"Can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't do the hirin' and firin'. If I did, I'd cut you in quick. You're handy with a rod, ain't you?"

"Try me! Show me a guy to b.u.mp. I'll do it on spec. Just to show you what kind of goods I deliver. How about it?"

Porky shook his head.

"Nope. The racket I'm in is a big one. It pays off plenty. But the boss is satisfied with the set-up as is."

Marsland didn't press the point. He sipped his drink, racking his brains for some sure-fire stunt to increase Porky's confidence in him. Nothing Marsland thought of seemed to fill the bill.

He was about to give up and wait for some other occasion, when fate dealt him a quick hand.

A murmur ran through the dim little restaurant. It was an ugly sound. It came from the lips of practically every customer in the place.

Two men had entered. They came swiftly, and they looked businesslike.

"Flatfoots!" ran the ugly whisper. "Plain-clothes d.i.c.ks!"

A chair sc.r.a.ped. A crook started to rise.

"Sit down, mug!" The d.i.c.k who growled the order whipped a gun into view to emphasize it.

"Don't get excited, folks. And don't try anything smart. We're just making a little visit. Sit still, everybody, and lift your hands up high. Any of you mugs carrying a gun without a permit? It will save time and trouble to talk right now. Well?"

There was no reply. Scowling faces went carefully blank.

"Like that, eh?" the plain-clothes copper rasped. "O.K.! Up on your feet, everyone of you! Keep the hands high and walk over toward the wall... You set, Callahan?"

"Yeah," Callahan said.

He advanced under the protection of his partner's gun. He began a competent search of the lined-up crooks who faced the wall.

MARSLAND and Porky Cane were at the farther end of the line. There was a sullen gleam in Porky's downcast eyes. His whisper rustled from the corner of his mouth to Cliff's nearby ear.

"What a lousy break! Cops on the prowl - and me with a roll like I got in me pants pocket! I know that lad Callahan. He can't be fixed, The minute he gets his mitts on my roll, it'll be marked and turned into headquarters as presumptive evidence of guilt. They'll toss me in the can as a suspicious character."

"The h.e.l.l they will!" Cliff whispered. "Don't worry about your dough, pal. I got an idea." He shut up suddenly. Callahan was glancing toward the end of the sullen line-up. But a moment later, Cliff's lips moved again.

"Where can I meet you later?"

"You know Herman's dump on Water Street?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be there."

Cliff didn't say another word. He whirled with a suddenness that brought a yell of warning from Callahan to the cop with the gun.

"Look out! He's got a rod!"

But Cliff fired first. He fired upward with an aim that never missed. His slugs smashed the dim light in the restaurant to smithereens.

In the confusion that followed, Cliff sneaked through the milling of thugs and cops to the back door. Guns were still blazing in the restaurant when he reached the back yard. He scaled a fence, ran through a damp cellar.

It wasn't the first time fugitive crooks had used this route for a quick get-away. A thin-faced man who looked like a janitor slammed and locked the cellar door behind.

Cliff ran up stone steps at the front of the cellar. He faded into the darkness of the rear street. Two minutes later, he was in a cab.

Porky Cane was waiting for him when Cliff Marsland walked into Herman's dump on Water Street.

There was admiration in Porky's eyes. Without a word, he produced his saved bank roll and peeled off five more twenties.

"Thanks," Cliff said. "You don't have to do that, pal. I can make out O.K. with the twenty you gimme first. I can use it as a stake - until I tie up with someone who needs a guy with guts."

"How about a tie-up with me?" Porky grinned.

"I thought your boss wouldn't let anyone else in."

"This ain't for the boss. It's a small fob of my own. How about helping me to b.u.mp a guy that made a sucker out of me? Two hundred bucks on the nail if you come through."

"A deal!" Cliff said. "Who's the guy you want blasted?"

"A ratty little taxi driver named Moe Shrevnitz."

Cliff blinked. This was something he hadn't bargained on. Porky was asking one of The Shadow's agents to put the heat on a fellow agent.

Startled, Cliff was betrayed into nervous laughter by the grim proposition of Porky Cane. But he managed to turn the laugh into a sneering sound of agreement.

"Shrevvy, I think I know the guy. A wise little punk who owns his own cab?" "Yeah. That's him."

"What'd he do?"

"I let him have a knife the other night. But he bluffed me outta croakin' him. I been huntin' him ever since.

Can't locate the louse. He must be layin' low. You know where he lives?"

Cliff thought fast.

"No, but I know where his dame lives. Shrevvy is nuts about a blonde. If he ever sneaks out of hiding, it'll be to visit that dame of his. You want me to watch the dame's joint and tip you if Shrevvy shows up there?"

"Yeah. And look - if you do the job right, maybe I can cut you in later on something that's really big."

"One thing at a time, pal," Cliff Marsland grinned.

He had another drink with Porky. Then he left.

He took a cab. He changed to another taxi before he was certain that Porky had swallowed his line of talk and was not following him.

Cliff went into a phone booth, murmured the same number The Shadow had called earlier at the Cobalt Club.

"Burbank speaking," a calm voice replied.

CHAPTER VI. A DATE FOR MR. JOHNSON.

ON the night following Cliff Marsland's report to The Shadow, a little man with a shrewd, wrinkled face sat sipping a gin drink in a thieves' hangout in lower Manhattan.

It was the place on Water Street, known as Herman's dump.

The little man's name was Hawkeye. He sat alone, attracting no attention. He was considered a very minor sort of crook.

That suited Hawkeye fine. He was there to do a job for The Shadow. In the whole of Manhattan no one could surpa.s.s him on a tailing job.

Tonight, Hawkeye's job was to keep tabs on Porky Cane.

Hawkeye was too smart to pay any attention to Porky, or even to sit near him. Hawkeye kept his attention on the barkeep.

There was a phone behind the bar. Every time it rang, Hawkeye stopped sipping his gin drink. A telephone call from Cliff Marsland was due to start the ball rolling tonight.

The bar phone rang five times before Hawkeye heard what he was waiting for.

"Hey, Porky! Wanna take a call?"

"Who is it?"

"Cliff Marsland." "O.K. I'll take it in the back."

"In the back" was a door that adjoined the wash room. When Porky closed the door, he was inside a soundproof cubby hole that contained only a chair, a small table and an extension phone.

"Yeah?" he lipped.

"Hiyah, pal! This is Cliff. Better get that two hundred bucks dusted off!"

Cliff's voice was diamond-hard. Porky grinned.

"Did you locate the guy?"

"Not the guy, but the place where his sweetie hangs out. She's a blonde, like I told you. Her name is Mabel Schwartz. She's got a furnished apartment up town. On Amsterdam Avenue, around the corner from 181st Street."

"Nice work. Is the hackie there now?"

"No, but he will be soon. I nosed around and dug up some info. Shrevvy is due tonight for a date with this Mabel. I'm watching things from a vestibule next door to the joint. What'll I do?"

"Stick around. I'll be right up."

Porky's eyes gleamed after he hung up. He made another call. This time his voice dropped to a more respectful pitch.

"h.e.l.lo?... Well - the thing has started, boss."

"Good!" The voice was m.u.f.fled. "How is it shaping?"

Porky reported what Cliff Marsland had just told him.

"Good!" the m.u.f.fled voice repeated. "I'll be on hand to make sure that everything ticks properly. Isn't there a movie theater near the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 181st Street?"

"Yeah. The Gem."

"That's perfect. I don't want to show myself openly. Now listen to me. Here's what you can do."

Porky received instructions. He repeated them to show that he understood. Then he hung up.

His chuckle was ugly. He slipped a knife from a hidden scabbard under his coat and ran a practiced finger along its edge. Knives were nice. They didn't make any noise.

Porky left the soundproof closet. He nodded to the barkeep and drifted out.

A moment later, Hawkeye drifted out also.

CLIFF MARSLAND waited patiently in a dark doorway on Amsterdam Avenue. One flight up in the house next door lived a blonde named Mabel Schwartz.

Cliff watched the corner of 181st Street. Just around the corner was a popular movie theater. Lights from the theater made the spot as bright as day. A traffic cop stood there, directing the ceaseless flow of cars and buses. Cliff had picked this spot under the invisible supervision of The Shadow.

A moment later, a voice behind Cliff whispered: "Report!"

Cliff turned slightly. In the vestibule's darkness he could see only the glow of The Shadow's eyes Cliff made a terse report. He resumed his careful watch of the corner. There was no sound behind him; but The Shadow was no longer in the dark vestibule. The Shadow was now inside a furnished apartment on the ground floor.

The Shadow was aware that Porky and Hawkeye had left the thieves' hangout in lower Manhattan. He expected a call soon.

Presently, his phone rang.

"Burbank speaking," a voice said.

"Report."

Burbank relayed a message. It came from Hawkeye. The laughter of The Shadow made sibilant echoes.

Hawkeye had trailed Porky uptown. The killer had stopped at the box office of the Gem Theater. But Porky had not entered the movie house. He had asked the girl in the ticket booth to take a message.

The message was for a Mr. Johnson. It was to be flashed on the movie screen. Mrs. Johnson was very ill. Mr. Johnson was to leave the theater immediately and hurry home to his wife.

That ended Hawkeye's report, but it was enough for The Shadow. The mysterious Johnson was undoubtedly Porky's secret boss!