SPOTTER MEETS A FRIEND
A short, stooped man, with thin body and cunning, wicked face, entered that den of the underworld known as the Black Ship. His keen, beady eyes made a quick survey of every person in the room, from the man behind the bar to a drunken mobsmen who lay across a table in the corner.
“Hello, Spotter,” said the proprietor.
“H’lo,” answered the little man.
He took his place at a table, and called for a bottle and glass.
The Black Ship was a rendezvous for gangsters — a haven and a refuge for those who were seeking to avoid the law, and a meeting place for those who plotted new crimes.
“Spotter,” wily creature of the underworld, was a familiar figure at the Black Ship. He was comrade to all the crooks; he knew them all by face, by walk, and by actions.
He himself had been mixed in shady doings, but he possessed an instinctive cleverness that had always enabled him to keep from the toils of the law.
The police had hopes that they might some day get the goods on him. They wanted him as a stool pigeon. In the services of the authorities, Spotter would be a trump card.
But they had never been able to connect him with any crime, and it was rumored, among gangsters, that Spotter had twice outwitted the police when they had tried to frame him.
Spotter had been living a life of idleness. He always had a supply of money; where he obtained it was a mystery.
He was seen frequently at the Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other dives of the underworld. He seemed to be living a life of honesty — too honest to be genuine.
Tonight there was a restless look in Spotter’s cunning eyes. They betrayed the fact that he was hankering for activity; that the criminal instincts which dominated his twisted soul were anxious for an outlet.
Nevertheless, Spotter never sought crime. He waited for opportunities.
A man entered the door. Spotter blinked in sudden recognition.
The fellow came across the floor, noted Spotter, and made a slight beckoning motion with his thumb. Then he entered the inner room of the den. Spotter followed.
* * *
The new arrival was a tall man, with sallow face, and beaklike nose. He was well dressed, and his moppy red hair made its presence known beneath the gray hat which he wore. The stranger’s features were impassive.
He and Spotter were alone in the room.
“Reds Mackin!” exclaimed Spotter, softly, as he looked at the man across the table. “I thought you was in Chi.”
The other man smiled, almost imperceptibly.
“I just came back,” he replied.
“Ain’t things goin’ right?” questioned Spotter.
Mackin’s smile disappeared.
“They always go right with me, Spotter.”
“Sure they do, Reds. I ain’t questionin’ you. You’re a smooth guy. I know that. Smooth as they make ‘em.
“I ain’t never known you to get in no trouble. All you do is legit. But I didn’t expect to see you back here for another month, anyway.”
“Listen, Spotter.” “Reds” Mackin’s voice was low, and emphatic. “I’ve got a — well, I’ve got nothing; but I know of somebody that’s got a job to be done. There’s dough in it. Quick work. Pretty safe, too. But it means that one fellow’s got to croak.”
Spotter nodded.
“I get the idea, Reds.”
“Wait!” Reds gestured as he spoke. “I don’t have to come to you to find the man that’s needed. There’s plenty of them out in Chi. But this wants to be done right. It needs the right man.”
“If there’s dough in it,” said Spotter, “there’s plenty that will do it.”
“Not the way it’s got to be done. The man must have three things.”
Reds raised three fingers and enumerated:
“First, he must be smooth — not like a regular crook. A fellow with education, nerve, and everything that goes with good appearance. That’s number one.
“Next, he’s got to be a sure shot. Handle the rod quick and well. A sure killer. That’s number two.
“Last — this is the hitch — he’s got to be good with the knife.
“We — I mean they aren’t sure just how this is going to work out. Maybe it will take a good quick stab to do it right — without using the rod at all. So that’s number three.
“Now, there isn’t a yegg in Chicago that I’ve seen that can fill the bill. I’ve been thinking that there’s none to be had anywhere. But if there is such a guy, there’s one person who would know him. That’s you, Spotter.”
Spotter licked his thin lips. “How much is it worth?” he asked, thoughtfully.
“How much is what worth?” questioned Reds Mackin. “To get the guy I want?”
“To tell you who he is.”
Reds Mackin laughed disdainfully.
“What’s the game, Spotter?” he demanded. “I want the guy. Are you trying to hold out on me?”
“That ain’t it, Reds. I know just the guy you need. But I don’t know where he is.
“I ain’t mistrustin’ you, Reds; but all I can do is tell his name right now. How do I know you ain’t goin’ to get him on your own hook, after you know who he is?”
“So that’s the trouble.” Reds Mackin snorted. “Well, I’ll fix that. You know where you can get a bird like the one I want. Are there any others as good as he?”
“No. Just the one. And listen, Reds” — Spotter spoke knowingly — “there ain’t many fellows knows how good this guy is.
“You might ask plenty of ‘em — just like you asked me — and they wouldn’t think of this guy at all. Because he’s smooth, Reds. Like a card shark. He don’t show his stuff to the crowd. Keeps it hid.”
* * *
Reds Mackin pulled two fifty-dollar bills from his pocket. He passed them to Spotter with his right hand.
“Here, Spotter,” he said. “These are yours. Just for giving me the guy’s name. That’s all. If I can get hold of him — either through you or any one else, there’ll be a hundred more for you.
“Maybe” — he spoke rather cautiously — “you’ll get another chunk of real dough, later on. You’re safe in this, Spotter. I don’t want you to do anything else. You don’t have to be around, even, when I meet the guy.”
The crafty little crook took the money with eagerness. He spread the bills in front of his eyes, and examined them carefully.
“What’s the matter with them?” demanded Reds Mackin. “I got them from a bank in Chi.”
“I always look ‘em over,” returned Spotter. “You never can tell.”
“They don’t pass counterfeits on me,” sneered Mackin. “You act like there was a lot of phony mazuma going around. Is that the dope?”
“No, no,” returned Spotter, quickly. “It ain’t suspicions, Reds. I just go careful, that’s all.”
He held the bills in his hands, while Mackin suddenly came back to the subject.
“What’s the guy’s name, Spotter?”
“Birdie Crull.”
“Don’t know him. Where is he now?”
“I ain’t wise to that. I think I can find out, though.”
“What’s he doing — laying low?”
“No. That ain’t it.” Spotter warmed up to his explanation. “I think Birdie’s in some soft racket, Reds. He ain’t no ordinary crook. He went to college, and all that. Then he found he could make soft dough.
“Come in on a guy like a thug; take the sap’s bank roll; then double on his tracks, and walk up to the guy like he was his friend, ready to sympathize with him.”
“That sounds smooth.”
“That ain’t nothin’, Reds. This Birdie Crull has gone to the station house with a guy he’s stuck up, reported it, an’ started the bulls out to find the crook that did it. All the time he’s got the stuff he took from the sap right in his pocket.
“Beat that?”
“Sounds good, Spotter. But what about the rod, and the knife?”
“He’s used ‘em both, Reds, an’ got away with it.”
“Maybe he’s done it too much to be safe.”
“Not him, Reds” — Spotter leaned forward to whisper — “he plants everything on some sap, and lets him be the goat. That’s his game, Reds. Don’t let on I told you. I’m the only guy that knows it.”
“Great,” replied Mackin. “Just the guy I want. Get him for me, Spotter.”
“I’ll try. But he’s away, now, on some big racket. He’s got too much nerve to waste his time on small stuff.”
“Well, the job I mentioned is a big one.”
“Only once,” said Spotter reminiscently, “that Birdie Crull ever got fooled. That was when I run into a big car for him, an’ he pulls a rod on the bloke in the back seat. Right in the middle of the street. But he got his that night. Who do you think was in the car, Reds?”
“Some bulls?”
“No. The Shadow!”
* * *
There was a momentary pause after Spotter had uttered that ominous name. The tone of the little man’s voice was tense and fearful. Reds Mackin laughed.
“The Shadow!” he jeered. “That’s a lot of talk. The Shadow! Who was with him? Santa Claus?”
“Don’t fool yourself, Reds,” replied Spotter, seriously. “This Shadow guy is real! I seen him myself, that night.
“He comes right out of the car like a big, black blanket. He wraps himself around Birdie, and shoots him with his own rod. Birdie flops in the street. Away goes The Shadow — just like the street gobbled him up.”
“You saw that, Spotter?”
“I did. You’ll believe me yet, Reds. You see this room we’re in right now? Well, the gang had The Shadow right in here. But he got away.”
“How?”
“Mopped up a dozen of ‘em — in the dark. Threw ‘em out. Locked that big door on ‘em. They tried to bust in.”
“Well, did they get him?”
“Yes, they did — not. He shot a tear bomb into ‘em — that’s what he did. Walked right through the mob, wearing goggles.
“I could tell you more, Reds. Some of the other boys could tell you, too. But none of us like to talk about it.
“Listen, Reds, there ain’t no danger of The Shadow bein’ mixed up in this racket of yours, is there?”
Reds Mackin spread his hands depreciatively.
“Not a chance, Spotter. It’s going to happen out West. Forget this Shadow stuff. Look here.”
He pulled another fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, and spread it in front of Spotter’s eyes, snapping it between his hands.
“I’m giving you this, too, Spotter,” he said. “I want to meet this Birdie Crull. How soon do you think you can find him?”
Spotter stared at the bank note. His eyes seemed hypnotized.
He was apparently studying the currency, as he had done before. In reality, his mind was whirling in confusion. His gaze was fixed upon Reds Mackin’s left hand.
That hand was still. Its fingers were spread slightly. Spotter, whose eagle eyes lost nothing, had noticed Reds Mackin’s hand several times in the past. He remembered a long, ragged, permanent scar, on the side of the third finger — a scar that showed only when Reds Mackin spread his hand.
The scar was no longer there!
“What’s the matter, Spotter?” came Mackin’s sarcastic voice. “Still leery about the fifty-spots? Maybe you’d rather have my personal check?”
Spotter grasped the money mechanically, and thrust it, along with the other bills, into his pocket.
“Maybe you’re still worrying about The Shadow,” added Mackin. “Well, take my word for it, Spotter — there’s no such guy. If there is, he isn’t in on this.”
Spotter emitted a sudden laugh. His craftiness returned; he was again the smooth worker of the underworld.
“Listen, Reds,” he said. “You know where old Crippled Carrie lives, don’t you? — Well, there’s an empty room up there — at the head of the stairs. It used to belong to a guy that got bumped off.
“I’ve got the key. When I find Birdie Crull, I’ll give him the key so he can be waiting for you there.”
“When will that be?”
“In a couple of days, I think.”
“Well, I can wait a week. Tell you what you do, Spotter. You leave me a note here, with the barkeep. Put the address in it — I’m not sure just where the place is — and the time.
“I’ll be going by here every day. I’ll pick it up, after you leave it. Drop it here in the afternoon. Arrange the meeting in the evening.”
“Maybe—”
“It’s safe, Spotter. Nothing’s been done yet. There’s no crime in my meeting Birdie Crull. Don’t put his name in it. Just the address, and the time.”
“O.K., Reds.”
“I’m leaving you now. Work fast on this.”
Reds Mackin left. For a long time after the visitor had gone, Spotter remained at the table. His face was wrapped in an intense expression of concentration, as if he were trying to pick something out of the back of his brain.
“Reds Mackin!” he exclaimed to himself. “He Looks like Reds Mackin. He talks like Reds Mackin. He acts like Reds Mackin. But he ain’t Reds Mackin!”
The little man scowled grimly.
“The Shadow!” he mumbled. “That’s who he is! He couldn’t be no one else. Well, he’s in for it this time. Tried to cross Spotter, did he?”
A scheme was working in the crafty brain. Spotter’s lips formed a wicked grin. Then, suddenly, Spotter sprang to his feet, shaking with sudden terror.
He had heard a sound — a low, almost inaudible sound — a sound that had reached his brain rather than his ears.
It could not have been an actual noise; it must have been some echo of the past — an echo that was a part of the atmosphere of this room in the Black Ship.
Spotter was alone — not a soul was in the stone-walled room. None of the gangsters in the other room indicated that they had heard anything.
Yet the sound was real in Spotter’s frenzied brain; and he trembled as he caught the dim echoes of that terrible token of disaster. For he seemed to hear a weird, mirthless laugh — a hissing, jeering laugh — the laugh of The Shadow!