Marsland, and had responded to the signal given by Snakes.
At the corner, Snakes motioned Ruff into a waiting taxi. He gave an order to the driver. As the car rolled downtown, Ruff began to speak inquiringly to his companion. Important though Ruff Shefflin was as a gang leader, he took orders from this sneaky mobster, Snakes Blakey, who represented Gray Fist.
'Where are we going?' questioned Ruff.
'You're going to scare up the mob,' chuckled Snakes. 'You remember those emergency orders I told you to be ready for? Well—I think you're going to get them to-night.'
'You mean on account of this guy we grabbed?'
'On his account—and maybe more. Listen, Ruff—I watched the guy telephoning, along with Jake and Caulkey. They didn't see what I saw.'
'What was that?'
'Maybe you'll know later.' Snakes was cryptic in his snarl. 'Maybe - later; I've got work to do, for Gray Fist. You'll have plenty, too, I figure. You be down at the hide-out in the Tenth Avenue garage, where you've got Varden. You'll hear from me there.'
'O.K.,' returned Ruff somewhat reluctantly.
Snakes ordered the cab to stop. He stepped out on the sidewalk, near the corner of Fifty-eighth and Seventh Avenue. Ruff Shefflin barked a new destination to the driver. The cab rolled along.
As a minion of Gray Fist, Ruff Shefflin could make no protest to Snakes Blakey's guarded statements.
The gang leader shrugged his shoulders as he rode southward. His mind reverted to facts that he knew; that one prisoner was already in the sedan up by the Mandrilla; that another might soon be in the bag.
Perhaps it was the actual passage of events that gave Ruff Shefflin such ideas. For while the mob leader was still riding in his cab, Harry Vincent was coming from the automatic elevator in the apartment house where Ruggles Preston lived.
HARRY had learned nothing in his visit to the lawyer. He had discussed legal matters, had artfully turned the talk to tariffs, and thus to importing. He had heard Ruggles Preston mention that he had a friend named Worth Varden who was an importer.
Nevertheless, Harry, when he reached the lobby, decided to put in a call to Burbank. He saw a telephone booth in an isolated corner. He entered it and made his call. In response to Burbank's quiet query, Harry Vincent reported no results.
Something prompted him, however, to give a brief list of Varden's friends. He also mentioned that he was at the Mandrilla Apartments, and that he would prepare a complete report for Rutledge Mann when he reached the Metrolite Hotel.
This duty done, Harry sauntered through the lobby. As he went into the revolving door, he caught the reflection of his overcoat in one of the glass panels. He noticed a mark upon his sleeve, near the shoulder.
It looked like chalk—a grayish chalk—when Harry examined the mark in the light beneath the marquee of the apartment house. Harry brushed at it as he walked along. He wondered where the mark had come from. He remembered that he had given his hat and coat to Ruggles Preston; that the lawyer had placed both in a closet, and had later brought them out.
Harry was still brushing at the mark as he neared a parked and darkened sedan by the curb. He stopped a moment by a light just beyond the car, and brushed vigorously at the mark on his overcoat. Then, instinctively, Harry turned.
Two men were leaping from the steps of a house, less than a dozen feet away. As Harry swung to meet the oncomers, he threw himself off guard. The pair of thugs landed upon him with one accord.
Down went Harry Vincent. His swinging fist caught one ruffian in the face. Then Harry's head whacked against the lamp-post. With a groan, the young man lost a hold that he had gained upon the second enemy.
Jake and Caulkey pounced upon the man whom luck had aided them to overpower. With speed, they tumbled Harry Vincent's body into the door of the sedan, which Gowdy opened for them. Jake and Caulkey clambered into the car. Gowdy started the motor.
The gangsters in the rear leaned with drawn revolvers above the forms of the two men whom they had captured from ambush, under the orders received from Ruff Shefflin and Snakes Blakey. Cliff Marsland still lay motionless; Harry Vincent was groggy.
The sedan headed westward toward Tenth Avenue. Jake and Caulkey growled and chuckled, while Gowdy drove in silence. The two gorillas were proud of their work to-night. They had captured a pair of men whom they had been set to get.
Yet neither Jake nor Caulkey knew that these prisoners were agents of The Shadow. For that matter, Ruff Shefflin, their leader, was not cognizant of the fact.
There was only one, to-night, who had been shrewd enough to even guess in whose service Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent might be working. That one was Snakes Blakey, the crafty mobster who acted as Gray Fist's agent in the underworld.
Through Snakes Blakey, Gray Fist had struck the first blow against The Shadow's cause!
CHAPTER VII. THE HOME THRUST
A FEW hours after the capture of The Shadow's agents, a large limousine pulled up in front of a Manhattan night club. A tall, dignified man spied the car from the doorway of the club. A smile appeared upon his lips—thin lips beneath an aquiline nose. Sharp eyes sparkled as the gentleman stepped out to the car.
The chauffeur had reached the curb. He opened the door of the limousine, and allowed the waiting person to step in. As he closed the door, the chauffeur questioned the destination.
'Twenty-third Street,' the passenger replied. 'You can take the car home from there, Stanley. I expect to remain in town to-night.'
'Very well, Mr. Cranston.'
Stanley climbed into the front seat. He swung the limousine around a corner, and headed for the destination which his master had given.
To Stanley, his employer, Lamont Cranston, was a most unusual personage. Cranston was reputed to be a multimillionaire. He lived in a large home in New Jersey. He came in and out of New York frequently, when he was living at home.
His usual destination was the Cobalt Club; on other occasions, Cranston simply ordered Stanley to let him off at Twenty-third Street. Sometimes, however, Cranston chose most remarkable places. The night club, for instance, was an unusual one. It was a spot where the elite of the underworld were apt to be found—scarcely a place which a gentleman of Lamont Cranston's discrimination would frequent.
Little did Stanley realize that the personality of Lamont Cranston was merely one which his master chose to adopt as a mask for his real identity. This quiet, leisurely multimillionaire was one who lived a much more exciting life than Stanley supposed. The personage who posed as Lamont Cranston; the being who was at this moment riding in the darkness of the limousine was none other than The Shadow!
While Stanley's eyes were watching ahead, a silent motion was going on in the back seat. From a suitcase which had been left there, black garments were coming forth, drawn by swift-moving hands. As the limousine neared Twenty-third Street, those garments were donned. A spectral, black-garbed being sat shrouded in the rear of the car. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow.
The Shadow had been investigating on his own to-night. He had chosen the glittering night club as a place where much might be secretly learned concerning doings in the underworld. He had sought to listen in on any talks which might refer to the missing racketeer, Seth Cowry.
The Shadow's work had brought no results. Hence The Shadow was on his way to tap other sources of information. A secluded office in a dilapidated Twenty-third Street building served as a spot where Rutledge Mann put in reports from The Shadow's agents. That was to be the first stopping point.
THE limousine slowed on Twenty-third Street. Stanley was not quite sure where his master wished to leave the car. While the chauffeur waited some word from the rear seat, the door of the limousine opened softly. A mass of darkness poised upon the step; then dropped from the car while the door silently closed.
Stanley continued for half a block; then stopped. He looked into the rear seat, switched on the light, and stared blankly. His master had left the car! Shaking his head, Stanley drove on. He headed homeward, wondering.
