The Shadow - Foxhound Part 9

It was pitch-dark as he threaded his furtive way toward the distant fence.

He knew escape was impossible. He could hear the harsh whispering of two voices from the vicinity of the gate. Kelsea had returned. It was Clyde's plan not to try to escape, but to deceive the cunning lawyer about the telephone call.

He crouched as the yard all about him burst into dazzling brilliance.Kelsea had turned on a switch that illuminated electric lights strung overhead on thin cables. From now on, Clyde's life depended, not on his own efforts but the power of The Shadow.

He stepped deliberately into view, his hands high above his head.

"Don't shoot," he cried in a trembling voice. "I surrender!"

CLYDE heard Kelsea's mocking laugh, saw the muzzle of the thug's gun. He was hustled back to the office with the broken window. A blow sent him sprawling to his knees, blood pouring into his eyes from a gash on his forehead.

But Clyde Burke was content. Neither Kelsea nor the gunman suspected that a telephone message had been sent from that secluded shack in the heart of downtown New York.

"Toss him in the cellar," Kelsea growled. "We don't want any more noise than we can help - and he'll probably start screaming when I give him the drug store treatment."

A square trapdoor, in the floor of the dusty office opened. Clyde was thrown bodily through the opening. The eyes of the thin man were s.h.i.+ning with pitiless pleasure as he descended below. Kelsea's, too, were aglitter with evil antic.i.p.ation.

The trapdoor fell with a thump.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BLUE BLZES.

IT was very dark and very quiet in the narrow alley where Harry Vincent had paused. He struck a match, hid the brief glow with his clipped palm. His eager stare showed him three empty ash cans, the center one stained with an irregular blob of ink. He tilted the middle can and withdrew from beneath it a white envelope. Then he walked rapidly onward to the street.

There were few pedestrians visible and none of them seemed to be interested in Harry. Under the glow of a street light, he ripped open the perfectly blank envelope and withdrew the sheet of paper it contained. There was a brief typewritten paragraph on the page, with neither salutation nor signature. Harry read it with narrowed eyes: Blue Blazes. Give first syllable of pa.s.sword to Max, head bartender. Con- ference necessary. If successful with Dawson will phone you. Wait half hour.

Harry Vincent pondered that queer message carefully. His personal responsibility was grave and immediate. The order conveyed to him by Burbank had been explicit. He was to recover the hidden note, read it, and act without delay according to his own best judgment. For once, there had been a faint tingle of excitement in Burbank's usually dry voice. It was obvious that The Shadow was concerned with more pressing matters and was depending on Harry to carry on in Clyde Burke's place.

The contents of the cryptic note were clear enough to Harry. To an ordinary brain, the pa.s.sword mentioned might seem to be "Blue Blazes."

Vincent, however, was aware that it was Foxhound. Besides, the coupling of Blue Blazes and a head bartender named Max was significant. As a veteran investigator of underworld hangouts, Vincent knew that the Blue Blazes was a sw.a.n.ky night spot. Its expensive glitter was merely a front to hide the real nature of the place. Actually, it was a meeting place for criminals, the clever and more prosperous rogues who were seldom arrested.

Vincent tore the note into shreds. He caught a taxi and drove southward toward the garish purple neon sign of the Blue Blazes.

It was thronged as usual. He entered quietly and sat at a small table not far from the bar. Sipping a drink, he watched the bar and the three men who were mixing drinks behind it. He decided that the bald-headed, heavy-set man in the center was Max. But he waited patiently until he heard one of the waiters address him by that name. Then he rose, drifted over to the bar.

Into the bald-headed man's ear he breathed a sentence.

"I'm looking for a gentleman named Fox."

"Yeah?" The bartender flicked at a wet spot on the bar with his rag. "I don't think I know him. Fox who?"

"Foxhound."

"Oh!" There was brief silence. No one else was observing them. "Wait here," the bartender whispered.

He sidled away and mixed a drink. When he came back, he handed the gla.s.s to Vincent - and something else. Harry could feel the cold outline of a key inside his closed palm.

"Men's room," the bartender said, out of the corner of his smiling mouth.

"Second door. You know about the peephole and b.u.t.ton?"

"Yeah," Harry lied.

"Okay. Make it snappy. The washroom's empty, right now."

VINCENT finished the drink swiftly and slouched away. He entered the washroom and saw at once that there were two closed doors in the side wall. He tried the first. It was unlocked and proved to be merely a closet containing pails, mops and brushes. The second door was locked.

His key fitted beautifully. Opening the door, he was amazed to find himself confronted with an unexpected flight of wooden stairs leading upward into darkness. He flitted through the doorway, closed the door softly. It locked automatically.

He ascended the stairs in pitch darkness. Two steep flights, two landings.

At the second landing, he found his groping fingers touching a blank wall. He struck a match and grinned tensely, remembering the barkeep's remark about a b.u.t.ton and peephole. He saw a white b.u.t.ton sunk almost flush with the wood of the barrier. Alongside it was a metal handle that was obviously part of what looked like a sliding panel to cover a small peephole.

Harry was afraid to press the b.u.t.ton until he knew what he was up against.

Instead, he moved the handle of the panel very gently aside.

A tiny hole was disclosed. By pressing his eyes close, Vincent could see clearly as though through the finder of a camera. To his astonishment, he found he was looking into a small room that looked like an office. A desk, a few chairs, and beyond them the ground gla.s.s of a door that suggested that the corridor of an office building was just beyond.

But the thing that startled Harry most was the room's occupant.

A woman sat slumped at the desk, her back toward Harry. She was weeping softly, her shoulders shaking with inaudible grief. Harry recognized the pale profile, the slim, lovely figure. It was Madge Payne, niece of the slain philanthropist whose innocent testimony in court had acquitted Jimmy Dawson of murder.

Vincent pressed the white b.u.t.ton grimly. The barrier slid aside and closed behind him with a faint click. It was a tiny sound, but the girl heard it andwhirled from the desk.

Her face lost its grief and became white with terror.

"Who are you?" she gasped. "How did you get in here?"

"You're Madge Payne, aren't you?"

He advanced toward her, smiling, courteous, very friendly. He was afraid she might scream and betray his presence in this queer rendezvous. But instead of screaming, she became very still.

A voice behind Vincent's back rasped with cold distinctness: "Hands up, you d.a.m.ned spy! Turn around slowly, so I can see your face!"

VINCENT obeyed. Doctor Bruce Hanson was glaring at him from tight, watchful eyes. There was an automatic pistol in his hand and his gaze was a mixture of rage and fear. He had come in through the corridor door while Harry was advancing toward the shrinking girl.

"Don't hurt him, Bruce," Madge gasped, through colorless lips.

Hanson paid no attention to her. He continued to stare at his prisoner.

"Who are you? One of Cardona's snoopers?"

"I came here," Vincent said, evenly, "to meet Mr. Fox."

"You lie!" The ominous voice got softer. He addressed his words to Madge, although he didn't turn his head.

"Get out, darling! At once! I'll meet you in a few minutes at - you know where."

The girl obeyed. She left by the corridor door. For sixty seconds, there was absolute silence in the room. During that time, Hanson's left hand dipped cautiously into a side pocket and emerged with a small knife.

His gun waved Vincent two paces backward from the desk and telephone. He laid the knife on the desk and from his pocket his left hand again emerged with a small bottle that contained a colorless liquid that looked thickish like castor oil. He uncorked the bottle with the fingers of his free hand and poured some of the sluggish liquid on the point of the knife.

The ring of the telephone interrupted him. Instantly, he laid the knife down and answered the phone, the muzzle of his gun still pointed at Harry.

"h.e.l.lo?" he whispered. A brief pause, then his mouth twisted in a frozen grin. "The word is Foxhound."

Harry listened. It was impossible to distinguish the sounds from the other end of the wire, but Hanson's fragmentary conversation was revealing enough.

"Dawson taken care of, eh? That's excellent... I a.s.sume that the Colette is now safe... What? The devil you say!" His voice shrilled with incredulous dismay... "No. I don't. A little trouble at this end, but nothing serious.

Correct! Good-by."

He hung up. With the gun in one hand and the coated knifeblade in the other, he approached Vincent.

"Straddle that chair. Your face to the back. Hands on knees, palms upward."

The sharp point of a knife p.r.i.c.ked Harry with sudden pain.

"Stay exactly the way you are," the voice behind him warned.

A small clock on the desk ticked on and on, its faint sound the only noise in the quiet room. Presently, Vincent's legs began to tremble. Without a word, he pitched from the chair and sprawled on the floor.

HANSON was over Vincent in an instant. He pressed upward on the closed eyelids of his victim, gazed at the fixed stare of the eyeb.a.l.l.s. Then he sprang back to the desk, corked the bottle with a quick gesture. Bottle, knife andgun disappeared into his pockets. He opened the corridor door, peered watchfully for a moment. Then he was gone.

On the floor of the office, Harry Vincent stirred and his eyes opened.

The expression in them was dull, sluggish, but he was a long way from being unconscious. He had faked that swoon, knowing it was his only chance to get rid of Hanson before the full effects of the drug took place.

Vincent felt no pain, but his head was queerly light, as though it was stuffed with cotton. He staggered to his feet and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the telephone.

He had to trace that mysterious phone call that Hanson had received and do so without delay. He used deception to help his purpose.

In a gruff, official voice that would have deceived Joe Cardona himself, he pretended to be the police detective. He asked for an immediate tracer on the message received a few minutes earlier. The report was delivered promptly.

The call had come from Pier 139, Hudson River.

Again the hand of Vincent clutched the phone. He heard a familiar, faraway whisper: "Burbank speaking." To The Shadow's discreet contact man he gasped out a terse report of the events that had happened since the moment he had tilted an ink-stained ash can and recovered the message that Clyde Burke had secreted.

"Report received. Stand by."

Vincent waited, his teeth clenched. His head began to droop, but Burbank's voice over the wire roused him.

"What orders?" he cried, thickly.

"Unable to transmit message. Will try again. Original orders still in force. Will repeat them. Quote. Proceed according to own discretion until advised otherwise. End of quote."

Harry Vincent hung up with a blurred groan. He knew that an emergency existed, otherwise The Shadow would have received his message. It was up to Harry now! He was still on duty and expected to carry on.

Vincent swayed toward the door, got it open, staggered down the corridor.

He was in an office building, as he had suspected. He pressed the elevator b.u.t.ton, stepped sluggishly into the car.

The operator gave him a peculiar look.

"'Smatter, buddy? Sick?"

"I'm all right."

The cool air of the sidewalk revived him a little. He walked to the corner, watching for a taxicab. There was a single clear thought in his spinning brain. He must get somehow to Pier 139, Hudson River! Pier 139...

Pier 139... It sounded in his mind like the rhythmic beat of a trip-hammer.

Around the corner, a familiar purplish glow met his eyes. Blue Blazes!

The night club was part of the office building; that was how he had been able to reach the rendezvous from the washroom stairs - Still no sign of a taxi - Vincent began to walk in a haphazard manner.

He saw suddenly, as in a dream, the fresh dimness of green gra.s.s and a few scattered benches. It was a tiny triangular park, formed by the intersection of street and avenue. Harry moved very, very slowly to a bench and sat down.

He rested dizzily against the metal corner of the bench. His head dropped on his chest. In a moment, he was unconscious.

CHAPTER XV

THE GHOST IN THE FURNACE.

THERE was a simple reason why The Shadow had not received the faltering report of Harry Vincent. He was no longer in his sanctum. Far to the east of the park in which Harry had momentarily collapsed, The Shadow was alighting from a battered, taxicab that stood at a dark curb almost under the approach of Brooklyn Bridge.

Moe Shrevnitz was behind the wheel of that taxi. He had driven hard and fast. He was aware that the life of Clyde Burke depended on his speed and his ability to dodge traffic cops.

The fence that divided the junk yard from the sidewalk lay in deep gloom.

Moe glided close to the fence, bent his muscular back. The Shadow crouched, leaped upward from his flesh-and-blood perch and caught at the top of the fence. He went over and down like a black wraith. Moe, listening, wasn't able to hear the thud of his dropping body.

The little taxi driver went back to his cab and extinguished the lights.

If any policeman investigated the parked taxi, Moe was all prepared with a glib excuse.