AT THE BROOKLYN DOCK
“IT’S set for tonight, Cliff.” Madge Benton was speaking in a low, eager voice. “Durgan and Shires are both going to be there — to see that Bart Hennesy gets his. I’m telling you, because I hate Durgan!” Her eyes glowed fiercely. “I hate him — the rat!”
Cliff nodded thoughtfully. They were seated in an obscure corner of a little restaurant, where they had arranged a rendezvous.
Madge had called Cliff to let him know that she had important news. The meeting had followed. Madge was telling what she had overheard when Durgan and Shires had conferred a few hours before.
“You’ll get him, won’t you, Cliff?” questioned Madge.
The girl’s plea was pressing. Hardened to the ways of the underworld, she had but one desire. She wanted Cliff to murder Killer Durgan.
It was not an unseemly request, addressed to a man who possessed the reputation which Cliff had gained in the underworld.
“You bumped off Tim Waldron!” declared Madge. “Do the same to Durgan! He’ll make trouble for you, sure — if he finds out that you’ve been going around with me!
“There’s no use waiting, Cliff. Don’t give him a chance! He’s bumped off plenty of poor guys that way. He’s got it coming to him!
“His gang’s gone blooey — Ernie Shires is the only gunman he’s got now. Ernie don’t rate so high. He didn’t bother you after you knocked off Tim — and Durgan don’t mean any more to Ernie than Tim did!”
The logic in the girl’s speech was unassailable. Tonight — Monday night — Killer Durgan was going forth, unsuspecting of danger, into the bad lands that surrounded the Brooklyn docks. It was Cliff’s chance to settle old scores, and to clear the field that he might have Madge as his own.
Most important of all; Durgan’s proposed death would be attributed to others than Cliff Marsland; for Madge had learned that the Killer intended to make trouble for Bart Hennesy, king of the dock wallopers.
“Durgan’s meeting the truck down by the Hoosier Warehouse,” added Madge. “He’s leaving a car there. He’ll be alone.
“Let them find him when they get there — find him loaded with lead! He won’t be on deck to start the trouble between Hennesy and Larrigan.
“Bart’s had it in for Durgan, you know, ever since Big Ben Hargins was bumped off. Bart thinks Durgan had something to do with it.”
Cliff was silent. He could readily have given Madge the details of Big Ben’s death. The husky dock walloper had never regained consciousness from the blow in Pezzeroni’s.
That stroke, combined with the loss of his men in the New Era Garage, had weakened Bart Hennesy’s rule. He and his remaining lieutenant, “Spunk” Hogan, had been sticking close to the docks.
“Bart’s going to go after Durgan, soon,” said Madge. “That’s why Durgan is out to get Bart first. You can knock off Durgan before he tries his game. It’s soft for you, Cliff!”
“Wait a minute.” Cliff seemed to recover from his indecision. “I’m going to make a telephone call. I’ll be back.”
MADGE watched Cliff approvingly as he started toward the telephone booth. She did not know his exact purpose, but she felt sure that it would lead to what she wanted — the termination of Killer Durgan’s career of crime!
In the booth, Cliff obtained the number that he knew so well. Positive that he was not being overheard, he discarded the usual code of emphasized words and explained the situation briefly. He merely omitted names, knowing that they would be understood.
The information that he imparted was that Killer Durgan, accompanied by Ernie Shires and a few others, intended to appear on a Brooklyn dock where both Hennesy and Larrigan would be, and be the motive of a general uprising that would end the tottering regime of Bart Hennesy.
“Call me in twenty minutes,” came the quiet order from the other end of the wire.
Cliff returned to Madge. The girl observed the expression on his face and decided that she had won her cause.
It would be unwise to try further persuasion. Madge sought to be alluring rather than revengeful. Her honeyed words brought a pleased smile to Cliff’s lips.
“I’m your moll, Cliff,” declared Madge. “Gee! I wish I’d met you long ago! But it was worth waiting, Cliff. Tell me, Cliff. You don’t ever think of any other girl, do you?”
“Not now.” Cliff had been thinking of another girl, one whose photograph he had seen in the society section of yesterday’s newspaper. “There was a girl — once — but that was all forgotten when I was put away.”
“A swell dame, Cliff?”
Cliff nodded.
“Just like ‘em!” said Madge emphatically. “They drop a guy just as soon as he gets in a jam! I’m not that way, Cliff!”
She looked into his eyes, as she leaned forward and gripped both his hands. Cliff smiled again.
“I’d better make that second phone call,” he said thoughtfully. “It may mean trouble for Killer Durgan.”
Madge sat back at the suggestion. She was positive that Cliff Marsland meant business tonight.
At the telephone, Cliff called his number and received a prompt reply. The voice began to give instructions as soon as Cliff had made his identity known.
“Go to Cassidy’s cigar store immediately,” came the order. “You know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Go to the back room. It is a meeting place. That has been arranged. You will give instructions to the men—”
There was a click. The voice of the operator came over the wire, asking for the number. Cliff gave it impatiently. He was informed that the line was busy. He hung up the receiver and called again. A busy signal followed. It was one of those troublesome and unexpected interruptions.
“GO immediately.” That had been the order. Cliff knew Cassidy’s store. He had been exploring through the underworld at various times, and had learned much from Madge. Cassidy had a back room, where no one was disturbed — if Cassidy knew them.
The place had fallen into disuse due to police observations; but now it was coming back into its own. There was a phone in Cassidy’s back room. In an emergency, Cliff could call from there. It would be wise to get on the job.
He returned to Madge. He told the girl he was going on his way. He left the restaurant. She was to depart later.
Cliff was still wondering about his mission when he reached the street. He failed to glance behind him. He did not see the man lurking by the steps. Cliff entered a cab and gave the destination.
He lighted a cigarette and rode along in silence. He did not glance behind. When he reached Cassidy’s, he walked directly through the store and entered the back room. No one else was there.
Cliff sat down in front of the telephone, pondering whether to call his number. He fancied that he heard the door open. He turned, expecting to encounter a person whom he was to meet.
He found himself staring into the muzzle of a huge automatic. It was held by a short, stolid-faced man.
“So you’re the guy, eh?” came the man’s low words. “Put up your mitts” — Cliff obeyed — “and don’t get funny, or you’ll get a load from this smoke wagon.
“Maybe you’d like to know who I am? I’m Mike Wharton. I’m working for Killer Durgan — the guy whose moll you’ve tried to swipe!”
Wharton paused to eye Cliff with a malicious glance. Killer Durgan’s operative seemed highly pleased with his capture. Still covering Cliff with his automatic, Wharton advanced to the telephone.
“What’s more,” he said, “I’ve got wise to who you are. Cliff Marsland — that’s your name. I trailed you tonight. I heard Durgan’s moll call you ‘Cliff’ when you were going into that restaurant.
“Durgan isn’t wise yet — but he’s going to be, right now! I’m keeping you here until he shows up. Get that?”
He lifted the receiver of the telephone with his left hand. He called a number which Cliff recognized as that of Larchmont Court. Wharton gave the number of Durgan’s suite. A minute later, he was talking to Durgan himself.
“Listen, Durgan” — Wharton still watched Cliff, who was staring in return — “I’ve got the guy that was running with your moll. I’m holding him here unless you want me to — what’s that? Sure! I’ve got him covered with my gat. Sure I’ll bump him off! Right now!
“Listen, now. I’ll tell you his name, then I’ll pull the trigger so you can hear him pass out. All set? Here goes. The guy’s name is—”
As Cliff was about to launch himself forward in a desperate, futile attack that would have meant certain death, two shots rang out from the doorway. Mike Wharton collapsed, dead. His automatic clattered to the floor.
“Come on, Cliff!”
It was Nipper Brady! The little gangster had arrived when sorely needed. He had ended the career of Mike Wharton — and the sound of the fatal shots had been heard by Killer Durgan, who supposed that they marked the end of the man whose death he desired.
Cliff hurried through the cigar store and out into the street. Nipper bustled him around the corner, into a touring car, where Patsy Birch and Dave Talbot were waiting. Patsy was at the wheel. He started the car in response to Nipper’s command.
“We got your phone call, Cliff,” said Nipper, as they rode along. “Give us the lay. We’re ready for anything!”
Cliff was bewildered. Then understanding dawned. During that twenty-minute interval between phone calls, The Shadow had called Nipper, and had told him to be on hand with Patsy and Dave. In doing so, The Shadow must have simulated Cliff’s voice to perfection.
These were the men whom Cliff was to meet! It was Nipper who had saved his life — but back of it lay the action of The Shadow!
“Pull up here, Patsy,” ordered Cliff. He left the car and entered a store a short way down the street. He called the usual number, and heard the quiet voice.
Briefly, Cliff explained what had happened. Then came the instructions that Cliff had not received before. He nodded, almost to himself, as he listened to the words over the wire.
Back in the car, he instructed Patsy where to drive. The car stopped in an obscure street behind a parked truck.
“We’ll wait here a while,” said Cliff, as he and his men clambered into the truck, “and while we’re waiting, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
DOWN on a Brooklyn dock, a crowd of men were assembled. They were dock wallopers, and they stood idly by while a smaller group conferred.
Bart Hennesy and his chief lieutenant, Spunk Hogan, were talking with Hoke Larrigan. There was antagonism in the air.
Technically, the dock wallopers all owed allegiance to Bart Hennesy. Some of them had come with him and Spunk. Less than half of the crowd were Larrigan’s workers, although this was a dock where Larrigan held sway.
A truck drew up and two men clambered from it. One of them spoke to a dock walloper.
“We’re looking for a shipment for Gratz & Company,” he said. “We want the public loaders to heave it on board for us.”
“O.K. Wait a while. We’ll find it for you.”
The arrival of the truck had evidently been expected. A discussion began between Bart Hennesy and Hoke Larrigan.
“All right,” growled Bart. “Let’s see your boys load it. Let’s see ‘em collect. Then, let’s see my cut. That’s what I came down here for!
“You think you’re independent, handing me this challenge. Well, I’m here — and I’m going to collect.”
Hennesy spoke with assurance. His own men outnumbered those of Hoke Larrigan. It was to be a show-down, and Hennesy was to win, as he had always won.
While Hennesy was speaking, a second and smaller truck arrived. It swerved away and drew up at the side, standing at right angles to the larger truck.
No one paid any attention to it. All were watching Hennesy and Larrigan. The latter turned suddenly to the large truck.
“All right, boys,” he said.
The muzzles of two machine guns appeared through the slatted sides of the truck. They gleamed in the lights from the dock. Bart Hennesy stood in amazement as he saw that his men were covered by the guns.
“How do you like that?” questioned Hoke Larrigan sarcastically. “And how do you like this?”
Like a flash, he pulled an automatic from his pocket and fired three shots into Bart Hennesy’s body. The king of the dock wallopers fell dead. Not a person moved. Larrigan turned to Spunk Hogan.
“You want the same?” he questioned.
Spunk shook his head. He was too bewildered to answer.
Hoke Larrigan looked about him triumphantly. He knew that there were dozens of dock wallopers who were ready to avenge their fallen leader; but the threat of the machine guns cowed them. No one dared to start the trouble.
Now was Hoke’s opportunity. With Bart Hennesy dead, and Spunk Hogan trembling for his life, Hoke could declare himself the king of the docks. He hesitated only because he was uncertain whether he should spare Spunk Hogan. He grinned as he looked at Hennesy’s cowed lieutenant.
Low voices were talking in the small truck that had virtually escaped attention.
“Hold on until the fracas stops,” warned Cliff Marsland. “We’re here to make it a fair fight.”
“Then here goes!” blurted Nipper. Nothing could restrain the little gangster. He considered Bart Hennesy an ace among racketeers. Before Cliff could restrain him, Nipper had raised his gun.
Thrice flame spurted from the automatic. Three well-aimed bullets found their mark. Hoke Larrigan fell dead, sniped from an unexpected quarter.
Bart Hennesy’s killer had met his doom!
“Aim for the truck,” exclaimed Cliff grimly. Nipper’s action had forced the issue. Now was no time to hesitate.
A split second after Cliff had uttered his command, his men were at work. The gleaming muzzles of the machine guns were their targets.
The revolver shots wreaked havoc. Passing through the slatted sides of the big truck, they crippled the machine-gun operators.
The sullen dock wallopers sprang to action. The men who had come with Bart Hennesy were wild for revenge. Revolvers flashed! Shots rang out! Mighty arms were in action!
REVOLVER shots came from the big truck. Killer Durgan, recognizable as he leaned from the front seat, sought to avenge the death of Hoke Larrigan and he made Spunk Hogan his target. Bullets splattered the big truck as Hogan fell.
Killer Durgan seemed to bear a charmed life; but he realized the danger. He swung back into the seat. The man beside him — Ernie Shires — threw the truck into gear. It shot away toward safety.
“Get going!” cried Cliff, as the tail light of Durgan’s truck faded away. Cliff’s own truck was being showered, now, as Hoke Larrigan’s dock wallopers sought revenge.
Patsy threw the truck into gear. But before he could start it, a surge of men arrived.
Cliff was on the front seat with Patsy. His automatic was wrested from his hand. Patsy, too, was overpowered. Nipper and Dave, in the back, were flattened on the bottom of the truck. Their guns were empty.
Then, from an obscure place, came the sound of two automatics! They were being fired from between two piles of crates near the truck.
An amazing marksman was at work. As a huge fist rose to knock Cliff unconscious, a bullet struck the upraised arm. One by one, the attackers dropped. It seemed as though a charmed circle had been formed.
Patsy, finding himself free, shot the truck forward. A last dock walloper leaped toward him with an automatic. Another second, and the truck would have been driverless.
But a single shot barked as Patsy swerved the truck. The threatening attacker fell in his tracks!
Staring backward, from the turning truck, Cliff saw a tall black form spring from its hiding place between the boxes. With tremendous strides the figure leaped forward and gained the rear of the departing truck.
As Patsy suddenly increased the speed, Cliff was overwhelmed with amazement. There were five men aboard the truck! Cliff, Patsy, Dave, Nipper, and — The Shadow!
The master of darkness had rescued Cliff and his men from certain doom, and now, as they whirled along through the night, Cliff heard a long peal of raucous laughter behind him.
The Shadow was riding with them to safety! Durgan’s work had been ruined!
As the truck stopped on the deserted street, beside their touring car, Dave clambered into the front seat.
“Nipper got his,” was all he said.
Cliff leaped to the back seat. Dave had stated a fact. There lay the body of Nipper Brady, the pale-faced little gangster who had fought like a man of iron. The parting shots of Hoke Larrigan’s cohorts had slain the man who had felled their leader.
“Who was in back with you?” questioned Cliff, as Dave returned.
“Only Nipper,” was the reply. “That’s all I saw. I was half out. No, wait” — a puzzled look appeared upon Dave’s face — “there must have been another guy. There was somebody there, firing away at the gang. It couldn’t have been Nipper. He was out!”
Cliff moved in the darkness of the truck, searching every foot of space. No one was there.
He and Patsy had escaped injury. Dave was wounded. Nipper was dead. But the fifth man had come and gone, like a creature of the night. He had saved the fray, had made his escape, and had departed in mystery.
As Cliff stood solemnly beside Nipper’s body, he fancied that he heard a distant sound — the laugh of The Shadow!