THE SHADOW SPEAKS
THREE grim men were ready for business when the car swung up to the spot where Morris Clarendon was standing.
Brodie, at the wheel, had spotted the assistant prosecutor one hundred feet away, and had slackened the speed of the car so that the victim would be a perfect target for Machine-gun McGinnis and his unerring aim.
“Ready,” was all he said, and Steve Cronin repeated the word to McGinnis.
There was no mistaking Morris Clarendon, and he was the only man in sight. Of all the jobs that Machine-gun McGinnis had performed for Nick Savoli, this one appeared by far the easiest.
The killer chuckled as he prepared to pull the trigger, and his mirth was echoed by Steve Cronin, ready at his side.
Both men were intent upon the lighted wall where the living target stood.
Morris Clarendon had given himself up for lost, and was facing death with true bravery. But to such mobsters as McGinnis and Cronin, his attitude brought nothing but ridicule.
This deed was business to them. They were about to earn new service stripes in the cause of Nick Savoli; and the simplicity of this execution made them laugh.
With their eyes peering from the curtains, these grim men gave no thought to the blackness that surrounded them in the back seat of the touring car.
As for Brodie, the chauffeur, his thoughts were completely away from the scene.
He had picked the route which he intended to follow. The work of execution belonged to the others. He was ready to swing down the street to safety, and he was oblivious to anything but his duties as driver.
Machine-gun McGinnis rested his finger on the trigger with a professional air. He was picking the exact moment to release the hail of steel-jacketed bullets that would seal the fate of Morris Clarendon.
But before his finger moved, he received the greatest surprise of his career. As if from nowhere, the end of a steel rod was pressed into the small of his back.
Steve Cronin, close beside McGinnis, received the same token at that precise instant. Like McGinnis, he knew the feel of the muzzle of an automatic.
Then there came low-whispered words from the darkness of the back seat. A weird, uncanny voice spoke in sinister tones.
“If you fire, you die!”
There was no mistaking the terms. Machine-gun McGinnis, intrepid gangster that he was, felt his finger tremble. He instinctively removed it from the trigger of the weapon.
Steve Cronin was even more perturbed. He had heard that voice before. He slumped to the floor of the car, completely overcome by fear.
THE touring car rolled leisurely past the spot where Morris Clarendon awaited certain death. The machine gun remained inactive. Its black muzzle loomed ominously from the curtains, but that was all.
The car moved toward the corner. Then Brodie, amazed by the silence, turned his head.
Like the others, he heard a whispered command.
“Drive on,” ordered the voice from the back seat.
Brodie hesitated for a moment. Then he realized that it was too late to change the situation, whatever might have occurred.
His duty was to make a getaway; the handling of the machine gun belonged to the men in the back seat. The chauffeur pressed the accelerator, and the car whirled rapidly down the broad street.
The automatic was withdrawn from the back of Machine-gun McGinnis. With a cry of anger, the gangster turned to seize the man who held it.
The handle of the revolver dealt him a stunning blow against the side of the head, and he sank beside the machine gun, limp and helpless. Then the muzzle of the automatic brought cold chills to the neck of Brodie the chauffeur.
“Slow down,” ordered the whispered voice.
The chauffeur obeyed.
The revolver was gone, and at the same instant Steve Cronin realized that he, too, was freed from the ominous threat behind him. Yet neither man dared to move, and while they trembled, they heard the sound of a sinister, mocking voice — a voice that laughed amid the blackness of the car that had failed in its mission of destruction.
Brodie, still fearful, brought the car to a dead stop. Then his courage returned. He twisted his body, and flung himself over the back of the front seat, drawing an automatic.
Steve Cronin, reassured by Brodie’s action, pulled a flashlight from his pocket, and illuminated the interior of the car.
There was nothing there but a pile of robes. The men flung them aside, hurling them upon the inert form of Machine-gun McGinnis. Yet they revealed nothing.
Silently, invisibly, the mysterious man of the night had slipped from the car, and was gone.
Brodie leaped to the street. He fancied that he saw some one moving behind the car, and he leveled his automatic.Then he realized that the fancied form was nothing but a moving shadow, beneath a swinging sign.
He lowered his gun; then realized that the shadow was a living being — a tall, thin shape, that suddenly showed itself in view.
He fired then, but he was too late. The man was gone, and from the distance came a long, ringing laugh.
BRODIE and Cronin lifted up McGinnis. The machine-gun operator opened his eyes and glowered at them beneath the glare of Cronin’s flashlight.
“Did you get him?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Brodie.
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
Steve Cronin offered no explanation. He knew who the man was.
Once before he had met The Shadow. That had been the only time in his life that he had known fear — before tonight. Now he was trembling in spite of himself, for once again he had been conquered by the mighty enemy of gangsters.
Brodie propped McGinnis against the back seat of the touring car, and motioned to Cronin to take care of him. Then he resumed his place at the wheel, and drove away, giving instructions and suggestions.
“You bungled this job,” he growled. “but there’s no use arguing about it now. The big shot will have plenty to say to-morrow.
“I’m going to drop you off, Cronin, just as I was told to do. I’ll take care of McGinnis. A couple of mugs; that’s all you are.”
“What about yourself?” asked Cronin sarcastically.
“What about me?” growled the chauffeur. “I was looking after the work up here. It was your job in back. Why did you let that guy in?”
“Why did you let him out?”
Brodie was too angry to reply. He pulled into an alley, and brought the car to a stop.
“Hop out,” he said to Cronin. “Look out for yourself from now on. You’ve got nothing to worry about, though.”
Steve Cronin clambered from the touring car. His legs were still weak, and he steadied himself against a lamppost. Brodie drove away immediately, leaving the thwarted gangster to his thoughts.
Cronin looked up and down the alley, as though afraid that the ominous man of the car was still present. Then he managed to regain control of himself, and he started in the direction of Sommers’ cigar store.
He entered by the back door, and found his way to the room upstairs. There he discovered Georgie Sommers and the girl whom he had expected to meet.
“This is Mr. Cronin,” said Sommers. “Steve, I want you to meet Kitty Boland.”
Cronin managed to smile as he bowed. The girl was a handsome brunette, of a type that appealed to gangsters.
Cronin realized that he must pretend that nothing worried him, and he tried to forget the episode of the car. He sat down at the table with Sommers and the girl. He accepted the drink that was offered him.
An hour went by. Then Cronin, his braggadocio restored by the drinks that he had taken, suggested that he and Kitty Boland should go somewhere together. Sommers agreed that the idea was a good one.
“You’ve been here since nine o’clock, both of you,” he said, mentioning the time at which Cronin had first appeared in the cigar store. “Why don’t you go up to Marmosa’s place, and try the roulette wheels?”
“That would be great,” replied the girl.
“Those wheels are fixed,” objected Cronin. “But we can go up there and watch the suckers drop their dough.”
HE left the place with the girl, and they rode in a taxi to Marmosa’s restaurant. Steve Cronin was familiar with the gambling den; as a man in favor with Nick Savoli, he gained immediate entrance.
Kitty Boland had never been there before. She expressed a lively interest in the establishment, but Cronin responded only with grunts. He ordered drinks at the bar. The memory of his thwarted enterprise still annoyed him.
Cronin glanced sullenly about him. His gaze was finally directed toward the door, and there he spied a young man dressed in a tuxedo. It was Harry Vincent.
A dim recollection occurred to Cronin’s besotted mind. He stared at Harry as though he remembered him. Then he happened to see two men in another corner: John Genara and Tony Anelmo.
The sullenness of their expressions brought a feeling of comradeship to Steve Cronin. He knew the Homicide Twins by sight as well as by reputation. Leaving the bar he sidled across the room, and took his place beside them.
“Hello, John. Hello, Tony.”
“Hello,” grunted Anelmo. Genara made no response.
“What’s doing tonight?”
“Nothing.”
Anelmo’s reply showed a lack of desire for conversation. Nevertheless, Cronin persisted, even though his next remark brought him to dangerous ground.
“I hear there was a fracas here last night,” he said.
“Perhaps you hear too much,” put in Genara.
Cronin laughed, as he looked at the Sicilian killer.
“You think so?” he questioned. “Well, maybe I hear some things that may be useful to you.”
“What, for instance?” asked Anelmo.
“I hear a lot of talk about a smart guy from New York,” observed Cronin. “A fellow that thinks he’s some gorilla. Calls himself Monk Thurman.”
Both Genara and Anelmo expressed interest. Cronin had scored his first point.
Despite his drunken condition, he realized that the Homicide Twins were quite as interested as himself when it came to considering the progress of Monk Thurman in Chicago.
“I hear he tried to make you boys look cheap,” said Cronin boldly.
“What’s that to you?” broke in Anelmo.
“Plenty,” said Steve Cronin. “He’s after my job. Trying to get in right with the big shot.”
There was a gleam of understanding in Tony Anelmo’s eye. He smiled in an ugly manner.
Both he and Genara had no love for Monk Thurman after last night’s proceedings. They would rather have seen Schultz and Spirak successful in their attempted holdup of Marmosa’s, than have another gunman do their work as Thurman had done.
“Ha,” said Anelmo softly. “So this man Monk is smart with you, too, eh? What has he done to you, Steve?”
“Nothing — yet. He’s just laying low. Ready to take my place if I slip a bit. I don’t like guys like him. They’re better off in New York, or — “
He did not complete the sentence, but the suggestion was understood. Anelmo glanced at Genara, and the other Sicilian understood his companion’s thought.
It would be a mistake to put Monk Thurman on the spot unless several persons were gunning for him. Steve Cronin’s expression of enmity was a stepping-stone to the action that the Homicide Twins craved.
AS Cronin stepped away for a moment, Anelmo put his idea to Genara, in whispered words.
“Those other two,” he said in Italian. “Schultz and Spirak. They might fix this man called Monk. Here is another who might do the same. What if you and I — “
“Wait,” replied Genara significantly.
Cronin came back to where the two men were standing.
“Who’s that fellow?” he asked, indicating Harry Vincent.
“New man here,” replied Anelmo. “Name is Vincent. Takes place of Joe le Blanc.”
“He looks like a guy I bumped off, once,” remarked Cronin. “Whenever I bump off one, I like to bump off any that look like him.”
Cronin was right in his recognition of Harry Vincent. He had encountered that young man once before, and had tried to murder him. It was only by a fortunate chance that Harry had escaped the death intended.
But now Cronin suddenly regretted his last statement. He sought a pretext to cover up the remark that he had just made to Genara and Anelmo, and he chose the first thought that came to mind.
“Last night the first time he was here?” he asked. “This new guy Vincent, I mean?”
Anelmo nodded.
“Huh,” grunted Cronin. “He comes in the same night as Monk Thurman and those other two birds. Looks funny, don’t it? Who’s he working with — Thurman or Larrigan’s gang?”
The chance suggestion reached its mark. Anelmo looked at Genara, and the latter nodded. Cronin caught the exchange of signs.
“Good guy to watch,” he said. “Keep your eyes on him, boys. Meanwhile, I’ll be looking for Monk.”
He half staggered across the room, and grasped Kitty Boland by the arm.
“Come on, kid,” he said. “It’s getting late. I’m taking you home.”
At the door, Steve Cronin bumped against Harry Vincent. When Vincent turned, the gangster looked at him closely.
For an instant an expression of surprise came over Harry’s features; but Cronin was too intoxicated to detect it. Then the gangster and the girl left the gambling den.
“Steve Cronin,” murmured Harry. “Here in Chicago. He’s a bad actor, that fellow, and I have a score to settle with him. I’m going to watch him if he comes around here often.”
The thought of watching Steve Cronin remained in Harry’s mind long after the gangster had left. In fact, it so dominated his thoughts that he paid no attention to Genara and Anelmo, who stood quietly in their inconspicuous corner.
Had Harry noticed them, he might have forgotten Steve Cronin for the time. For while he was thinking of watching Cronin, he himself was being watched by the Homicide Twins.
But none of them were watching the players gathered at the roulette wheels. They paid no attention whatever to a quiet, gray-haired gentleman who was playing large stakes and winning constantly, much to the annoyance of the croupier.
The man had seen Steve Cronin enter and leave; he had caught the glances exchanged between Genara and Anelmo; he had observed Harry Vincent’s recognition of Steve Cronin.
Yet he remained silent, and did not speak. At times he laughed so softly that his mocking tones were heard by no one but himself.