THE MAN WHO VANISHED
BIG TOM BAGSHAWE appeared in an affable mood when he faced Lamont Cranston across the desk in the center of the private office. His pretense was admirable. Thoughts of the losses that he had sustained seemed totally absent.
“Yes,” said the gambler agreeably, “you did well tonight, sir. That is what I like to see — customers who show winnings. It will be a pleasant duty for me, Mr. Cranston, to turn some of that bulky coin into ready currency. We are glad to see money go out — in fact, we are well prepared for it. Nevertheless, we like to keep the gold on hand, as it serves us for chips.”
Big Tom was stalling. With no apparent purpose, he was seeking to delay Cranston’s departure. The gambler looked at the other’s face, and noted a stern, hard expression upon Cranston’s hawklike visage. Big Tom twisted uneasily. He had dealt with difficult customers before; this one promised to be one of the most difficult.
“What was the extent of your winnings?” questioned Big Tom.
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” responded Cranston quietly. “I changed eighty thousand into paper money, at the request of the croupier, during short intermissions. I have seventy thousand here.”
A flood of heavy gold coins descended upon the table. Cranston stacked the yellow discs as calmly as if they had been paper chips. Big Tom sat aghast. This had gone beyond him. The tide had turned so swiftly that he had not realized the extent of the losses sustained by the house.
Calculating mentally, the gambling king recalled amounts that he had sent out to pay off those who were turning in gold for paper. He was dumbfounded when he approximated the total.
Other players had won tonight. Two hundred thousand dollars, at least, had been lost — and three fourths of that amount had gone to Cranston.
Half a million!
That had been Wheels Bryant’s estimate of the crime syndicate’s prospective earnings by the end of this week. With Carpenter still working on a basis of two hundred thousand; with Bryant counting on the gambling house for profits between now and the dead line, tonight’s loss meant that virtually all the previous gains had been wiped out!
Big Tom was in a quandary. Never before, in his checkered career, had he encountered such a night as this. He could not understand it. His gambling devices were fixed to win; his operators were experienced men. Big Tom sensed a double cross.
“Well?”
Cranston’s quiet question brought Big Tom back to earth. The gambling king found himself staring into two penetrating eyes that shone from the other side of the desk.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Cranston,” said Big Tom, with a forced smile. “Seventy thousand dollars is yet due you. I shall give it to you in bills of large denomination.”
He opened a small safe in the corner. He paused after a brief inspection, then closed the safe and turned back to Cranston.
“I am wiped out,” declared Big Tom, in a morose voice. “Wiped out, Mr. Cranston. I remember now that I used up all the paper money to pay other winners. I am sorry — I will not be able to change your gold.”
CRANSTON stretched forth his hand to pick up his money. Big Tom reached forward to restrain him. The gambler’s face had taken on a pathetic expression. Big Tom could feign unhappiness as well as joviality.
“I have been very unfortunate tonight,” said the gambler, in a wheedling voice. “Luck has been against me, Mr. Cranston. This money” — he indicated the gold — “would be a salvation for me. Would you be willing to accept a credit — of seventy thousand — until the end of the week?”
“Sorry,” remarked Cranston. “I am leaving for New York to-morrow.”
Big Tom’s head sank as he watched his visitor calmly pocket the gold coins. Then the gambler listlessly opened a desk drawer and drew forth a printed pad.
“I can pay you well,” he said pleadingly. “Twenty per cent interest, Mr. Cranston. If you could let me have — say a hundred thousand — I will give you my I O U for one hundred and twenty thousand.”
A faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips.
“When I came here tonight,” he said, “I brought fifteen thousand dollars. My winnings were ten times that amount. Now you offer me a trifling twenty thousand for a loan of one hundred thousand. Thank you, Mr. Bagshawe. I prefer to make my investments elsewhere. In other gambling houses, for example.”
Dejection registered itself on Big Tom’s face. He dropped the pad back in the drawer, pushed it out of sight, and slowly began to raise his hand. A sharp word from Lamont Cranston caused the gambler to become instantly motionless. Only his eyes traveled toward the speaker.
Big Tom was staring squarely into the muzzle of a businesslike automatic, which was leveled in Cranston’s hand. The hawk-faced millionaire had not been deceived by Big Tom’s lackadaisical manner.
“Bring out that revolver you are holding” — Cranston’s voice came in a monotone — “and drop it on the desk.”
Big Tom obeyed sullenly. His flabby fist emerged from the drawer, and let a shining six-shooter fall upon the flat surface before him. Cranston reached forward with his free hand. The revolver clanked as it dropped upon the coins in the millionaire’s pocket.
Still holding his automatic, Cranston spoke deliberately to the man who had sought to trick him.
“Big Tom Bagshawe” — the words were jeering — “the friendly gambling king — a crook by profession. Wondering why things went wrong tonight? Did it ever occur to you that some one might see through your crooked methods?
“Luck” — Cranston’s voice was contemptuous — “is absent from your gambling dens, Bagshawe. That wheel of yours was fixed to win. I watched it and outguessed the man who ran it.”
“I was double-crossed — ” blurted Big Tom.
“Not by your operator,” interposed Cranston, “but by this.”
He moved the automatic closer to the gambler, and Big Tom quailed.
“When the wheel was set for the house,” declared Cranston, “I placed my money with the house. Your man was about to change it. Fortunately, he looked beyond the button on the table, and saw the muzzle of this automatic. He made no change. That spin of the wheel broke the bank.”
In deliberate fashion, Cranston arose from his chair and pocketed his automatic. He walked toward the door, and stopped there to fix a stern gaze upon Big Tom Bagshawe. Slumped in his chair, the famous gambler had all the semblance of a beaten man. His eyes were beady as they flinched before Cranston’s impassive stare.
“I regret that I must leave you,” remarked Cranston, in a tone tinged with sarcasm. “However, your plight is not so great as you would have me believe. You can find money, Bagshawe” — there was significance in the words — “from the same source of supply you used before. Sometime, however, that source will be cut off.”
The words left Big Tom wondering. Did this cool man know of the gambler’s connection with Wheels Bryant?
“I have other work to do tonight,” resumed Cranston. “One rat has squealed. Perhaps another will do the same. Heed my warning, Bagshawe! Remain inactive in this office until I have been gone fifteen minutes. Otherwise—”
Cranston tapped the pocket where he had placed the automatic. Big Tom nodded to show that he understood. The bulky man was completely cowed.
LAMONT CRANSTON left the office and quietly closed the door behind him. He strolled across the floor, carelessly watching the attendants in their work of camouflage. He reached the door that led to the outer room.
At that moment, one of the attendants called to another to help him move a table. Neither man was watching Cranston, but the millionaire stopped, with his hand upon the outer door. His lips formed a disdainful smile as his right hand slid into his pocket. He had sensed that the call was a signal.
With a sudden move, Cranston drew open the door and stepped into the anteroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swung to the side and encountered a powerful, hard-faced man who was standing there. The fellow’s right hand was raised; in his fist he clutched a blackjack.
Cranston’s automatic was in readiness, but he did not use it. The would-be thug was starting a downward swing with the blackjack. Cranston sidestepped the falling blow, and his left fist shot upward in a short, swift punch. The uppercut struck his assailant’s unguarded chin. The big fellow swayed and crumpled in a heap.
Even while the man was falling, Cranston made a new move. He sprang past the dropping body, and crouched behind it, facing the opposite direction. He was not a moment too soon. Two other men, momentarily astonished by their companion’s sudden collapse, came leaping forward.
One was pouncing with a blackjack; the other held a revolver. Cranston’s automatic — to this moment hidden from the waiting thugs — now spoke. Its shot clipped the first man’s wrist. He screamed and staggered away, dropping the blackjack as he clutched his wounded wrist.
Two guns roared simultaneously. The man with the revolver fired at the precise moment that Cranston delivered his second shot. Cranston succeeded where the other failed.
The crouching millionaire offered a difficult target. The gunman’s bullet missed. But the leaping gangster formed a perfect mark for Cranston’s aim. He plunged head foremost, and sprawled upon the floor.
Cranston headed toward the stairs. Opening the door, he stopped as he viewed the carpeted steps. Half a dozen new assailants, attracted by the shots, were dashing upward to the fray. A wild shot followed Cranston’s appearance. Bullets spattered the sides of the half-opened door.
Cranston’s reply was a defiant laugh. While its mocking tones resounded, spats of flame emerged from the automatic in his hand. The first of his assailants toppled. Another went down and twisted sidewise as he fell back into the arms of his hastening companions.
A third shot and a fourth — the men on the stairs were no longer attackers. With one accord, they scrambled down to safety, one of them plunging grotesquely as a bullet clipped his shoulder.
Angry faces appeared below; then men ducked for cover as another shot reechoed. Lamont Cranston was on the top step, an automatic in each hand, his eagle eye watching for any foemen who might be unwise enough to come from shelter.
TREMENDOUS confusion sounded from below. The patrons of the Club Catalina were in a panic. Big Tom had gone the limit in ordering this drastic action. He had always kept a squad of Tuxedo-garbed mobsters in the downstairs club, but had never used them before.
Tonight, however, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars were at stake! Lamont Cranston must be stopped. Those were the orders, and Big Tom’s mobsmen were ready to obey.
Yet as the lone, intrepid figure advanced down the stairs, the way was open. Not a gangster was willing to fling himself into a new attack. Four forms upon the floor showed the toll of those fearful automatics.
The scattered gangsters had met their master. Rats that they were, they were cowering away, thinking only of their worthless hides. The mass attack had been met and defeated.
Then came the break that brought new opportunity to the cringing fiends of crime. The surging patrons of the Club Catalina suddenly burst toward the hallway at the foot of the stairs, in a mad effort to leave this place where guns had roared.
In the midst of a crowd of screaming women and excited men appeared those same mobster faces. Revolvers flashed from below. Protected by the bodies of helpless, innocent persons, these beasts of the underworld raised their guns to fire anew at the master sharpshooter who controlled the stairs.
The situation dawned upon Lamont Cranston before the first of his enemies fired. To pick out the gangsters, he must shoot into the midst of the crowd. At the same time, he would be a target for the gunmen’s fire. The stampede was on, and there was no escaping its consequences if he remained in view.
Swinging up the stairs, Cranston gained the doorway just as a fury of shots burst forth from below. Screams resounded; smoke filled the air; bullets drove into the steps and doorway. The barrier was drilled with holes. It could afford no protection to the one behind it.
Knowing this, the gangsters broke from the crowd and began a new dash up the stairs. They had driven their quarry to cover. They would get him now.
The fiends shouted as they advanced, urging others to follow. That was the worst of their insidious scheme. They were making it appear that the man above was a foe of justice; that they were after a trouble-maker upon whom all blame should be laid.
Parker, the detective, followed with the surge. Playing a double game, he could well afford to join with the attackers. The whole onslaught had the appearance of a justifiable raid.
The gangsters reached the head of the stairs, hoping to find their intended victim dead from shots directed through the door.
It had all been a matter of seconds. The door broke as powerful bodies were flung against it. For an instant, the attackers saw their enemy. Lamont Cranston was across the anteroom, standing by the other door.
Coolly, he fired at the men who were surging inward. His well-directed shots stopped those who were about to fire.
Then, seeing that the way was hopeless, the hawk-faced master took good advantage of a lull in the midst of the fray. He dropped his automatics in his coat pockets. His left hand turned the knob of the inner door.
One gangster, buried beneath two who had fallen, saw this action. He raised his hand to fire. But Cranston beat him to the shot. The right hand which had dropped the useless automatic drew forth Big Tom Bagshawe’s revolver. The finger pressed the trigger as the gun shone. The aiming gangster groaned.
The door closed behind Lamont Cranston as he entered the gambling rooms. There, alert as before, the millionaire faced a throng of grim-faced attendants. They had drawn up to await the arrival of the attackers. The sound of gunfire had convinced them that Cranston must be dead.
Now, his appearance among them brought consternation. Armed though they were, these men were caught unawares. Two started to fire, and Cranston stopped them short with well-directed bullets. The others scattered for cover.
One gun hand appeared from the doorway of an adjoining room. Cranston placed a deliberate shot that shattered the visible wrist. Another of his bullets clipped a man who was trying to snipe him from behind a table. The frightened attendants fled to the farthest room. After them came a final shot; then the weird sound of a triumphant laugh. That mockery, uttered by firm lips, was the token of The Shadow!
The door was breaking from an onslaught in the anteroom. This inner barrier was stouter than the first. It had locked automatically when Cranston had closed it; now it was yielding. With a quick action, Cranston pressed the light switches and plunged the rooms into darkness.
In that gloom, he moved with the swift stealth of The Shadow. The dim shafts of light that trickled from the breaking door did not reveal the tall figure that stood before the door of Big Tom Bagshawe’s office.
The door opened. Out of the dark stepped the form of Lamont Cranston, to encounter the huge bulk of Big Tom. The gambler was waiting. He had seen the turning of the knob. Now, with a roaring shout, he flung himself upon his enemy.
He was a perfect target for Cranston’s revolver, but no shot was fired. The gun was empty. Big Tom cried in triumph as he saw the weapon drop to the floor. He lunged forward, and his face became distorted as he felt himself caught in a powerful, twisting grasp.
Upward went the heavy body of Big Tom, lifted by the strength of a superman. The huge gambler pitched forward, hands outstretched. His body somersaulted, and he struck upon his back, knocked senseless by the force of the blow.
The attacking gangsters were crashing through. The lights came on, and armed men scattered though the rooms, seeking traces of their prey. Barred windows and stupefied attendants were all they saw, until they discovered the prostrate form of Big Tom Bagshawe. Beyond the gambling king was the closed office door.
“Smash it!”
The weighted base of a heavy metal ash stand crashed a jagged hole in the office door. Again its wielder drove it with the terrific stroke of a battle-ax.
A hand caught the inner latch and opened the door. Men with revolvers piled into the small room.
The office was empty. Not a sign of a living being could be seen. Gangsters raced from the little room, and scattered everywhere in a wild, mad search. Back to the stairs — around through the rooms — rushing everywhere, they made their hunt.
Amid this confusion came the strident sound of a police siren. Men of the law had been summoned to this place. Puzzled mobsmen, enmeshed in their own trap, faced each other in consternation.
A score in number, these underlings of Big Tom Bagshawe had sought to slay one lone opponent. He had not only thwarted them, he had left them amazed.
Lamont Cranston — otherwise The Shadow — had completely disappeared!