KILLERS AT WORK
CLIFF MARSLAND was correct in his assumption that The Shadow was watching Flash Donegan. Cliff knew, after hearing Dip’s vague speech over the phone, that Flash was secure in some room, with no thought of going abroad that night; and he pictured The Shadow close by the spot.
But in that, Cliff Marsland was wrong. The Shadow was far from Flash Donegan’s abode.
When Cliff had called Burbank, tonight, he had used a new number. That was not unusual. Burbank changed his number frequently. The old one was always forgotten, and each of The Shadow’s agents kept the new one constantly in mind.
Burbank’s location was always a matter of the greatest secrecy. So Cliff had thought nothing of the fact that Burbank was in a new place. Yet therein lay the secret of The Shadow’s watchfulness over Flash Donegan.
Burbank was sitting in the dark room of an apartment. He had moved in there that very afternoon. The apartment was in an old building, where tenants were few, and new ones were welcomed with very little question.
It had not been difficult for Burbank to obtain the very apartment he wanted. As a result, The Shadow’s quiet-voiced agent was located in the room directly beneath Flash Donegan.
Before him, on a table, Burbank had two telephones. One had been in the apartment — an outside connection used by the previous tenant. It had been restored to service that morning.
The other phone was of Burbank’s installation. It had a wire running upward toward the ceiling. Beside it was a switch box. Burbank had been listening over that telephone before Cliff had called by the outside wire.
Burbank was now dialing the outside phone. He had called a number before he had heard from Cliff, but had received no response. Now, with Cliff’s call ended, the man in the darkness again dialed.
He heard the ringing; then a low, whispered voice came from the receiver. Burbank replied.
“Burbank reporting,” he said.
“Report,” came the voice.
A flashlight glimmered. Its tiny spot showed a sheet of paper covered with shorthand notations. Burbank began to read. His report was a complete account of the telephone conversation between Flash Donegan and Dip Riker.
But, unlike Cliff Marsland, Burbank was able to report both ends of the conversation. His statements were verbatim.
“No calls made by Donegan?” came the whispered question, when Burbank had finished speaking.
“None.”
“I am standing by. Connect when Donegan receives a call.”
“Right!”
Burbank hung up the outside phone and remained silent. He was a patient waiter; it was his business to wait. Yet, this very afternoon, Burbank had indulged in other work.
Flash Donegan had gone out during the afternoon. Burbank had learned of the fact through a call over the outside wire. It was then that Burbank had entered Donegan’s apartment, with the aid of a special key that had been left for him.
The Shadow, master of locks, had not neglected to study the fastening on Flash Donegan’s door the night on which he had paid his unseen visit.
In Donegan’s, Burbank had worked swiftly. When he had finished his labors, not a clew remained. Flash Donegan’s wire had been tapped and hooked up with Burbank’s second telephone in the room below. It was through this medium that Burbank had listened to every word that had passed between Flash and his subordinate, Dip Riker.
WITH Burbank at his station, The Shadow was free to conduct other operations. The man who moved swiftly by night was endeavoring to locate Flash Donegan’s base of operations — the spot where Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero were on duty.
This was no easy task. Only two men could have revealed the place. They were Flash Donegan and Dip Riker. Others, who might have told, were no longer in New York.
There were good reasons why The Shadow did not care to question either Donegan or Riker; but now, since the conversation that Burbank had overheard, it was important that The Shadow should know at once.
Burbank continued his patient waiting. He knew the situation thoroughly.
The Shadow, in his search for Donegan’s underlings, had not yet achieved his objective. Perhaps he might be in the vicinity; but he was not actually there.
Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero were in waiting for whoever might come their way. Harry Vincent was en route. A phone call to Flash Donegan would report the capture of The Shadow’s agent.
Time went by. A light glowed on the plug box beside Burbank. Instantly the man became active. Flash Donegan was receiving a call!
Burbank dialed The Shadow’s number. The response was immediate. Burbank spoke a word of explanation.
Quickly, he inserted plugs. The Shadow, on the outside, was cut in on Donegan’s wire. Burbank was adjusting a double-head phone. Through one ear, he could hear Flash Donegan’s conversation. Through the other, he could listen to The Shadow.
“That you, Marty?” said Donegan’s voice.
“Right, Flash,” came the gruff reply.
“What news?”
“Good! Got him!”
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was grinning as he sat at the telephone. A half-emptied bottle of liquor stood beside him.
Flash had been drinking, but his faculties were keen. He prided himself on the quantity he could imbibe without feeling the effects.
“The ride’s next,” Flash spoke.
“O.K., chief,” said Jennings. “We’re goin’ right now!”
A buzz sounded in Burbank’s right ear The Shadow was giving an order. Burbank responded. His deft fingers changed the plugs.
But now the situation was different. Three men were on the wire. Flash Donegan, Marty Jennings, and The Shadow. Neither Flash nor Marty knew what had transpired. The conversation had taken a strange turn — one which did not surprise Marty, but which puzzled Flash immensely.
For Marty Jennings was still hearing the voice of Flash Donegan; but he did not hear what Flash was actually saying!
The answer to this paradox was simple. Marty was listening to another person — a man who simulated Flash Donegan’s voice so closely that Marty could not detect the difference. Marty Jennings was talking instructions from The Shadow!
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was growling in the mouthpiece. He could hear Marty’s replies and interruptions. But they did not make sense. Flash could not understand it. Had his henchman gone crazy?
“Give him the bump, quick!” said Flash.
Marty did not hear it. Instead he heard a voice — which he took to be that of Flash — which said:
“Have you made the guy talk?”
“No,” replied Marty. “We haven’t tried.”
“Haven’t tried!” exclaimed the real Flash Donegan. “I said to give it to him — I didn’t ask if you had finished the job.”
Again, Marty did not hear the utterance. Instead, the false voice reached his ears.
“Maybe he knows something, Marty. We ought to make him squawk.”
“O.K., chief,” answered Marty. “How do you want it done?”
“Done!” exclaimed Flash Donegan angrily. “You know how to do it. Don’t act so dumb. Take the ride — quick.”
But, instead, “Better hold him until I get there,” was the statement that came to Marty from what sounded like Flash’s voice.
“O.K.,” replied the gunman. “We’ll wait for you here.”
“I didn’t say to wait!” blurted Donegan, confused and angry. “I said to get going. Start now!”
BUT Marty Jennings did not hear the protest. The other voice — the voice that was every bit Donegan’s — was taking another course, prompted by what Flash had actually said.
“It may not be safe to keep him there,” were The Shadow’s next words. “Take him out, and I’ll meet you, on the way to where you’re going.”
“That’s the stuff, chief!” was Marty’s enthusiastic response. “You know that alley in back of Howley’s old garage on One Hundred and—”
“That will do,” came the false voice.
The words served two purposes. They satisfied Marty Jennings that his chief understood. They were also a signal to Burbank. The quiet man switched the plugs.
The voice of the real Flash Donegan was coming through, to Marty. But Burbank was in readiness. His hands were waiting to again change the lines, should he receive another signal. That proved unnecessary.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Jennings was saying, when Flash himself made an interruption.
“Lay off that talk, Marty,” said the racketeer. “Lay off — don’t you hear me?”
“Sure thing, I hear you,” responded Marty. “I’ve been hearing you all along. I got you straight, chief—”
“Then get going! Do you understand that?”
“You bet. Lance is ready with the buggy. We’re hustling.”
“That’s all, then. Don’t waste any time with the guy.”
There were two sharp clicks — one when Jennings hung up; the other from the receiver in Flash Donegan’s room. Burbank made an adjustment of the plugs, and spoke in a low voice over the outside wire.
“They have finished,” was all he said.
There was a sibilant reply. Burbank heard a click in his right ear. He removed the head phones. Again, he waited in the darkness of the silent room.
Upstairs, Flash Donegan was talking to himself.
“What was the matter with Marty?” he grumbled. “All he had to do was get the O.K. from me. Asking me how I wanted the guy bumped off. Saying they’d wait for me, when I told him this afternoon that I didn’t want to mix in when they caught any snoopers.
“Talking about going to the alley in back of Howley’s — well, that’s a good place to unload a smoke wagon! Nobody near there to hear the shots. Funny how Marty got balled up; well, anyway, he’s wise now.”
So saying, Flash Donegan helped himself to another drink.
The fate of Harry Vincent was no longer of concern to him. That young man was to pay the penalty for treading within Flash Donegan’s domains.
The racketeer had disposed of the matter in the simplest fashion, leaving it to such capable killers as Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero.
WHILE Flash was enjoying his grog in his apartment, Marty Jennings was passing instructions along to Lance Bolero.
“Open the door, Lance,” he said. “I’ll drive the buggy out. You hop in beside me.”
“What’s the lay, Marty?”
“Flash thinks we ought to make this guy squawk.”
“All right. That’s a cinch.”
Lance began to step toward the back seat of the touring car, as though he already had a method in mind.
“Not here, Lance,” warned Marty. “Flash is takin’ care of it. He’s goin’ to meet us back of Howley’s.”
“He didn’t say nothin’ about it before,” said Lance dubiously. “I don’t see why—”
“This guy ain’t no ordinary bird,” responded Marty. “He’s got somethin’ in mind — or he wouldn’t have come in right after the others. You know the lay, Lance. After anybody comes along with the sign, we gotta watch close.”
“Maybe you’d better call Flash again and—”
“Not on your life! He was sore because I talked as much as I did. He started the gab, though. Go on — open the door!”
A minute later, the touring car rolled out through a door that led to the street. Marty Jennings swung the machine westward. Lance Bolero was staring into the back seat to make sure their captive was still well bound and gagged.
“I’m for bumpin’ him quick,” he growled. “That’s what Flash said to do. Knock him off in back of Hawley’s an’ then travel. There won’t be no mistake if we do. I can make a guy squawk; but sometimes it ain’t easy to—”
“That would be a fine idea, wouldn’t it?” ridiculed Marty. “Suppose Flash should come along afterward—”
“Flash oughta be there as soon as us. He’s got his bus ready. It won’t take him much time—”
“He might be delayed.”
“Listen, Marty.” Lance was insistent. “Maybe you got mixed up on this. You should ‘a’ let me talk to Flash, too. You know what he told us. Get any guy out quick—”
“Yeah, but he told me to tip him off tonight, if we nabbed anybody. We did. That’s what he says: wait.
“But suppose we fix it this way, Lance: I’m takin’ my time gettin’ to Howley’s. If Flash ain’t there, we’ll know he ain’t comin’. Give him a few minutes — then the works for this gazebo!”
“Now you’re talkin’, Marty!” agreed Lance, pleased at the compromise.
The touring car rolled on in silence. At one spot, it passed close by a traffic officer, who gave it no attention. Finally, the automobile turned into a small side street, and Marty, after an alert glance in both directions, piloted it into a narrow alley.
The place widened out after twenty yards. It was an open space in back of a deserted building — the old garage which had been abandoned. The structure was awaiting the wreckers.
“A good spot,” commented Lance. “We were comin’ here, anyway. Just as well that Flash liked it. But I don’t see him around.”
“Lay low,” replied Marty, as he parked the car at the side of the open space. The lights were out, and the automobile was practically invisible. “Wait a couple of minutes, Lance.”
Silence reigned while Marty Jennings stared straight ahead. Lance reached back into the rear of the car and prodded Harry Vincent to make sure the captive was still under control.
“I’m takin’ a look,” whispered Marty.
He slipped from the front seat, and Lance could hear the soft crunching of his feet. Marty was walking around the car. Lance felt uncomfortable. He did not like the delay. Silently, he drew his automatic and inclined it toward the form in back.
A few shots in the dark — that would end the wait! Marty would be back in the car in an instant. They would have to leave in a hurry. Lance could explain that the captive had been releasing himself.
With an evil chuckle, Lance pressed his automatic against Harry’s body. He felt the muzzle nudge against the helpless man’s ribs. The temptation was enough.
“Here goes!” muttered Lance, as he placed his finger upon the trigger.
AT that instant, a hand caught the gunman’s wrist. The door of the car had been opened so softly that Lance had not known it.
The clutching hand was invisible — a thing of blackness that had come as if from nowhere. It swept Lance Bolero’s arm upward. The shot from the automatic shattered the rear window of the car.
With an oath, Lance was grappling for his unseen opponent. Down came another hand, swinging a heavy revolver. Lance — purely by accident — dodged the blow as he shot forward over the back of the seat.
Lance Bolero was stocky and heavy. He was one of the toughest rowdies in gangdom. His attack was delivered with a mad fury, for he no longer held his automatic. It had clattered to the floor, twisted from his grasp. A form came up to stop him, but Lance had launched himself forward and downward.
The other man went back as the gangster’s body struck him. Together, they hurtled from the side of the car to the ground below. Lance was on top, his eager fingers clutching for the other man’s throat. The body beneath him took the full force of the fall. Lance was sure that his enemy was stunned.
Then came amazement for Lance Bolero. He heard metal click against the paving — his antagonist’s revolver had dropped. Even as Lance clutched the other’s throat, two powerful hands were upon the eager gangster.
A forearm came behind Bolero’s neck. The two-hundred-pound form of the fighting gangster turned a complete somersault, and was hurtled, back upward, a few feet away.
The back of Lance’s head crashed against the paving. Flung as though he had been a man of straw, Lance Bolero was stunned and helpless.
Some one was climbing in the car from the other side. It was Marty Jennings. Kneeling upon Harry Vincent’s body, the gangster knew that Bolero had been attacked by a stranger from the dark.
A flashlight glimmered in Marty’s hand. It disclosed the scene before him. Lance Bolero was on the ground, dazed. Beside him, closer to the car, was a man in black, half rising from the ground.
The sable cloak of the man gave him a weird appearance. He seemed a shapeless mass, topped by a slouch hat. In a twinkling, Marty saw a black-gloved hand reaching to the ground. The hand was after a revolver that lay there.
Marty fired for the head that topped the cloak. “Shoot ‘em in the face!” was his motto.
He knew that a bullet through the head would spell certain doom for the man who had overcome Lance Bolero. But the man in black had divined Marty’s act to the split second. He seemed to collapse as Marty fired.
The gangster’s bullet clipped the top of the slouch hat. The automatic swung from the ground and spat flame as it rose.
Had The Shadow’s shot been wild, he would never have fired again. For Marty Jennings was aiming a second shot that could not have missed its mark.
But The Shadow’s marksmanship was unerring. There was but one spot at which he could fire, and be sure of hitting his target. His bullet found that spot — the flashlight in Marty Jennings’s left hand.
THE electric torch was shattered. Marty’s left hand fell, numbed and helpless. That stopped his shooting for the moment. Then he began to pepper away, his bullets ricocheting from the cement below.
Where was The Shadow? It seemed incredible that the man could have arisen and fled from the spot in so few seconds!
Marty was leaning forward, firing another shot when a revolver answered from below. The Shadow had rolled beneath the touring car. The final flash of Marty’s automatic had shown the position of the gangster’s body.
Again, The Shadow’s aim was true. The bullet shattered Marty’s shoulder. He lost his balance and hung from the side of the car. The Shadow’s gloved hand wrested his gun away. The man in black arose and flung the crippled gangster from the car.
The motor started. The car shot forward; then backward. It headed forward again, and made a wide swerve toward the narrow alley. Its headlights illuminated the scene.
Marty Jennings was groaning on the ground. Lance Bolero, raised to his elbow, was scrambling to escape the oncoming headlights. The car shot by the disarmed gangsters. Harry Vincent, still bound in the rear of the automobile, could see none of this.
But he knew that he had been rescued by The Shadow. He knew that his release was close at hand. For, as the car roared its way toward the street, he heard a sound that he had heard before — a chilling sound that he dreaded even though he had no cause to fear it.
It was the mocking laugh of The Shadow — the weird, sardonic laugh that brought terror to all creatures of the underworld.
The Shadow, carrying Harry to freedom, was jeering the men whom he had conquered — jeering them with triumphant merriment!