered was known to most of the patrons at Red Mike's. Conceded to be one of the
most dangerous characters in the bad lands, he was welcome. Thick, bloated lips announced his identity
in an undertone.
The arrival was Cliff Marsland, one of the coolest handlers of a gat that the underworld had known.
CLIFF MARSLAND, steady-faced and firm-eyed, knew that his appearance here had caused a buzz of
comment. Yet there was nothing in his action that indicated any notice of those about him. Cliff was a
man who kept his impressions to himself; he was one whose superiority showed itself among these
vicious fighters of the underworld.
Cliff, by his demeanor, seemed to consider the present atmosphere as a normal one. In his thoughts,
however, this steady-eyed man could see that all was not well at Red Mike's. Here, of all places in the
Tenderloin, subdued talk was unnecessary. Yet it persisted, and Cliff knew the reason why it did so.
A threat was hanging over gangdom. Fierce ruffians had felt the menace of a hand that they feared. A
powerful enemy, dreaded by those who scoffed at the law, had shown his might with devastating results.
Supercrooks had met defeat when they had encountered a superfighter known as The Shadow.
The underworld had hurled anathema at this common foeman. Vicious men of crime had sought to end
the strange career of a menacing being garbed in black, whose spectral form appeared wherever crime
was loosed. But in every combat, The Shadow had prevailed. Uncanny in his findings, unyielding in his
tactics, The Shadow had struck down all who had opposed him.
Some time had passed since the thunder of well-directed automatics had marked The Shadow's last
victory over hordes of evil. Yet The Shadow, silent, was as great a threat as ever. Hence, when mobsters
plotted, they chose ways of secrecy. For it had been bruited about within the underworld that The
Shadow might be anywhere—or everywhere.
Deeply educated in the ways of gangland, Cliff Marsland had the explanation why the tense atmosphere
existed at Red Mike's. It had been the same in every other hang-out which Cliff had visited to-night.
Every newcomer, such as Cliff himself, was spotted by those who patronized the dives. Each arrival was
discussed in murmurs. Mobsmen were ready to challenge all who failed to meet their twisted standards of
approval.
It was known that The Shadow, a master of disguise, had visited the bad lands in the past. He had joined
mobsters, posing as one of their ilk, and had dealt devastating blows to their ranks.
It was also believed that The Shadow utilized agents. That these men must be of unusual ability was a
positive conclusion. Hence suspicion rested on all denizens of the underworld, save those whose
reputation put them in the elite of gangdom.
Cliff Marsland knew all this. The smile that flickered upon his poker face was an indication that he knew
the repute in which he was held. No one would challenge Cliff Marsland. In fact, he would be one of the
first upon whom other men of gangland would call should they desire aid in tracking down a suspected
underling of The Shadow.
It had been reported that Cliff was gunning for The Shadow. That accounted for the fact that he remained
aloof from gang associations. A freelance who roamed at will throughout the crime district, a fighter de
luxe who bore a reputation as a killer, Cliff Marsland had a unique prestige.
FIFTEEN minutes after Cliff Marsland's arrival at Red Mike's, his entry had been forgotten. Mobsters at
a nearby table had raised their voices to a pitch where Cliff could hear their buzzing conversation.
They were talking of affairs in gangland; their chatter, however, was of little consequence until two new
arrivals appeared within the doorway of the hang-out.
Cliff Marsland, like the other patrons, eyed the newcomers. One was a pasty-faced, shrewd-eyed little
fellow whose body carried a peculiar hunch. Cliff knew him as "Birdy" Zelker, an intermediary between
gangsters.
The other, a brawny, flat-faced ruffian was one whom Cliff did not recall. He noticed the broadness of
this gangster's nose; the puffed cauliflower ear which the fellow wore.
Birdy Zelker and his unknown companion spoke to Red Mike. The proprietor of the hang-out nodded
and motioned toward a doorway at the side of the stone-walled room. The two went through the
opening. As soon as they had departed, Cliff caught the buzz of the mobsters seated closest to him.
"You know who that guy was, don't you?" quizzed one.
"Sure," came the reply. "Birdy Zelker. He's O.K."
"No. I don't mean Birdy. I mean the mush-faced guy with him."
"Who was he?"
"Pug Hoffler."
"Pug Hoffler!" The second mobster uttered the name in a surprised whisper. "Say—I thought he was in
stir!"
"He was," declared the first gangster. "He done his stretch up in the big house. He's back now—an' you
can count on it he's got somethin' up his sleeve."
"Yeah? What's his racket?"
"He ain't got none. But he knows his onions. He used to work for Tex Lowner and Rabbit Gorton."
"All at onct?"
"Have you gone goofy?" The informant's voice was contemptuous as he surveyed his pal. "Say—did you
ever hear of any gorilla workin' for Tex an' Rabbit at the same time? Those bimboes are cutthroats."
"I know that. But you said -"
"I said that Pug Hoffler worked for Tex an' Rabbit. He worked for Tex one time; after that he stuck
along with Rabbit. Then the bulls got him. Some say Tex fixed it because Pug had jumped to Rabbit's
outfit. Others say Rabbit was afraid that Pug was spyin' for Tex an' that Rabbit saw Pug got his. Anyway,
Pug Hoffler took his trip up the river."
"Is he in Dutch with Tex an' Rabbit both?"
"Maybe." The responding gangster snorted. "Anyway, neither of them guys is popular with Pug Hoffler.
You can bet he's workin' on his own from now on."
"Yeah." The second mobster nodded wisely. "If he's usin' Birdy Zelker, it's sure enough that he's figurin'
on buildin' a crew of his own."
The discussion changed.
Cliff Marsland had heard every word. To him, the conversation was illuminating. Cliff knew both "Tex"
Lowner and "Rabbit" Gorton by repute. They were hard-fisted gang leaders who were sworn enemies to
each other. Both were close-mouthed and kept their affairs to themselves.
"Pug" Hoffler was a newcomer in the field, now that he had returned from Sing Sing. Cliff knew that the
talking gangsters must have hit upon the truth; that this ex-convict was planning mob activity of his own.
Was Pug planning to play a game of crime that would rival the closely guarded methods of Tex Lowner
and Rabbit Gorton? Would a third enmity begin before Pug Hoffler had completed his schemes of
action?
THESE were possibilities that concerned Cliff Marsland deeply, although he betrayed no interest in the
subject. This conference between Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker—for Cliff was sure that such a talk was
taking place in a side room—might mean much in the coming activities that were brewed in the confines
of the underworld.
Cliff Marsland shoved his bottle and glass aside. He arose from the table and slouched toward the door.
He paused to light a cigarette. As he did so, he cast his eye along the room.
Mobsters, concerned in their own affairs, were paying no attention to Cliff's departure. Red Mike, his
back toward the counter, was arranging bottles of bootleg booze upon a shelf.
As he flicked his match across the floor, Cliff Marsland was standing beside the doorway through which
Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker had gone. With a side step, he moved in that direction. Unnoticed by
others in the room, Cliff slipped from sight.
Had any observed him, they would have decided only that Cliff Marsland had business with Pug Hoffler
and Birdy Zelker. That would have excited no suspicion. If Pug Hoffler were contemplating crime, he
would make an excellent first step by enlisting the services of so redoubtable a gun carrier as Cliff
Marsland.
The firm smile on Cliff Marsland's face showed that this possibility had been well considered. It also
indicated, however, that Cliff Marsland had a purpose all his own when he had moved upon the trail of
Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker.
Had that purpose been known to the gangsters in Red Mike's, Cliff Marsland's life would not have been
worth a counterfeit nickel. Cliff had not stepped in this direction to join the conference between Pug and
Birdy. Cliff had come to spy upon the pair.
For Cliff Marsland, the man whom gangland accepted as one above suspicion was a person whom hosts
of mobsters had been seeking. He was the trusted subordinate of the being whom all mobdom feared.
Cliff Marsland was The Shadow's agent in the underworld!
CHAPTER II. PLANS OF CRIME
PUG HOFFLER and Birdy Zelker were in conference. Seated in a small, dilapidated room off a
stone-walled corridor of Red Mike's dive, these men of crime were discussing the very subjects which
Cliff Marsland had heard two gangsters mention.
Pug, an ugly smile upon his battered features, was resting back in a creaky chair at one side of a broken
table. Birdy, his ratlike eyes aglow, was leaning forward with his elbows on the table, eagerly awaiting the
words which Pug might have to offer.
"I'm counting on you, Birdy." Pug's voice, though lacking the slurred jargon of the underworld, was harsh.
"I've got the boys I need for the first job. After that, it will be your job to line up a big crew."
"O.K., Pug," returned Birdy, with a peculiar whine. "They's only one thing dat gives me de jitters about
dis racket of -"
"Yeah?" interrupted Pug sourly. "What's that?"
"De way you stand in wrong wid Tex Lowner an' Rabbit Gorton," confessed Birdy. "Say—if dose guys
have it in for you, Pug, it ain't goin' to be healthy to be workin' wid, you -"
"Scared, eh?"
"Not me, Pug." Birdy's tone was hasty. "I'm only t'inkin' about de guys I'm goin' to see."
"Tell them they'll be safe," snorted Pug. "When I'm ready for them, I'll be set. Listen, Birdy. Tex and
Rabbit are out so far as I'm concerned. Out— you understand? And they'll stay out. I'm working on my
own—and I'm going after a job that nobody else is figuring on doing."
"When I get de mob?"
"No. Before that. With the crew I have already. I don't need a big mob for this pick-up. Listen, Birdy;
when you have the crew ready, I'll pay them in advance. Pay them plenty, if they'll stick with me."
"You've got de dough?"
"I'll have it." Pug eyed Birdy's beady eyes; then, with a laugh, he pulled a crumpled newspaper from his
pocket and smacked it on the table. "Look at that, Birdy."
The hunched-up mobster obeyed. Pug Hoffler watched him. Both were concerned with the matter before
them. Neither saw the face that was staring from the creaky, partly opened door.
They did not know that Cliff Marsland had been listening and now was watching.
BIRDY'S lips were moving as the gangster laboriously read the paragraph in the newspaper. When Birdy
spoke aloud, his voice indicated that he did not grasp what Pug Hoffler had in mind.
"What's de idea, Pug?" quizzed Birdy. "Who's dis guy Dorand dat nobody knows nothin' about? I seen
somethin' about him before. De news hounds has been playin' him up, ain't dey? What's dis word here
dat dey call him?"
"A philanthropist," explained Pug, as Birdy pointed to a word in the paragraph before him.
"What's dat mean?" queried Birdy.
"A philanthropist," added Pug, "is a man who gives money to people who need it. Some of them hand out
the cash to hospitals and schools— or other big places that need dough."
"Widout people knowin' who dey are?"
"Not always. But this fellow Dorand is doing it that way. What's more, he has been working it different
from most of them. Look at that newspaper story, Birdy. You'll see what Dorand's doing."
Birdy scowled as he continued to read the paragraph. His eyes suddenly took on a surprised expression.
"Say!" he exclaimed. "Dis guy must be bugs. Here dey let out five hundred workers from dat factory in
New Jersey an' dis guy gives each of 'em a pay envelope wid a century in it. Say, Pug—how much
dough is dat?"
"Five hundred people," calculated Pug, "with one hundred bucks each. That's fifty thousand dollars,
Birdy."
"Fifty grand!" Birdy's tone was filled with amazement. "Say, Pug, dat guy Dorand must have plenty of
kale."
"Don't bother to read any more of it," suggested Pug, picking up the newspaper. "I can tell you the rest
faster than you can read it. This isn't the first time Dorand has been loose with his dough. He gave half a
grand each to those thirty sailors who came in from that tank steamer—the Bahia—after it sunk off New
Jersey.
"That was fifteen grand in one plug. What's more, he's been pulling this pay envelope stunt right along.
The newspaper here says that he's passed out half a million all told, and it don't look like he's going to
quit."
"How come nobody knows de guy, Pug? When he passed out de real dough -"
"He don't pass it out himself. He sends the money by messenger to some responsible person with a note
asking that guy to do it for him and to tell people that Dorand put up the cash.
"Take that Jersey factory. These five hundred people were ready for their last pay day when some fellow
delivered a package to the cashier. He opened it and found the pay envelopes. He gave them out."
"Why didn't he grab the dough?" Pug grinned as he saw Birdy's incredulous look.
"You would wonder about that," observed the flat-faced ex-convict. "The cashier was honest—that's all.
There was a note signed by this fellow Dorand asking him to dish out the fifty grand. So he did it."
Birdy shook his head.
"Maybe it's me dat's cuckoo," he declared. "Maybe it's me. But I still t'ink dis guy Dorand is bugs, too."
"Maybe he is." Pug's eyes glittered as his face assumed a serious expression. "That's neither here nor
there. The big point is that Dorand's going to supply me with the cash to start a big racket. Get that,
Birdy?"
"You mean dat dis guy is goin' to give you dough?"
"He's not going to give it to me, Birdy. I'm going to take it. Plenty of it."
"How?"
"I'll tell you how. Dorand has been helping poor people right along. Always with cash. No checks to
hospitals none of that stuff, like a lot of these big mugs do. Always straight cash, where it counts. He's
liberal and he's careless."
"You mean you're goin' to be around de next time he forks over de pay envelopes?"
"NO. That wouldn't work. I'm going to get him before he gives out the cash. Here's the stunt, Birdy.
Dealing in real dough, the way Dorand does, he's certainly got to keep a lot of money on hand. All right;
I'll take my picked crew and bust into his place. We'll walk off with the cash."
"But how're you goin' to do it, Pug, if nobody knows who dis guy Dorand is?"
"Because"—Pug's face was hardening—"I happen to know who Dorand is."
Birdy gasped. His jaw fell as his eyes stared.
"I knew about this fellow," continued Pug, "before I went to the big house. I knew he had money then; I
didn't know, though, how he was going to spend it. While I was doing the stretch, I read the newspapers.
They let me have them right along. The minute I saw the Dorand stuff, I figured who it might be.
"I'm working on more than a hunch. I know the place where he lives. His name isn't Dorand—that's what
fools people. I know who he really is, and I have a pretty good idea of how his home is laid out.
"The best part of it is this. This fellow—let's call him 'Dorand' - is keeping mum on the gifts he makes.
Maybe some day he'll let people know who he is—after he's given away a million bucks or more. But
right now he seems to like keeping himself buried from the public.
"That's why he's not worrying about some one like me barging in to rob the place. It's an easy enough
job, if you know the way to it, like I think I do. But no one is tackling it because no one knows it's worth
while. That is, no one but me. Savvy?"
"I get you, Pug," grinned Birdy. "You're goin' to pull a surprise on old million bags, eh?"
"Right," returned Pug. "What's more, I'm working it right away. There's no telling how soon Dorand is
going to quit this anonymous stuff. Maybe next week— next month—next year—he'll come out and let
the public know who he is.
"That's the way a lot of those philanthropists work. They don't get much excitement started if they come
right out in the open with their gifts. But the public falls for this no-name bunk. Then when the time's ripe,
the big guy— like Dorand—picks up a lot of credit when his name becomes known."
"He's out the dough," observed Birdy.
"Sure," agreed Pug. "But Dorand has plenty of it. He won't go broke with his hand-outs. Don't worry
about that."
Pug paused to lean back in his chair. Birdy reflected; then spoke eagerly.
"Say, Pug." The little gangster's face expressed his keen interest. "When you pull dis job, you're takin' me
along, ain't you?"
"I've got my crew all fixed," returned Pug. "Your job is to line up some gorillas. Once I've staked myself
with Dorand's dough, I'm going to ride high."
"I know dat. But I want to see de way you work. Dat's goin' to help me when I pick de guys you want."
Pug reflected. He began to nod slowly.
"There's something in that, Birdy," admitted the ex-convict. "Sure - I'll take you along when I raid
Dorand's place. You meet up with the gang; I've got the spot all set."
"How soon?"
"To-night."
Birdy whistled.
"Say, Pug!" he exclaimed admiringly. "You're a quick worker, ain't you? Say—where is dis place you're
goin' to?"
"I'll tell you, Birdy," replied Pug, in a confidential tone. "It's just the kind of a spot that'll be easy. It's -"
The gang leader broke off. He stared suddenly at the door. His eyes narrowed as he laid one hand on the
edge of the table.
"What's de matter?" queried Birdy.
"That door," answered Pug, rising from his chair. "I didn't figure it was open. Maybe some guy was
listening. Wait here, Birdy, while I look outside."
SPRINGING to his feet, Pug went to the door. He stared suspiciously into the corridor. He motioned
Birdy to remain where he was. Leaving the room, Pug closed the door behind him.
There was no sign of any person in the corridor. Pug strolled to the main room of Red Mike's and
walked to the counter. He chatted affably with the big proprietor while he glanced about the room.
Cliff Marsland was seated at one of the tables. The Shadow's agent had foreseen Pug's move, back at
the little room. Dodging just before Pug had had a chance to spot him, Cliff had doubled on his tracks.
He had reached a table before Pug had decided to investigate the corridor.
Cliff did not excite Pug's suspicion. Satisfied that all was well, the gang leader strolled back to the room
where he had left Birdy. It was then that Cliff, in turn, arose and walked to the counter.
"Say, Mike," Cliff growled to the proprietor, "where's Duster Yomer? Hasn't he been around lately?"
"Not here," returned Red Mike. "He hangs out over at the Black Ship. Ain't you been in there, Cliff?"
"Didn't think of it," mused Cliff. "Say—maybe I could call over there and get him."
"Does he answer telephone calls?"
"Sure. When he gets the password. I'll use your phone, Mike."
The proprietor nudged his thumb toward a doorway on the opposite side of the room. Cliff walked in
that direction. He entered a short corridor and found an ancient coin box in a room which resembled the
one where Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker were quartered.
Closing the door behind him, Cliff called a number. With the click of the receiver at the other end, a quiet
voice made itself known with these words: "Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," returned Cliff. "Reporting from Red Mike's. Birdy Zelker here with Pug Hoffler. Planning
raid to rob philanthropist called Dorand. To-night."
"Further details?"
"None. I'll try to get them. Pug knows the place; Birdy doesn't. I'll have to trail one or the other."
"Report received. Await instructions. Repeat call after fifteen minutes."
Cliff Marsland hung up the receiver and strolled from the room. Burbank, to whom Cliff had been
speaking, was The Shadow's contact man. Messages and reports phoned by The Shadow's active
agents were relayed by Burbank to The Shadow himself.
CLIFF wondered, as he reached a table, what The Shadow's order would be. Perhaps he would leave
this job to Cliff. Possibly he would come here in disguise. More likely, if The Shadow happened to be
within Burbank's reach, he would come and linger outside of Red Mike's to pick up the trail himself.
As a tracker of suspicious characters, The Shadow was without an equal. Time and again, this master
worker who moved with the stealth of night had stalked his quarry through the confines of the
underworld.
It was Cliff's job to stand by, to learn all that he could to aid The Shadow. It would be unwise to return
to the little room where Pug and Birdy were, now that Pug's suspicions had been aroused. Yet Cliff had
an itch to do so, for he was positive that Pug was telling Birdy all that he knew about a wealthy
philanthropist known as Dorand.
While Cliff was considering the possibility of some action, he saw Pug and Birdy come out from the
corridor. There was a wise look on Birdy's face that signified much. Cliff was positive that the hunched
gangster had learned facts from Pug.
Cliff expected the two to leave Red Mike's. Instead, Pug went out alone. Cliff waited. He was sure that
by trailing Birdy he could accomplish as much as by following Pug. A few minutes passed; then Birdy
arose and walked into the opposite corridor, toward the telephone room!
This was Cliff's cue. Birdy had passed Red Mike unnoticed. Rising, Cliff approached the counter as the
proprietor chanced to look in his direction. In a growling tone, Cliff announced that his call to the Black
Ship had not gone through; that he intended to try calling it again.
As he followed Birdy's path, Cliff had a hunch that the little gangster was following some order that Pug
Hoffler had given him. There was time to catch the beginning of a telephone call which Birdy must be
making. Cliff was eager to get in on any information which might be obtainable.
Outside the door of the little room, Cliff paused. He slowly turned the knob of the door. He pushed the
barrier ajar. He heard the tones of Birdy's voice. A look of frank astonishment crept over Cliff's firm face
as he listened to the words that Birdy Zelker was uttering.
In the space of a few brief seconds, Cliff Marsland gained an inkling of astounding facts that he had not
suspected!
CHAPTER III. BIRDY TALKS
"HELLO..." Birdy Zelker's whisper was an anxious one. "Dot you, Joe?... Dis is Birdy... Yeah... I been
talkin' to him... Here at Red Mike's... Say, Joe, I've got de dope on de guy..."
These were the words that caused Cliff Marsland's astonishment. From the tone of Birdy's voice, from
the explanation which the little gangster was giving, Cliff not only knew the identity of the man to whom
Birdy was speaking, he also realized that Birdy was engaged in a game of double cross.
Joe! That was a name which Cliff Marsland knew. It was the first name of Joe Cardona, ace sleuth of the
Manhattan force. Birdy's anxiety to accompany Pug Hoffler on to-night's job was at once explained.
Birdy Zelker was a stool pigeon!
Having gained details regarding Pug Hoffler's plans, Birdy was squealing to the police. He was tipping
Cardona off to the Dorand business. He had pulled a fast one on Pug Hoffler.
"Listen, Joe." Birdy's words were plaintive. "Dey'd get me here if dey knew I was callin' you. Dere's
plenty of time. I'm waitin' here a half hour, see? Den I'll slide out. You pick me up outside of dis
place—Red Mike's. Trail me an' I'll tip you off when I'm sittin' safe. Den we can talk.
摘要：

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