work that he was doing. Slips knew Red Mike, and had access to the telephone that was tucked away in
a side room. This enabled him to received frequent messages from Larry Ricordo.
Furthermore, at Red Mike's, Slips had picked up the gorillas whom he had chosen as his henchmen; and
now that his old squad was gone, he was in a position to assemble a new crew of workers.
Immediately after the encounter at Alfred Sartain's, Slips had scrammed for the security of Red Mike's.
Well did Slips know the narrowness of his escape. Although he congratulated himself on having evaded
The Shadow, he still felt great alarm because he had incurred the enmity of the dread being who
terrorized the underworld.
The telephone call which he had received from Larry Ricordo had calmed Slips somewhat. A further
message the same night also had a lulling effect.
Since then, two days had passed; and Slips, once more within Red Mike's portals, was feeling a sense of
security and relief.
Fearless though The Shadow might be, Slips knew that the enemy of crime would hardly start a pitched
battle in the heart of gangdom. Slips realized a thought that Larry Ricordo had suggested: namely, that
he — Slips Harbeck — was certain of security because The Shadow knew he was nothing more than a
minor player in the tragic drama that had occurred in Alfred Sartain's penthouse.
In fact, Slips Harbeck had another worry which troubled him as much as his fear of The Shadow. He had
read the newspaper reports of the affray at Sartain's, and had learned that Duster Brooks had been
identified. There was a chance that Detective Joe Cardona might trace Slips as a former pal of Duster's.
If so, Slips could expect arrest.
ORDINARILY, Slips would have dived for a hide-out under the circumstances. But the complex factors
now involved kept him here. He was living in a room above the speakeasy, quartered with Red Mike.
The fact that he never left the premises gave him a feeling of security from The Shadow.
The fact that neither Alfred Sartain, nor Hunnefield, the secretary, had been slain in the penthouse broil,
made him belittle the detectives. Only gangsters had died that night. The police were not after a murderer.
Besides these reasons, Slips had another cause for remaining at Red Mike's. He was still in the secret
employ of Larry Ricordo, and the big shot was paying him well. To show a yellow streak and run for
cover would automatically end his source of income.
Slips preferred to stay. But he wisely refrained from telling Larry Ricordo of his fears particularly those
which concerned the police.
Larry knew that Slips had been a former pal of Duster Brooks; but the gang lord did not know how
close that friendship had been. Slips could see no reason for informing Larry of it.
On this night, slouched at a table in a corner of the speakeasy, Slips was playing the part that had been
allotted him.
Larry Ricordo had assured him that he would not encounter trouble with The Shadow if he obeyed
instructions. At the same time, the gang leader had warned his lieutenant that he might be under
observation of an agent appointed by The Shadow.
Slips had two jobs to do: to mislead that agent, and also to learn the man's identity.
This was a task that Slips had forced himself to accept. He had managed to quell the growing notion that
perhaps The Shadow — and not an agent — was watching him. Slips thought of his position, and had
gradually convinced himself that he was reasonably safe from The Shadow's dreaded toils.
Where was Larry Ricordo? Slips Harbeck did not know; moreover, he did not care to know. Ignorance,
at times, might prove a protection.
What was Larry's scheme? That was something which Slips was anxious to learn. He was hoping to hear
from Larry to-night.
The patrons of Red Mike's establishment were constantly under Slips Harbeck's inspection. It was no
breach of speakeasy etiquette to glance at those who entered and left. At the same time it was poor
gangland policy to pay too much attention to the business of other people. Therefore, Slips was furtive
and somewhat superficial in his observations.
Among the habitues of Red Mike's, there were more than a dozen who might be there with the sole
purpose of watching some one. Slips knew that he could remember most of them by sight; and Red Mike
could probably supply the names, if needed. The game was set — by instructions which Slips had
received over the telephone from Ricordo.
FINISHING a drink, Slips settled back in a chair and lighted a cigarette. He puffed the smoke through
the corner of his mouth, and squinted through the white cloud as he saw Red Mike emerging from the
door of the side room. The proprietor was headed toward the spot where Slips was seated.
Red Mike stopped at the table and leaned over to whisper in the gangster's ear. Slips nodded as he
listened; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, arose from his chair.
'Phone call for me, eh?' he asked aloud. 'O.K., Mike. I'll take care of it.'
He started toward the other end of the speakeasy; paused, and returned to gulp the last imaginary drops
from his empty glass. He started again in the same direction. Slips was accustomed to wearing a wise
grin; hence his face did not betray a fact that he had noticed anything wrong.
While his back had been turned, a man several tables away had risen, and had started for the outer door.
The man was stopping to speak to Red Mike. Evidently he intended to order another drink. Slips noticed
his back as he took a chair near the door that led to the inner room. He also observed the man's face as
he passed.
Slips knew that he could remember those features. This man, although hard-visaged and forceful in
appearance, seemed of a type superior to the usual gangster. His face was more the countenance of the
trained athlete than the physiognomy of a thug.
Slips reached the inner room and closed the door behind him, taking care that it did not latch. The
telephone was on the wall beside a tumble-down desk. Slips picked up the receiver and spoke. He
recognized Larry Ricordo's voice.
'We're ready, Slips,' came the gang leader's words.
'O. K,' responded the lieutenant.
'Is anybody spotting you?' was Ricordo's question.
'I think so,' returned Slips. 'A guy just outside the door — '
'Great. Repeat things that I tell you. Let him hear you. Use your bean— and don't mention my name.'
'O.K. Shoot.'
Reaching toward the door, Slips gave the knob a slight pull. The door swung slowly inward, as though by
accident. Slips was back at the phone; apparently unconscious of what had occurred.
'To-night?' Slips Harbeck's voice carried to the edge of the outer room. 'Sure. I'm all set… Sure thing.
Give me the lay, and I'll be there… Yeah, I can dig up three gorillas to go with me… Wait a second. Let
me give that name back to you, so I've got it straight… J. Wesley Barnsworth. Apartment 636… Langley
Court. Yeah, I got that… Seventieth Street, eh? O.K.'
A pause; then Slips laughed coarsely. He began to speak again, paraphrasing words that came from
Larry Ricordo.
'Theater, eh? Won't be back until midnight? That makes it jake for me… Three hours to go… Sure… You
know me on the lock stuff… I'll fix a key before he gets there. We'll get the lay. Bump him quick… Not a
chance after he gets in there… Sure, it's better inside… Don't worry about a fracas in the hall. We'll wait
