Part 9 (1/2)

On the corner was a bank building. An Americanized Chinaman was standing in the doorway, counting checks that he had taken from a deposit book.

The Celestial who was following Clyde turned into the bank, nudging the other as he went by. The man at the door placed the checks and deposit book in his pocket. He took up the broken trail.

The subway car was rather crowded. Clyde did not notice the Chinaman who edged into a corner of the platform. But the yellow-faced observer kept his eye on the reporter. When Clyde alighted, theChinaman followed, reaching the street only a short distance behind The Shadow's agent.

Three blocks to the Hotel Albana, along a street that had opposite traffic. Clyde decided to walk. The Chinaman did not follow; instead, he stepped into a cigar store, entered a telephone booth and called a number. Like the man in the laundry, he talked in native singsong.

Pacing the side street, Clyde Burke looked behind him. He had gained the impression that he was being followed. All yesterday and today, he had occasionally felt that sensation. But as he glanced over his shoulder, Clyde curbed his qualms. He saw that no one was on his trail.

A FOLLOWER was soon due. As Clyde pa.s.sed the next corner, a placid, slight-built Chinaman stepped from the obscure entrance to a Chinese restaurant.

This Celestial had received the telephone call. He was taking up the trail. He followed it until Clyde entered the Hotel Albana. The Chinaman waited a few moments; then he entered also.

Pa.s.sing a cigar stand, the Chinaman shrank almost from sight. Listening, he heard Clyde inquire for Justin Hungerfeld; he saw the clerk nod and give the room number. The Chinaman watched the reporter head for an elevator.

There were telephone booths beyond the cigar stand. The Chinaman entered one and dialed. He, too, spoke in singsong; but among his babble of Chinese was a name that he repeated, as he addressed the person at the other end. That name was Leng Doy.

The Chinaman departed promptly after he had made his call. The yellow trail had done its work. Secret watchers in the employ of Leng Doy, Celestials who had kept their duty a secret even from Yat Soon, the arbiter, this chain of Chinese had functioned well.

They had watched Clyde Burke ever since the reporter had come into the limelight as the ace of the New York Cla.s.sic in the newspaper's search for friends of old Milton Callard.

Leng Doy, the crafty merchant, had guessed that Clyde Burke would be among the first to visit any man who might reveal himself.

Leng Doy had gained the news he sought. To him, by telephone, had come the name of Justin Hungerfeld, together with the present whereabouts of this missing man who had known Milton Callard.

Within some hideout, Leng Doy had won a triumph.

Where Leng Doy was, Dave Callard would be there also. The way had been paved for hidden action.

Aided by Leng Doy and the merchant's Chinese subordinates, Dave Callard could scheme to reach this new friend of his dead uncle.

The man whom the police sought for triple murder had gained an opportunity to deal with Justin Hungerfeld.

CHAPTER XIV. THE LAW'S TURN.

JUSTIN HUNGERFELD was in Suite 816. Reaching the eighth floor of the Hotel Albana, Clyde Burke followed a corridor, counting the doorways as he went. He pa.s.sed a hall that led off to the right; then he reached a service elevator, with a stairway beside it. The last door on the right was numbered 814 Turning back, Clyde took a few paces to reach the hall that he had pa.s.sed. He turned down that corridor looking to the left. After he had gone by a blank wall, he came to the door he wanted: number 816.

Clyde knocked. The door opened; the reporter stepped into the living room of the suite. There was a doorway to a bedroom at the left. The other chamber of this two-room suite was number 814, the door that Clyde had seen near the service elevator.

But it was not the arrangement of the rooms that impressed Clyde Burke. The reporter stopped in astonishment as he viewed the man who admitted him.

IT was Joe Cardona. A broad smile on his swarthy face, the acting inspector closed the door to the hall and motioned Clyde to a chair. The reporter sat down bewildered, while Cardona continued to grin.

Finally Clyde managed to ask a question.

”Where - where's Mr. Hungerfeld?” he demanded. ”What is this, Joe? Some kind of a game? Have you pulled a phony on us?”

”Not at all,” chuckled Cardona. ”You want to see Mr. Hungerfeld? All right, Burke. Here he is.”

Cardona nudged his thumb toward the door of the bedroom, as an elderly man stepped into view.

Though bent almost double, Justin Hungerfeld appeared spry as he came forward.

Parchment faced, with twinkling eyes and friendly smile, the old gentleman adjusted a pair of spectacles to his nose and thrust out a scrawny hand to the reporter.

”So you are Mr. Burke?” crackled Hungerfeld. ”Well, well, young man, I am pleased to see you. I read your article -”

”All right, Mr. Hungerfeld,” interposed Cardona. ”Sit down a minute and let me tell the rest to Burke.”

Joe waited until the old man complied; then turned back to Clyde. ”You'll get your story, Burke, but you'll get it later. Understand?”

Clyde nodded, still puzzled. Cardona chuckled.

”Mr. Hungerfeld has been out of the country,” explained the sleuth. ”He engaged pa.s.sage at the last minute, aboard the Doranic. He's been safe because he's been abroad. At least it looks that way. But we'll drop that for the present.

”When Mr. Hungerfeld read the Cla.s.sic, here in his hotel room, he sent that note to your office. But a little while after that, he began to worry. He read through the newspaper again, saw my name mentioned, and called my office. I came up here.”

”How long ago?” queried Clyde.

”An hour or more,” replied Cardona. ”I left word at the desk to have you come up when you arrived here.”

”That's why I couldn't locate you at your office.”

”Were you down there, Burke?”

”Sure. I was hunting for you, Joe.”

CARDONA seemed to appreciate the joke. He laughed for a moment; then became serious as Hungerfeld started to speak to the reporter. Again, Cardona demanded that the old man say nothing.

”Here's the story, Burke,” affirmed the detective, soberly. ”Mr. Hungerfeld has something. I can't give you the details; I can't even tell you what it is. Not until later; but you'll be on the inside when it breaks.That's the commissioner's orders.

”The only people that he would let me telephone were Mallikan and Dolver, in case we needed them. As it turns out, Mallikan may be important. That's all that I can tell you; in the meantime, I'd suggest that you walk out for a while.”

”Did the commissioner suggest that?” queried Clyde.

”He told me to handle you tactfully,” returned Cardona. ”He's all for you, Burke, but the news can't be spilled yet and you're likely to go berserk when you see a chance for a scoop. When Weston gets here, he'll chase you if he finds you around. If you scoot before he shows up, he'll be pleased.”

”All right.” Clyde shrugged his shoulders and looked at Hungerfeld. ”Do you mind if I hang around in the lobby, where you can get me easily?”

”Not if you don't make a nuisance of yourself,” agreed Cardona. ”Duck out of sight when Weston comes in. He's due any minute now. I'll call you the first chance I have.”

Clyde arose and started toward the door. There was a knock as he approached the barrier; Cardona scowled, thinking it was Weston. Joe reached the door and opened it; his face showed relief when Detective Sergeant Markham entered. Cardona nudged toward the hall; Clyde went out.

In the lobby, the reporter put in a call to Burbank. Cautiously, he told of his brief experience, gave the contact man the number of Hungerfeld's room and arranged to call later. Coming from the booth, Clyde lingered near the cigar stand, smoking a cigarette and watching the outer door.