"Si, senor," replied the Mexican. "I understand. What do you wish that I should do?"
"Three years ago, Pedro," said Isaac Coffran reflectively, "we disposed of a troublesome person. He was annoying - like this Shadow. He had cause to follow you. So I let him follow you. You went to a little store a few streets away. You remember the place. From there you went to a place called the Black Ship
- downstairs - underground - where men drink."
"I remember," replied the Mexican. His evil grin reappeared. "I remember what happened there. I went through the big room -"
"That is enough," interrupted Isaac Coffran. "Pedro, you know well that I have many ways and many plans which I use to remove those persons who are troublesome. I seldom use the same method often.
That is why my methods are sure. Three years ago! That was the only time I worked the plan that I intend to use to-night. It is arranged by a man whom I can trust, because he is paid in advance and does not know who I am!
"He is always ready, waiting, on a Monday night. I have paid him regularly for three years, because I knew that some day I would need him. To-night he will earn his pay.
"The Shadow!" The old man chuckled in derision. "The Shadow! A man who is clever. He proved that the other night. He has studied me, Pedro. He knows that I plot to bring people here. How he has found it out is a mystery, for no one else has ever suspected it. But there is one thing The Shadow does not know; I am sure of that. He does not know that I can lure clever persons away from my house and trap them somewhere else! Very well. He will learn that to-night."
The old man looked at the clock upon the wall.
"Five minutes after eleven," he said. "It is time for you to start. I can depend upon you, Pedro. When you have done something once, you can always do it well the second time. Go. Remain there. Remember what you see. Tell me all. You will have the pleasure to-night, when you see The Shadow die!"
THE gleam upon Pedro's dark face revealed his eagerness. The big Mexican's eyes were widening. His breath hissed as he sucked through his teeth. He thrust the machete beneath his coat. He opened and closed his huge fists. He laughed silently. Then he became calm.
"I thank you, senor," he said. "I thank you. I go. Now."
Isaac Coffran rubbed his hands together gleefully as he heard the Mexican's departing footsteps. He listened as the front door opened. He peered through the opening in the shutter. He saw Pedro walking along the street. He fancied that a shadow on the pavement was moving in pursuit.
Pedro was not thinking of the shadows that surrounded him. The big Mexican had no imagination. His mind dealt with tangible matters as he walked toward the corner.
He was recalling what had occurred a few nights before - how living hands had come through the cellar grating to subdue him as easily as if he had been a child. Pedro did not smile as he reached the corner, yet his teeth were gleaming in the brightness of the street lamp. His expression was one of expected vengeance.
The Mexican turned several corners, finally stopping on a side street before a cigar store. He entered the shop. He purchased two packs of cigarettes, each of a different brand.
He loitered about for several minutes, then, lighting a cigarette, he started for the door. There he hesitated a moment and felt carefully in his pocket as though to make sure that he had something about which he might be anxious. With a satisfied smile he stepped into the street and walked away.
While the big Mexican had been standing in the store, a man sitting in a chair at the rear had risen and entered a telephone booth. Shortly after Pedro's departure, this man, a stoop-shouldered, crafty-looking fellow, sidled from the door of the tobacco shop.
The man behind the counter saw him go, but did not regard the matter as significant. He knew the fellow as a customer who idled about the shop on various occasions. Had the storekeeper been conversant with the underworld, he would have recognized the man as "Spotter" - one of the strangest characters in the realm of gangland.
Spotter's claim to fame rested upon his ability to recognize faces and the ease with which he could trail any one whom he might follow. Immediately upon leaving the cigar store he became the least conspicuous person in the street.
He moved stealthily, going from one corner of a building to another, sliding behind lamp-posts, obscuring himself beside empty ash cans. People walked by him without detecting his presence.
Yet with it all, Spotter moved with amazing rapidity. Within a few minutes he was in sight of Pedro the Mexican, and his quick eyes were following the big man's course.
Yet it was not Pedro himself that Spotter seemed to be watching. His gaze was fixed some distance behind the Mexican, and as Spotter maintained a space of fifty yards between himself and the man ahead, a perplexed look appeared upon his face.
"This ain't right," whispered Spotter to himself. "Where's de guy I'm supposed to watch? Maybe he dropped out somewhere."
He crossed the street and quickened his pace until he was closer to Pedro. Then Spotter's body merged suddenly alongside a barrel that was on the sidewalk. He watched carefully as the Mexican passed beneath a bright light. He could see Pedro distinctly. He even noted the shadow of the huge man.
When Pedro had passed along, Spotter's eyes still remained upon that lighted area. No other man appeared there, but a long, thin shadow became visible on the sidewalk. It slid beneath the glare. It was blotted by the blackness beyond.
The barrel moved as Spotter trembled against it. The strange personage of the underworld did not move from his position. Instead he whispered to himself.
"It looks like - like - De Shadow!"
Regaining his nerve, Spotter slid along the sidewalk, slowly, now, as though he desired to have as much distance as possible between himself and Pedro.
"If it ain't De Shadow," he muttered, "I'm all right. If it is De Shadow - well, I got to do it. He ain't watchin' me, anyway. He's after dat big guy up ahead. He don't have to know I'm here - but he finds out anyt'ing! Everyt'ing!"
Spotter squatted close to a fire plug and thought for a moment. Then he laughed harshly.
"Well," he said softly, "it may be his funeral tonight. His funeral. So here goes. I don't owe De Shadow no good feelin's. I lost out t'rough him once. I ain't goin' to quit, now that I got started."
He moved more quickly, but with the greatest care. Even his footsteps were soundless. And as he followed, far behind Pedro, he became more bold. For Spotter was entering the heart of the underworld; he was among the haunts with which he was most familiar.
The Mexican turned down an alley. Spotter reached the corner very quickly. He saw Pedro stop before a door. He waited while the Mexican entered. A dim light revealed the scene, yet Spotter could see no one else - not even a conspicuous shadow.
Slowly, stealthily, he crept down the dim alley, virtually invisible in the darkness. He stopped suddenly, thirty feet before he reached the doorway. He saw it now, across the alley - a huge, black blot on the sidewalk - a blot that seemed to sway.
Spotter remained motionless. His eyes sought the wall above the strange quivering shadow. Everything was dark along the wall; he would have sworn that there was no one in that spot.
No one moved along the alley. The place seemed absolutely deserted. Spotter, crouched behind a pile of boxes, did not betray his presence. He waited expectantly, afraid to move despite the fact that his sharp eyes had 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, rather rapidly; finally he emptied the bottle. As he was about to set it on the table, he tilted the top of the bottle, and pointed it toward the man with the cap.
All eyes shifted toward the stranger. The man was leaning over the table, ignoring his drink. His hands rested beneath the table. The other men in the room began to move. Hardened grins appeared upon their faces. They were all known to Spotter; he recognized the fact that his companions were the boldest thugs of the underworld. He grinned also, for he was sure that guns would not be nee
ded to-night.
Only one man displayed too much eagerness for what was to come. That was Pedro, the Mexican. He acted one second too soon. Spotter's motion had been the signal for a sudden attack that would come with cleverly calculated stealth. But Pedro, a look of grim vengeance appearing on his face, could not wait. He swung from his chair and sprang upon the huddled man who wore the cap. The Mexican's hand shot upward from his coat. The machete gleamed and came downward with a sure, well-aimed stroke.
The blade never reached its mark. As Pedro hurled himself across the table with amazing speed, the man with the cap slid quickly away from the wall where he sat. The machete whizzed by, cutting the shoulder of the sweater. Pedro, with all his weight behind the blow, fell forward upon the table.
Like a flash, the stranger was in the center of the room. He was standing, head up now, with both hands buried in the fold at the bottom of his sweater. His eyes were flashing as he glanced quickly around the room.
Only Spotter did not move. He grinned as he watched with his crafty eyes. By quick action the unknown man had reached the floor while the others were still rising. He stood there now, his shadow round and black upon the floor before him.
This was only for an instant. The nine thugs were in motion. Those nearest the stranger leaped with one accord. Two of them were drawing knives. The others were hurling themselves to the spot where the stranger stood.
With a quick, short motion the hands came from the fold of the sweater. The quick shots of two looming automatics burst the silence of the low-ceilinged room. Spotter could see the spreading motion of the stranger's hands as the bullets found their marks.
SOME of the cutthroats sprawled upon the floor. The others, springing forward, fell in a mass upon their prey. The wiry man went down beneath the heap. Spotter grunted in satisfaction as he saw knives gleaming, raised to strike.
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