THE SHADOW IS REPAID
CLIFF MARSLAND smiled to himself as he rolled along in a taxicab which he had entered outside Larchmont Court. Things were breaking well tonight.
He had left Madge after they had departed from the Club Drury. It had been much later than they had expected, but the girl had assured him that she would experience no trouble with Killer Durgan, as the racketeer had other problems that night.
After leaving Madge some distance from Larchmont Court, he had come directly to the apartment. He had decided to smoke a cigarette in his accustomed chair, while he waited to see that she arrived.
While he was thus engaged, two men had stepped from an elevator. One was Ernie Shires. The other was a big, tall individual whom Cliff judged to be a dock walloper.
The two men did not notice Cliff. He heard Ernie speak as they left.
“We’ll go down to Pezzeroni’s joint,” Ernie had said. “We can stand a couple of shots. I’ll fix you up there.”
Cliff had heard of Pezzeroni’s that night. Madge had been telling him much about the underworld.
Cliff had remarked that his term in Sing Sing had ended most of his old acquaintanceship with the bad lands, and Madge had set out to “put him wise.”
Pezzeroni’s was a combined restaurant and speakeasy. Cliff knew where it was.
So he had waited until Madge had appeared. She had glanced at him as she walked through the lobby. That was all.
Then Cliff had left, and was now on his way. He had hopes that he might be able to listen in on the conversation between Ernie Shires and his companion.
As he rode along, Cliff looked back, just as the cab turned a corner. He saw another taxi following. The fact worried him.
He kept glancing back until his own cab stopped in front of Pezzeroni’s. He saw another cab pass down the avenue, without turning the corner. He was not sure whether or not it was the vehicle which had apparently been on his trail.
He dismissed his own cab and waited outside the restaurant. Seeing no one approach, he went inside.
A word to the Italian waiter was sufficient. Cliff was conducted to the back of the restaurant. Here was a small barroom, with tables. Along one side ran a partition, with curtained openings. They indicated smaller rooms.
A waiter came out through one of the doorways, carrying a tray. Cliff gave an order. A bottle and a glass were brought to the table that he had taken. The waiter went out; a few minutes later, the man at the bar also disappeared. Cliff was left alone in the room.
This was his opportunity. He slipped into the doorway next to the one through which the waiter had come. He was in a small room that held a table and a few chairs.
THE partition between this room and the next did not extend to the ceiling. Cliff leaned close to it and listened. He could hear the voice of Ernie Shires.
“All right, Ben,” the gangster was saying. “I’ll fix you with the dough. Let’s have another drink. O.K.?”
“All right, Ernie,” came Ben’s reply. “But listen, bo, this thing is going to make Bart sore, anyway. It’s going to work out bad.”
“Forget it, Ben.”
Cliff could hear the gurgle of liquid being poured from a bottle.
“Here’s the trouble,” said Ben. “You know how things work down at the docks. Every load of freight that comes in is handled by our men — ‘public loaders,’ we call them — and it’s a great racket.
“If some importer gets a big shipment, he sends his trucks down. He finds the freight on the pier. Our men load it on for him. Three cents a hundred pounds is the regular rate — but we hold them up for more right along.”
“Good graft,” commented Ernie.
“You’re right,” said Ben. “Let them try to bust it! Then the dock wallopers get busy. If any truckmen try to load without our permission, we give it to them right.
“But we don’t have to worry about that. Bart Hennesy has a tie-up with the union truckmen, and the same with the longshoremen. They’re all with us!”
“Where does Hoke Larrigan come in, then?”
“That’s just the trouble. He’s supposed to be working with Bart, just the way I am; but he tries to do things his own way. He controls gangs on some of the docks — and he don’t come through with his cut. Bart’s wise to him!”
“What’s his game — outside of getting more dough than he’s entitled to?”
“He wants to run the racket, that’s what! He’s big enough, so Bart doesn’t take a crack at him, because it wouldn’t go good with his mob. But Hoke’s not taking a crack at Bart, either. He’s too wise.
“That’s what Bart is watching for. Now that we mixed up in this deal of Durgan’s, and six of our dock wallopers are either bumped off or pinched, Hoke’s got a chance to make trouble!”
“Bart ought to like that. It will let him come back at Hoke, won’t it?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Bart’s been laying off because of Hoke’s friends. Now Hoke has got an excuse. He can tell them all that Bart’s no good because he isn’t sticking where he belongs — on the docks.”
“Who else is there beside Bart and Hoke?”
“Nobody that can run the racket. That’s why Hoke is anxious to make trouble.
“If Bart gets out, we’ve got to take Hoke as the boss and like it. He’s in right with the unions — just like Bart.
“Me and Spunk Hogan — we handle the dock wallopers, and there’s other guys that does the same; but we’re under orders, same as Hoke ought to be.”
“This will put you in wrong with Bart, then.”
“Looks that way. But it will make him sore at Killer Durgan, too.”
“What’ll he do about Durgan?”
“Nothing, now — unless Durgan gets funny. Bart will stick to the docks, if he’s let alone; but if Durgan had gotten smart — like refusing to come through with the pay-off, nothing would have stopped Bart.
“If I’d go back without that money, Bart wouldn’t blame me. He’d hang it on Durgan and you along with him.”
“Yeah?” Ernie’s voice indicated that he was uneasy. “You think he would, Ben?”
“I know he would. He sticks to the docks because it’s his policy. But he’d take a gang of dock wallopers out to San Francisco if he got double-crossed that far away! You can figure for yourself what he’d do in New York!”
There was a momentary silence. Then Ernie spoke.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got the cash for you, Ben. Guess I’d better give it to you now. Two grand is right, ain’t it?”
“O.K.”
CLIFF’S fingers had been pressing against a corner of the compo-board partition. His fingers had suddenly found a rough spot. Looking close, he saw that it was a nail hole.
With his finger nail, Cliff spread the opening. He placed his eye against it. He saw into the other room.
Ernie Shires was facing Big Ben over a table. Ernie was counting off a roll of bills — most of them fifty dollars in denomination.
“Eighteen-fifty, nineteen, nineteen-fifty, twenty” — Ernie laughed. “There’s your two grand, Ben. Hope it squares you with Bart.”
“It’ll help!” replied Ben tersely. “Help me, and help you!”
He ran over the bank notes one by one; then began to fold the roll to place it in his pocket.
It was then that Cliff became fascinated by a slight motion of the curtain beyond the two men. A vague form began to appear, unnoticed by either Ernie or Ben.
Cliff suppressed a gasp of astonishment. A black-clad figure had entered the little room.
The Shadow stood beside the table, the muzzle of an automatic projecting from the folds of his cloak!
A low laugh filled the room. Ernie and Ben both turned toward the doorway. Each started to rise.
A sweeping movement of the revolver caused them to resume their seats. Both raised their hands. Big Ben held the crumpled money in his left hand.
“Money,” said The Shadow, in a low, weird voice. “Money — paid for tonight’s work” — there was a strange irony in his tone — “but paid to the wrong man! Work has been done tonight; but not by you. So I have come to collect what I have paid to men who earned it!”
His gun turned toward Big Ben.
“Put your hands on the table,” said The Shadow.
Big Ben obeyed.
“Count off fifteen hundred dollars.”
With shaking hands, the big dock walloper followed the instructions. The Shadow’s free hand suddenly appeared. It reached across the table and drew the bills from Big Ben’s grasp.
“You can keep the rest,” said The Shadow.
The black-clad form seemed to melt into the curtain behind it. Only a flash of eyes was visible beneath the broad-brimmed hat.
Then Cliff could see nothing but the gleaming muzzle of the automatic. Again, a low, sinister laugh came as an uncanny whisper. The Shadow was gone!
With an oath, Ernie Shires leaped to his feet. He was drawing his automatic, bent upon instant pursuit of the strange being who had appeared from nowhere.
But Big Ben was quicker than Ernie. He leaped to the doorway, caught the gangster, and thrust him back in his chair.
“Let me go!” exclaimed Ernie. “I want to get that guy—”
“Get him?” Hargins laughed sullenly. “I’m wise to your game! You can’t fool me with a gag like that!
“No wonder you held out on the dough. Durgan didn’t want you to pay it to me in his place. Not a good idea, he said. So we came somewhere else. Here — the joint you picked! Sit down!”
AS Ernie started to rise, still seeking to pursue The Shadow, Hargins thrust him back in his chair and yanked the gangster’s hand from his pocket.
“Sit down — and keep your mitt away from your gat” — Big Ben’s voice meant business — “you yellow double-crosser! Framing it with a guy to make it look like a stick-up! Leaving me half a grand to make it look on the level!
“Well, it don’t go, see? Come across! Make up what’s missing — and do it quick! Get me?”
“Lay off that stuff, Ben,” retorted Ernie. “I want to get that guy! He’s the bird that’s queered our racket! Let me get him!”
“Stay right where you are!” warned Big Ben. “I want some dough out of you! Get me? If you don’t come across, you’ll hear from Bart Hennesy — you and Killer Durgan, both!
“I’ve had enough phony stuff tonight — and when a guy pokes a gat in through the curtain—”
Suddenly suspicious because of his own remark, Hargins turned for an instant and swept his free hand against the curtain, as though to make sure that no invisible watcher was waiting there.
Ernie Shires seized the opportunity. His hand was close beside a bottle standing on the table. Cliff saw the gangster grasp the neck of the bottle and swing it ferociously at Big Ben’s head. The dock walloper turned as the blow was falling.
Before he could press the trigger of his automatic, the bottle crashed against his skull. Big Ben crumpled beneath the impact. He slumped between the table and the curtain. Ernie Shires laughed.
“A double-crosser, am I?” he muttered. “Well, you don’t look like you’re going to tell ‘em that any more!”
He stooped beside the table. When he arose, Cliff saw the bills that Big Ben had held, were now in the possession of Ernie.
Shires opened the curtain a bit and peered out. The grin that showed on his face evidently indicated that no one was in the barroom. Ernie cast a last glance at the form of Big Ben.
“Looks like you’re out of it,” he mumbled. “But there’s one guy that ain’t out of it — won’t be until I get him. That’s The Shadow!” A look of evil hatred came over Ernie’s features. “And he’s the guy I’m going to get!”
Ernie Shires was gone. Cliff followed a few minutes later. He said nothing to the waiter as he passed through the restaurant. The man would probably find Big Ben soon. It would be best to be somewhere else then.
Cliff was still thinking of the night’s events when he reached his apartment. Killer Durgan, Ernie Shires, Big Ben Hargins — all had met with defeat that night!
Cliff had played his part. So had Nipper, Dave, and Patsy.
They had been paid by The Shadow, those three — and The Shadow, in turn, had been repaid by the very men whom he had thwarted!