“All right,” laughed Tiger Bronson. “You run along now, Spotter. Come in any time you have any more bedtime stories about The Shadow, or the Sand Man or any other funny guys that make people hide in closets. I like to hear those yarns.”
As Spotter shambled from the room, the big man stopped him.
“It would be a good idea,” said Tiger Bronson, “if you drop in at Loo Look’s place some time around eight o’clock, every night. Don’t smoke any hop while you’re there.
“You may hear something that will interest you — maybe you will make some dough out of it.”
Spotter grinned as he left. This was a new command from the big shot. He could not imagine what it meant; but he knew that he had gained Bronson’s favor.
After the cunning gangster had left, Tiger Bronson sat in thought. His face betrayed nothing. He flung his half-smoked cigar into an empty metal wastebasket.
Despite his pretended ridicule, he was seriously considering the information that Spotter had brought.
Finally he laughed — a harsh, evil laugh.
“The Shadow!” he said, half aloud. “What does he know? Nothing! What does he suspect? Something, perhaps.
“Well, let him come — let him try to find out. It’s all here for him. I’ll wait to see if he suspects. If he does—”