RACKETEERS DISAGREE
THE Hotel Spartan was an old, third-class hostelry that stood near the edge of the lower East Side. It had been many years since the place had known its palmy days. It was surrounded by low, dilapidated buildings, and the elevated railroad ran in front of its grimy windows.
A heavy-set man walked through the door. He noted the loungers standing about the lobby, then started up the rubber-treaded stairs. Had he paused to glance through the broad window of the lobby he might have seen a shadowy form melt into the darkness.
At the fourth floor he stopped in front of the door of a room and knocked softly.
“Who’s there?” came a whispered voice.
“Ernie,” the visitor replied.
The door opened, and Ernie stepped inside. The door closed behind him.
A few moments later, there was a movement in the hallway outside the closed door. For a brief instant, the form of a human being came into view — then it disappeared; a shadowy figure that went back toward the stairway that led to the ground floor.
Inside the hotel room, two men faced each other amidst a gloomy light. They formed a strange pair, in the setting of an antiquated sitting room, with its few rickety chairs, and box couch in the corner.
“What’s the matter, Ernie?” demanded the tall, rugged man who had been in the room. “What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing, Tim!” Ernie growled in reply. “Nothing that matters! Give me a shot! I want to talk to you!”
Tim led the way to an inner room, leaving the door open.
This room was small. It contained a desk, two chairs, and a safe. On the desk was a typewriter. Beside it lay a pile of stationery that bore the heading: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”
The man called Ernie reached out as the other poured him a drink of liquor. He swallowed the fluid at a single gulp.
“Sit down a minute, Tim,” he said.
Tim corked the bottle angrily and obeyed. He looked on in amazement while Ernie turned out the light, so that only the dim glow from the other room remained.
Tim watched while Ernie cautiously raised the blind of the window and peered downward into the blackness of the alley. Then he lowered the blind and turned on the light.
“What’s the lay, Ernie?” demanded Tim.
“If you want to know,” growled the visitor, “I’ll tell you! The Tim Waldron storage racket took it on the chin tonight!”
“Yeah?” There was menace in Waldron’s tone. “Yeah? What was the matter with Ernie Shires, the guy that has the tough gorillas?”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” retorted Shires. “But when it comes to them gorillas, they’re yours — not mine! You can have the bunch of ‘em at a dime apiece, so far as I’m concerned!”
Waldron leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows narrowed as he threw his cigar butt in a corner and drew another stogie from his pocket.
For a moment, his eyes were menacing; then his voice became smooth.
“Spill it, Ernie,” he said.
SHIRES looked at him suspiciously. He walked across the room and leaned against the wall. The paleness had gone from his face. The hardness of his features was more pronounced.
“Before you begin,” said Waldron quietly, “I’d better remind you what I told you tonight. Remember? I’ve been paying you one grand a week, waiting for something where I’d need you.
“I kept you out of the collecting end because I smelled trouble, and didn’t want you mixed up too heavy in the legit side of the business. Those gorillas — well, I supplied the dough for them — but you picked them. Don’t forget that!”
“Well, I got a bum steer, that’s all,” said Ernie sullenly. “I know this racket, Tim. It may be a new one, but you’re running it like a lot of other guys. Collecting the dough from all these two-by-four storage houses. Making ‘em keep their prices the same. Each one to his own territory.
“Soft, wasn’t it, the way they fell in line! Until this one guy — Burton Brooks — tells you it’s all off, and gets a few other small fry to do the same.
“So you frame it nice. All set to knock off one of the Brooks vans. Slug the driver and the van man. Make them quit, and scare the rest of them. Start the dough coming in again. Simple, ain’t it?”
“Simple is right,” replied Waldron. “And let me tell you something, tough guy! Those van men are unionized, and I’ve been chiseling in on their outfit.
“They think a lot of their hides, those guys, and with one reason to walk out on Brooks, they’d do it! That’s why I told you to have the gorillas slug them. Did they do it?”
“They started to, but—”
“But what?” Tim Waldron’s growl was as emphatic as that of his visitor.
“Some guy butted in and smeared the job!” replied Shires.
“How many guys?” quizzed Waldron incredulously.
“One guy!”
“And you had your mob there?”
“Yeah! But this guy sneaked up on us. Had a gun with a silencer. Clipped the whole mob — all but me.”
“One guy, huh!” sneered Waldron. “That sounds fishy to me — and you sound yellow!”
ERNIE SHIRES leaped forward from the wall. Tim Waldron rose to meet him. For a few moments the men glared at each other.
Then Shires turned suddenly and walked back across the room. Waldron, viciously chewing the end of his cigar, resumed his seat.
“So you lay down on the job!” said Waldron disdainfully. “Went out to slug two guys and smash up a van. One bird cleans you and your mob! Tough bunch of gorillas you’ve got!”
Shires clenched his fists, but made no reply.
“I’m going to tell you what this means,” said Waldron coldly. “You think it means the end of my racket — that’s what you suggested when you came in here. Well, it don’t! Get that, tough guy? It means the end of you! That’s all!
“It’s putting me in a tough spot, because once a job like this flops, the suckers get cocky, and it takes a lot of teaching to get them back where they were. Now they’ll be on the lookout for trouble. They’re going to get it, just the same!
“The storage racket will be bigger than it ever was, when I’m through with them!”
“Yeah?” responded Shires. He was challenging now. “Well, half your mob got smashed tonight. But I’m game! I’m ready, too! I’ll get busy with the rest of the mob!”
“Listen, tough guy!” said Waldron. “You said these were my gorillas. You’re right! They are! Ten of them — that you know about.
“But I’ve been holding out on you. I’ve got twenty more and they’re tough! Dock wallopers, some of them. Brooks is going to get it, and so are his pals! Quick, too!
“I know this racket; and it’ll be dead if I let it ride ten days. Then none of them will pay!
“But they’re all going to pay! I’m giving them the works — turning my whole mob loose. One man at the head of all of them. How do you like that?”
A thin, wolfish smile crept over the face of Ernie Shires. His animosity was forgotten. He scented big jobs ahead, with more pay if he should prove successful.
“You’re giving me all of ‘em, eh?” he asked. “That’s the stuff, Tim! That’s the stuff! We’ll knock ‘em off! And I’m out to get that guy that queered things tonight, too!”
“You think you know who he is?”
Ernie’s triumphant expression faded suddenly. He glanced again toward the window. He approached Tim Waldron and sat in a chair close to the racketeer.
“Listen, Tim” — Ernie’s voice was low — “this guy was dressed all in black. All in black — get me?”
“Mourning for somebody, I guess,” came the sarcastic reply.
“All in black,” repeated Shires. “And when he left — he laughed!”
“No wonder. He had plenty to laugh about!”
“I’m serious, Tim! This ain’t no joke!
“There’s only one guy could fight like he did — only one guy who could laugh like that. And if he’s trying to hurt your racket, you’ll need all them gorillas you’re going to give me. All of ‘em!”
“Why?”
“Because I think that guy was The Shadow!”
Tim Waldron leaned back and laughed. He glanced at Ernie Shires, and when he saw his henchman’s serious expression, Tim laughed again.
“You been hearing that stuff, too?” he questioned. “A guy in black called The Shadow? Baloney!”
“He’s real, all right, Tim!”
“Yeah! Real enough to frighten kids on the radio and to jump in on snow sniffers that see things half the time.
“But if he’s out to muss up any rackets, he’s due for a fade-out! And if he’s beginning with mine, he’s all wet! Get me?”
SHIRES nodded, only half convinced. Tim Waldron detected the man’s lukewarm expression. He was about to reply when a telephone buzzed beside the desk. Waldron answered it.
“All right,” said the racketeer, over the phone. “Tell him to wait exactly ten minutes. Then come up and walk in. Understand?”
He hung up the receiver and looked at Shires.
“Ever hear of Cliff Marsland?” he asked.
“You mean the guy that was sent up for that Brooklyn bank robbery, a few years ago?”
“That’s the one!”
“Yeah. I’ve heard of him.”
“Well, he’s out of the Big House now. He’s downstairs and he’s coming up to see me.”
“Yeah?” Shires spoke in a menacing tone as he leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. “What about?”
“If he’s the guy I want — and I think he is” — Waldron’s tones were cold and calculating — “he’s going to draw one grand a week as the big gun of my gorillas.”
“Which means—”
“That you’re through, Yellow!
“Tonight ain’t the first trouble I’ve had. Somebody’s been trying to chisel in on my racket. Telling the suckers to lay off me.
“I’ve got the goods on this guy Marsland. He’ll be working for more than that one grand a week. He’ll be doing what I tell him, so he can keep out of the Big House! Get me? He’s the guy that I want!
“There’s only one man that can keep this racket of mine going, and that’s myself! With the right guy working with me, it’s going to be bigger than ever!
“Tim Waldron knows his own racket, and when he finds a guy that’s yellow, like Ernie Shires, he—”
The sentence was never completed. As Waldron leaned toward the desk, Shires suspected something in his action.
Like a flash, Ernie’s hand came from beneath his coat. His arm shot forward, and the muzzle of his automatic was buried against Waldron’s body. There were two muffled reports. The storage racketeer sprawled forward upon the desk.
Ernie Shires laughed sullenly. He thrust his automatic into his pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he withdrew the weapon, wiped the handle, and dropped it on the table beside Waldron’s body.
“So you’ve got your gorillas!” he said, in a low, sarcastic tone, addressing the inert form of the racketeer. “That’s why there were some new mugs in the lobby tonight!
“You’re up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who’s been spotted by your gang! Well, let him come! See what happens to him!”
Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title: “Storage Warehouse Security Association.”
Tim Waldron’s racket — which only he could control — was now no more than a name, and even that name was now being literally blotted out with blood!
There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the shaky old building.
The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.