fifteen minutes, anyway, before we go in to plug him… Yeah, I'll remember that… Pick up any papers that
are loose… O.K. We will wait until close to midnight before we blow in…'
Slips hung up the receiver. He paused a few moments; then sauntered out into the large room. He
stopped to view the door with a frown. He looked around to see if any one was close by. No one was
near, at present. The firm-faced man who had moved over by the door had finished his drink, and was
again bidding Red Mike good night.
Slips strolled about the speakeasy and looked over some of the men there. He finally stopped at the end
of the room and spoke to the proprietor.
'Say, Mike,' he questioned, 'who was that guy that you was just talking to?'
'You mean the poker-faced bird?' responded Red Mike. 'Say — you ought to know him, Slips. That's
Cliff Marsland. He was in stir for a couple of years. Mixed up in a big bank job. Comes in here often.'
'I thought I remembered him,' recalled Slips. 'Marsland. Sure. I've heard of him.'
Ricordo's lieutenant sauntered back to a table. His face wore a smile more cunning than before. He was
sure that he had something now to tell the gang leader — provided that action took place to-night. Slips
Harbeck suspected that Cliff Marsland might be an agent of The Shadow.
Slips stayed at the table for several minutes. Then he left the speakeasy. He did not go far. He doubled
back through an alley and came into a side door that led upstairs.
Slips was going to his quarters. He did not intend to be abroad to-night. His work was done. That was in
accord with Larry Ricordo's order.
IN his conjecture that Cliff Marsland served The Shadow, Slips Harbeck was correct. The reason for
Cliff's departure was that he had overheard the conversation on the telephone, exactly as Slips had
intended. By the time Slips had reached his room, Cliff was three blocks away, headed for a spot where
he could telephone the information without observation.
Cliff Marsland, to date, had been a useful under-cover man for The Shadow's activities in the
underworld. Red Mike had spoken the truth when he had stated that Cliff had served time in prison.
What Red Mike did not know— what no one in the bad lands knew — was that Cliff had gone to jail for
another man's crime.
Outside of Cliff himself, only The Shadow knew that fact. He had sworn Cliff Marsland into his service.
With a reputation as a criminal and a killer, Cliff was an ideal man for service in the underworld. Gang
leaders had taken him into their service; later, those same big shots had come to grief.
No mob leader had learned Cliff's secret. A free lance in gangland, Cliff was still an ace in The Shadow's
hand. It had required the perceptive, scheming brain of Professor Folcroft Urlich to bring about the
discovery of The Shadow's agent.
Completely unaware that he had been spotted by Slips Harbeck, Cliff reached his destination and went
to a telephone. He called a number and waited until he heard the sound of a quiet voice. Cliff knew the
identity of the man at the other end of the wire. It was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man.
'Marsland speaking,' said Cliff in a low tone.
'Burbank speaking,' came the reply. 'Report.'
Briefly, Cliff told what he had learned. Slips Harbeck, whom Cliff had spotted as a trouble maker some
time before, was intending a new foray like the one he had made on Alfred Sartain's penthouse. To- night,
the intended victim was a man named J. Wesley Barnsworth.
Cliff gave the address; the details; and finally explained how he had learned the news. Burbank
responded with quiet questions, and finally told Cliff to await a return call. It came, within ten minutes.
'Off duty,' was Burbank's order.
Cliff smiled as he left the telephone. He knew what this meant. Burbank had relayed the information to
The Shadow. That was Burbank's duty. Sequestered somewhere in New York, often changing his
location, the quiet-voiced man was constantly in touch with both The Shadow and The Shadow's agents.
Cliff had never seen Burbank. He knew him only by his voice. But Burbank, despite his passive part, was
an important cog in The Shadow's machine that ground budding crime to atoms.
On the occasion of Slips Harbeck's excursion to Alfred Sartain's penthouse, Cliff Marsland had followed
Ricordo's lieutenant, and had reported to The Shadow. To-night, the job had been more simple. Cliff had
been lucky enough to overhear the plans. No more was necessary.
As at Sartain's, so at Barnsworth's. Destiny lay in the hand of The Shadow. Again, Cliff was positive,
crime would be defeated. Murder would fail due to the presence of The Shadow.
The master of the night would need no aid. Well did Cliff know that The Shadow, alone, could battle a
squad of gangsters more easily than with the help of others.
Victory for The Shadow. That was Cliff's thought. To-night's adventure would be simple for the
black-garbed battler. Not for one minute did Cliff suspect a trap.
For Cliff Marsland knew nothing of Professor Folcroft Urlich, the scientist who had turned his cunning
brain to crime. Silent death lurked to-night. The Shadow was facing it unwarned!
CHAPTER VIII. INTO THE TRAP
THE corridor outside of Apartment 636 in Langley Court was amply illuminated by ceiling lights. Yet the
glow was not sufficient to reveal the living form that passed along that corridor.
The only token of a strange visitant was a blotched mass of darkness that moved silently beside the wall
of the passage. Thus did The Shadow effect his mysterious approach as he advanced to the scene where
crime was set.
Only when the moving darkness paused, did it reveal itself as the figure of a person. A tall shape,
shoulders covered with a flowing cloak, head obscured beneath a black slouch hat, stood before the
door of 636.
Burning eyes were focused upon the lock. Black-gloved hands produced a small steel instrument. Softly,
easily, deft fingers worked at their appointed task. The lock yielded. The door opened inward.
Shrouded in the darkness of the room, The Shadow paused before he closed the door. A tiny spot of
light glowed upon the lock which he had picked. The keen eyes observed tiny scratches. A low soft
laugh resounded in the gloom. The door closed.
The Shadow was inside Barnsworth's apartment.
It was not yet ten o'clock. A full hour remained before Slips Harbeck and his gangsters might arrive.
Barnsworth was not due back until midnight. A switch clicked, and the living room of the apartment was
bathed in a glow from a floor lamp in the corner.
The Shadow began an inspection of the place. There was no mistaking his purpose. To-night, according
to accurate information gained from Cliff Marsland, Wesley Barnsworth would be allowed to enter here
unharmed. Later, mobsmen would break in to slay him.
The living room afforded hiding places. One of these would serve The Shadow. From it, he could emerge
to strike down the minions of crime.
If they entered before Barnsworth, the stroke could come then. If they entered later, they could be met
before they had a chance to kill.
But murder was not the only purpose mentioned. The leader of the intended slayers — Slips
Harbeck — had been instructed to pick up any documents that might be loose. Why had he been so
ordered? That, The Shadow intended to learn.
The black-cloaked figure stopped by a table near the floor lamp. One finger touched the polished
surface. It made a slight smudge in a fine, thin layer of dust. That fact did not escape The Shadow's eye.
