The Crime Master

CHAPTER I THE LAW WAITS

“ALL right, inspector. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The stocky man hung up the receiver of the telephone. Dark eyes peered from his swarthy face as he turned from the corner of the little East Side store. He stared at the proprietor, a dull-faced old fellow who was standing, stooped, behind a decrepit counter.

The old man blinked back. He showed no signs of intelligence. The swarthy man grinned. With a shift of his shoulders, he buttoned his light overcoat and stalked from the dilapidated shop, out into the night.

The old man watched, hands on the counter. He came cautiously forward. He reached the door and peered out along the street. He could see the striding form of the man who had departed. He went back to the corner of his shop, deposited a nickel in the coin box and dialed.

A voice clicked through the receiver. The old man spoke, in a crackly eager tone:

“He just left here… Yes… Joe Cardona, the dick… No, he ain’t going back to headquarters… Going to see the police commissioner, that’s what…”

Clicking ceased. The old man hung up the receiver. He glanced furtively toward the door; then, with straggly step, went back to his place behind the counter.

MEANWHILE, the swarthy man had covered a full block. The old proprietor of the store had not been mistaken in his statement of identity. This stocky strider who was marching through the fringe of New York’s underworld was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force.

The fact that he had been deceived by the innocuous appearance of the old storekeeper did not prove Joe Cardona to be unobservant. On the contrary, the star sleuth was remarkably alert as he paced his way along the narrow street.

Though he apparently stared straight ahead, Cardona kept his eyes in constant motion. Peering from right to left, those optics noted much that an ordinary observer would not have seen.

The open door of a tawdry barber shop; two Italians gesticulating while one clutched a newspaper — Cardona caught words in a Neapolitan dialect. He nodded grimly as he recognized the topic of conversation.

The detective passed a corner. He went by the door of a pawn shop. Again, he caught snatches of talk — these words in English. Cardona kept onward; his face more grim than before.

The bulk of an elevated structure loomed at the next corner. The detective stopped and struck a match against a pillar beside the station steps. A train was rumbling overhead as Cardona lighted a cigarette. A pale-faced, sweatered fellow shambled from beside a fruit peddler’s wagon. He stooped to pick a cigar stump from the gutter.

“What’s doing, Squawky?”

Cardona emitted the growled question without looking toward the stooping man. Rising, the sweatered fellow looked at the cigar stump; then flung it back into the gutter. His lips moved as though muttering to himself. But his mouth framed low words.

“Nothin’ doin’,” mumbled Squawky. “Just talk — but nobody knows nothin’. I’m goin’ to the Pink Rat.”

“Call me at headquarters.”

Puffing at his cigarette, the detective turned and ascended the elevated steps. “Squawky” slouched back toward the fruit peddler’s wagon; he dug a few pennies from his pocket and handed them to the peddler in exchange for an apple. Chewing at his purchase, the sweatered man shuffled along the grimy avenue.

JOE CARDONA had reached the elevated platform. A train was coming into the station. The detective stepped aboard. Standing within the end door, he eyed two passengers who were seated a dozen feet away.

One was tapping the columns of an evening newspaper. The other was nodding in response to a statement which Cardona could not hear because of the train’s rumble. But the detective saw the scoffing smiles which the two exchanged. Turning, Cardona eyed the tops of old East Side buildings past which the train was speeding.

“Luck,” he growled, half aloud. “Luck — and everybody knows it. If I could guess what’s coming—”

The train reached Cardona’s station. The detective alighted. He was away from the underworld now; his footsteps quickened as he reached the street.

“Poiper, mister?” The question came from a newsboy who pattered along beside Cardona. “Police stop big holdup—”

Cardona waved the boy aside. The gamin persisted for a dozen steps; then gave up the idea of a sale as the detective turned a corner and swung into the entrance of a building.

A few minutes later, Joe Cardona came into a quiet anteroom. A girl spied him from a desk in the corner; she motioned for him to enter the inner door. Cardona followed through. He came into a large, sumptuous office where a man was seated behind a glass-topped desk.

Cardona approached and stood waiting. The man looked up.

“Good evening, commissioner,” said Cardona.

“Hello, Cardona,” came the brisk response. “I want to talk to you. Pull up a chair.”

The detective obeyed. A few seconds later, he was sitting face to face with Police Commissioner Ralph Weston, chief official of the law in New York city.

Cardona and Weston were men of determination. In that one respect, they were alike. Otherwise, they differed. In contrast to the stocky, taciturn detective, Commissioner Weston was tall and of heavy build. His full face, with its pointed mustache, was keen and dynamic. Weston was a pusher who demanded action.

Often, the commissioner had berated Cardona for lack of gusto. On other occasions, he had waxed enthusiastic while the detective had remained critically silent. This latter mood was present tonight. After a few moments of silence, Weston burst forth with commendation.

“You deserve credit, Cardona,” he declared, “for your work this morning. I have read your report in detail. The manner in which you and your squad beat off that raid upon the bank truck pleased me immensely.”

The commissioner arose from his chair. He paced heavily across the room; then returned and faced the detective.

“Moreover,” added Weston, “the way you used that single clue was excellent. Crime has been rampant of late, Cardona. You have dealt a decisive blow; the first stroke, I hope, in our campaign against the present epidemic.”

The commissioner resumed his chair. He leaned with folded arms upon the desk. Cardona was about to speak; he paused, while the commissioner made another utterance.

“That is why I called Inspector Klein,” stated Weston. “I told him to send you here. I wanted to commend you personally — and also hear your opinion on the situation as it now stands.”

ORDINARILY, Joe Cardona felt ill-at-ease in the commissioner’s presence. Weston’s manner — overbearing at times — was difficult for him to meet. But when Weston loosened and gave commendation, Cardona’s inferiority complex faded. Facing the firm-visaged commissioner, the detective suddenly voiced a challenge.

“You want my opinion?” he inquired. “You want it straight? All right, I’ll give it. First of all, you can wipe out all the credit that you’ve just handed me. I don’t want a boomerang that’s going to come back and sock me.

“You say I did a good job. I didn’t. I got a lucky break and even at that I flivved. Listen, commissioner. We’re not the ones who are just beginning to get somewhere. It’s the crooks who are making their start. I mean it.”

“But to-day,” spluttered Weston, “you stopped the raiders—”

“Read my report again,” suggested Cardona, abruptly. “You won’t find any frills in it. Listen, commissioner. There have been three good-sized robberies in quick order. Jobs that left us standing goofy. Last night, I was expecting another. How — where — when — I couldn’t have guessed.

“Then came this break. There was a gang fight about three o’clock this morning. A couple of bodies were lugged to the morgue. I went down to look them over. Up comes a smart reporter — fellow named Burke, with the Classic — and he suggests I search the bodies.

“Persistent bird, this Burke. I knew that everything should already have been taken out of the dead men’s pockets; but just to please Burke, I made another search. You know what I found — a folded piece of paper that was missed before — on it the words: ‘Manhattan Armored Truck — Eighth Avenue — ten o’clock.’ How it happened to be in that gorilla’s pocket, I don’t know.”

“But you followed the armored car,” inserted Weston, “and you and your squad drove off the raiders in a running fight.”

“Sure we did,” admitted Cardona. “But we were lucky. The holdup gang had three cars, commissioner. By rights they should have given us a lacing. We hadn’t prepared for anything like what we got.

“If that armored car had been standing still, those crooks would have smashed it and taken the dough. But when we busted in, the guy driving the armored car was smart enough to run for it. If it had been nighttime, the holdup boys would have smeared us. But they couldn’t chance a long fight in broad daylight. That’s why they beat it. We bagged a couple of small fry” — Cardona shrugged his shoulders — “and I’ll take credit for that. But outside of that, commissioner, we’ve got nothing. We’re back where we were.”

“You mean that crime is still rampant? That this ineffectual raid will not deter the plans of other malefactors?”

“I mean just that, commissioner. I figure more jobs are on the way — bigger jobs than the taking of an armored car — and they’re due to hit fast and heavy.”

“You must find clues!” Weston pounded his fist on the desk. “We must anticipate crime before it strikes!”

“I landed one clue,” returned Cardona. “This morning — by luck — that paper in the gorilla’s pocket. But where’s the next one coming from? Frankly, commissioner, I don’t know.”

CARDONA placed one elbow upon the desk. Leaning forward, he wagged his forearm in emphasis as he spoke. Weston listened, his forehead furrowed in a frown.

“Gangland is organized,” asserted Cardona. “That’s all I’ve learned, commissioner. Things are tougher there than ever before. It seems like nearly all the mobs are linked. I came through a tough district tonight. I had a hunch that I was being watched all along.

“Peddlers, loafers, small-fry crooks like pickpockets — even storekeepers — I suspect them all. Everybody is answering to some one else. Unless I’m mighty far wrong, it’s all part of the same chain. Crooks are lying low — like they’re waiting for orders. On the surface, commissioner, the underworld looks tame. Beneath — it’s fierce.”

Cardona paused. Weston sat silent. The commissioner was waiting for more. The detective gave it.

“The stool pigeons are scared,” declared Cardona. “We’ve got thirty of them on the job and twenty-five of the lot are afraid for their dirty hides. They think they’re being watched. They won’t go near the places where they usually get information.”

“And the other five?” interposed Weston, dryly.

“Drawing blanks,” replied Cardona. “They hear whispers — buzzings — but no talk. The best of the lot is Squawky Sugler. I talked to him when I was getting on the el, twenty minutes ago. He says there’s nothing stirring. On his way to a joint called the Pink Rat when I left him. Maybe he’ll land something there; but I doubt it.”

“This is serious, Cardona,” observed Weston. “Let me commend you again — this time for your frankness. Then let me ask your opinion. What do you intend to do — what would you intend to do if left to your own resources?”

“Wait,” asserted Cardona, summing his chief plan in the single word. “That’s the best I can do, commissioner. I’m going from here to headquarters; then back into the district where I was before.”

“To visit the dives?”

“No. But to be ready if anything stirs. Some of these stool pigeons may get knocked off. There may be another mob scrap. There’s no telling what may hit. But if you’re leaving me to my own plans, commissioner, I’ll head back to the neighborhood of the Pink Rat.”

“Very well.” Weston arose. “Go your way, Cardona. I am relying on your judgment; and I hold the hope that you may find new clues of coming crime.”

“And meanwhile?” questioned Cardona, anxiously.

The commissioner was silent for the moment. When he replied, his tone was grim as he phrased his answer:

“The law must wait!”