“Forget that stuff,” interposed Graham. “I’m not through. I’m going somewhere else - that’s all. Some place where the pickings will be as soft as in New York - some place where Wolf Daggert can’t crimp my game.”
King Furzman drew a fat cigar from his pocket and bit off the end of the perfecto while he continued to stare at Graham Wellerton.
“All right,” growled the big shot. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow night,” said Graham. “I’ve got a couple of cities in mind - and I’ll decide after I’ve thought it over.”
“Yeah? How do I know you’ll be sticking with me?”
“Your men will be with me.”
“Well - that’s a point -“
“And you’ve tucked away your security. You owe me a split, don’t you? All right; I won’t ask for it until I come back with some more.”
King Furzman began to nod again. Graham Wellerton’s arguments had been effective. The young man watched the big shot and waited for the psychological moment to speak further. The time came.
“King,” said Wellerton quietly, “you’re cagy. You’ve got to be, in your game. You deal with an ordinary lot of crooks, like Wolf Daggert. But I’m different. I didn’t choose crime as a profession. It was thrust on me.
“I like to talk man to man. I know how you’re situated, even though you’ve never told me. You prefer rackets to crime - but the rackets were getting you in trouble. Not with the police, but with other racketeers. So you went in for crime.
“You’re backing a bunch of bank robbers. You took on Wolf Daggert. I came with him. You figured I could run a crowd of my own and double up on the gravy.
“You’re covering up very neatly. You don’t want to quit. I don’t blame you. You’ve treated me square enough - because it’s profitable. I’m sticking because I’m in the game of crime. I’m working for you - therefore I’m thinking of your interests.
“I want a free hand outside of New York. It will be better for you because I’m at a distance. It will be better for me because I’ll be clear of Wolf Daggert.”
HAD an ordinary henchman talked in this manner, King Furzman would have boiled over in rage. But he sensed from Graham Wellerton’s tone that the lieutenant was working for a sensible understanding.
The big shot’s scowl slowly disappeared; nevertheless, he made no statement of approval. Instead, he tried questions on another tack.
“You say you didn’t choose crime?” he asked. “How did you come to get into it, then?”
“I could make a long story out of that,” responded Graham, with a sour smile, “but I can give it to you briefly, just as well. My father had a lot of money. I landed in a jam. I had to raise dough to hush things up. I ran into Wolf Daggert, here in New York. He tipped me off to some ways to pick up cash.”
“Why didn’t Wolf try them for himself?”
“I’ll tell you why. He was too yellow to take on the jobs he gave me. He collected a percentage on my work. Then I left New York and went out on my own.”
“How long ago?”
“About three years.”
“You hit it good?”
“For a while - yes. Then I landed back in New York and needed more money. I heard what Wolf was doing and I worked for him again. I intended to blow later on; then you picked me to head my own mob. Here I am.”
King Furzman pondered. He could see that Graham Wellerton was one criminal in a thousand. He knew that his lieutenant had spoken frankly. This was the first outspoken conference that Furzman had ever held with Graham.
The big shot saw that Graham had been working for a break - for the time when success would enable him to give his straight opinion regarding Wolf Daggert. Graham had chosen the right time to assert himself. King Furzman, although he did not say so, regarded this smooth-working lieutenant as a henchman far superior to Wolf.
Furthermore, there was merit in Graham’s suggestions. The big shot, supposedly a racketeer who was coasting along on past profits, was anxious to avoid anything that would connect him with crime. Rivalry between two lieutenants was a bad feature.
“All right,” said Furzman suddenly. “Take your mob - work on your own - but let me know where you’re going. If Wolf flops again, he’s through -“
A rap at the door came as an interruption. The big shot emitted a growl. The door opened and Gouger poked his head into the room.
“Wolf Daggert is downstairs,” he informed. “Shall I tell him to come up?”
“Sure,” responded the big shot.
Gouger disappeared. He was going to the anteroom by the other route - through the apartment. It would only be a few minutes before Wolf Daggert would arrive.
“I’m all set, then,” declared Graham Wellerton.
“Yes,” agreed King Furzman. “Take your mob wherever you want to go.”
“We’ll start out tomorrow night,” said Graham quickly. “I’ll have the crew ready. I’ll come here and tell you my plans. They won’t know where I’m taking them until we’re on our way - maybe not until we get there.”
“Good stuff,” nodded the big shot. “You’re all right, Wellerton. I’ve got your idea now. You know how to handle a mob. Keep them guessing.”
The conversation ended. Graham Wellerton resumed his chair and lighted a cigarette. King Furzman applied a match to the cigar which he had been chewing. While neither man was observant, the long black patch upon the floor drew slowly toward the curtain at the archway. The Shadow, hidden listener to all that had been said, was retiring into a darkened corner of the next room to await the passage of another visitor - Wolf Daggert.
Whatever might be said after the third man had arrived, The Shadow would also hear. The foe of crime, this phantom of the night had come to a spot where crime was in the making.
His presence here a mystery, his knowledge veiled from those who plotted crime, The Shadow had heard the plans of Graham Wellerton. Now he would listen to the pleas of an unsuccessful crook, when Wolf Daggert faced the big shot.
The Shadow’s presence was a proof that he had had a hand in thwarting crime. That presence also signified that The Shadow would have much to say ere crime again struck!
CHAPTER III
THE SHADOW’S PART
GRAHAM WELLERTON and King Furzman looked up as two men entered the room from the archway. The first arrival was Gouger. The bodyguard kept on and passed through the door at the other side of the room.
The second man stopped just within the curtains. He looked from King Furzman to Graham Wellerton; then back from lieutenant to big shot. Without a word, he tossed his hat and coat upon a table and took a chair.
Wolf Daggert was a crook whose nickname was well chosen. His face was peaked and cunning. His teeth, which showed between sordid, roughened lips, had a fanglike appearance that was bestial. The man’s manner was one that made an observer expect a snarl at any moment.
With half-clenched fists and ugly, sneering grin, Wolf Daggert turned his pale face toward the other men as though he expected challenging words. His gray eyes moved restlessly and his whole manner indicated tense nervousness.
King Furzman eyed Wolf Daggert coldly. Graham Wellerton gazed at the newcomer with an air of indifference.
In this strained atmosphere, not one of the three men happened to look toward the floor. Hence the trio failed to see the streak of blackness which was again moving steadily inward from the curtains.
The dark splotch became motionless. Cold, steely eyes were peering from the curtain. The archenemy of crime was on the watch. The eyes of The Shadow were viewing the scene within King Furzman’s reception room.
“Well,” barked Wolf. “You goin’ to say somethin’? Let’s have it.”
His remark was impersonal. Either Furzman or Graham could have answered him. The big shot was the one
