seen nothing.
Suddenly a human form seemed to emerge from the dark wall. The appearance was instantaneous, as though a curtain had been swept aside to reveal a living being. A man walked openly beneath the light - a man attired in rough clothing, who appeared to be a typical denizen of the underworld.
Spotter could see the man's face; it was a sullen, grimy face. He knew every one in gangland; yet he could not identify this person. The man who had appeared with such amazing suddenness entered the doorway where the Mexican had gone.
Spotter waited, again undecided. Then he rose slowly, and stood still. For a moment he began to turn, as though to leave the alley. Then, with an effort, he approached the doorway. It was the entrance to the basement den known as the Black Ship - a place with which Spotter was quite familiar.
'De bunch will know me,' mumbled Spotter as he hesitated before the door. 'Dey will all know me. An'
if dat's De Shadow - well, he will know me, too.'
He thrust his hands in his pockets. Some coins jingled. They were the change left from money he had spent - money which had been paid him in advance for the work he was expected to do to-night.
'I tipped de bunch off already,' observed Spotter, as though reasoning with himself. 'If I don't show up, maybe dey'll blow de works demselves. I ain't got nothin' to do but go ahead wid it. It means more dough comin' to me if it works.'
He shrugged his shoulders.
Then, defying his apprehensions, he drew his hands from his pockets, opened the door, and stepped into the Black Ship.
CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE BLACK SHIP
THERE were about two dozen men in the large underground den when Pedro entered. The Mexican, with his ugly, scar-marked face, was a fit companion for the group that was assembled there. His eyes shone, and his teeth gleamed as he looked about him with satisfaction.
The crowd in the Black Ship represented the most ruthless thugs of the underworld. Every face that Pedro saw was a hardened, criminal type. Pockmarked features, ratlike eyes, coarse, brutal lips - these predominated in the Black Ship.
The Mexican seated himself at a table near the small bar that was in one corner of the room. The man behind the bar, a huge, brutal fellow, brought out a bottle and a glass and placed them in front of Pedro.
The Mexican gave him a dollar bill.
He knew who the bartender was. The man was 'Red Mike' himself, the proprietor of the Black Ship. He conducted his notorious dive without interference from the police. For the Black Ship was the meeting place of the worst criminals that the underworld could boast, and the fact that it operated almost openly was of value to the authorities who sought to combat the evil hordes of gangland.
Police detectives did not enter the Black Ship, but their stool pigeons did. Time and again notorious criminals were traced from this den of the underworld. Yet it was only the most daring and most secretive of stool pigeons who dared enter the Black Ship; for had their identity been known, their lives would have been taken in an instant.
Red Mike knew that his place was tolerated by the police. For that reason he insisted that order be preserved. The gangsters respected Red Mike. They were his friends, and any unruly customer would be ejected instantly at his command.
'No gun play' was the proprietor's strict rule. He did not permit fights and quarrels among crooks to enter his domain. There was only one entrance to the Black Ship. It was an unwritten law in the underworld that those whose victims entered the dive beneath the street should wait outside until their men left Red Mike's place.
Any one could enter. Any one could be served. But only the toughest characters came in. Red Mike spotted strangers instantly. As long as they sat quietly and drank what they received they were welcome.
But no one was allowed to take a bottle from his place.
LIKE every hardened man of that district, Red Mike was willing to take a chance for the proper price.
Hence, on rare occasions, he allowed a fight to start in the Black Ship - but always under the most careful conditions.
He was expecting trouble to-night. A phone call had come from the proper person. In response, Red Mike had served free drinks to all his patrons. This was a remarkable action - one which was seldom performed in the Black Ship.
Some of the men had received the unexpected benefit with looks of surprise. Others - these were the ones whom Red Mike noticed particularly - had grinned in anticipation. Their toughened faces had shown sudden interest.
One by one they had risen from their tables and had gone through a door into a small inner room - a stone- walled apartment with an iron-plated door. It was seldom that Red Mike allowed any of his patrons to enter that room. It was usually kept for storage purposes.
Pedro the Mexican had entered before the last man had gone through the heavy door. He finished his drink leisurely. While he still sat at his table, the outer door of the Black Ship swung open and a man walked through the entrance.
The newcomer was tall and wiry. He wore khaki pants that were too large for him. An old sweater covered his body. A ragged cap was pulled down over his eyes. Beneath the visor was a face that revealed the typical gangster - a cruel, toughened face.
The pulled-down cap obscured the man's eyes and forehead. Red Mike did not recognize the new customer, yet he placed him instantly as a gangster. The proprietor of the Black Ship prided himself on his ability to spot any detective. This fellow was not of that ilk. He was unquestionably a denizen of the underworld.
The man accepted the bottle and glass that Red Mike laid before him and proffered a five-dollar bill. The proprietor made change and laid the money on the table. The man's head was turned downward; the cap prevented Red Mike from catching the slightest glimpse of his countenance.
The proprietor of the Black Ship waited behind the bar. He watched the stranger draw out a cigarette and light it before sampling the contents of the bottle. Another man came through the entrance. Red Mike recognized the fellow instantly. It was Spotter, the crafty-faced sneak who knew the underworld so well.
Spotter moved quickly and quietly across the room, taking a position in a corner, where he could observe the stranger who had entered before him. Yet Spotter was so situated that the other man could not see him without turning. No sign on Spotter's face betrayed any interest whatever. He became instantly occupied with the bottle that Red Mike put before him.
Pedro the Mexican sat where he could see Spotter. The big man with the scar on his face rose from the table. He stood as though undecided. Then he walked across and opened the heavy door. The sound of voices came from within as the Mexican entered the other room.
A FEW minutes passed, then two or three more ruffians came into the Black Ship. The den was becoming well-filled. This was Red Mike's cue.
'Them that wants can go in the other room,' he announced. 'Big crowd here to-night, boys.'
The newcomers had already seated themselves, so they remained where they were. But shortly after Red Mike's invitation the stranger with the pulled-down cap rose and casually entered the other room. Spotter finished his drink slowly. Then he left his place and followed the stranger.
The inner room was virtually a vault, with a low stone ceiling and walls of solid masonry. It was lighted by a large electric bulb which hung from the ceiling. It was a fair-sized room, and contained several tables around the walls.
There were exactly eleven men there when Spotter entered and slipped into a chair beside the nearest table. Pedro was seated in a far corner, apparently talking to a man opposite him. The gangster with the pulled-down cap was close by, sullenly slouched over his table, apparently unaware what was going on.
The others were drinking and talking in rather low voices.
Red Mike entered and distributed bottles and glasses. When the proprietor had gone, the room apparently remained the same, except for one fact - all its occupants, with the exception of the slouching man with the cap, seemed to be turning furtive glances in the direction of Spotter.
The crafty-faced fellow poured himself one drink and gulped down the contents of his glass. He drank again,
