The Ghost Makers

Chapter XVIII — The Man from New York

The Napoli Hotel was the new hangout for Mike Gallanta's mob. A small, but fairly modern building, it had been purchased by the notorious gangster, and had been kept as headquarters. A year before, the Chicago police had worried about events that occurred at the Napoli, but now the place was an extinct volcano.

Mike Gallanta was doing time in a Federal prison, along with other income-tax dodgers. His principal lieutenants were going about their business in a wary way, during the absence of their chief. Control over such men as Snooks Milligan was exerted by Al Barruci, who had once been the right hand of Mike Gallanta. At present, Barruci was leading a peaceful existence. Still quartered at the Napoli, he kept an eye upon the tempestuous mobsmen.

Al Barruci was a diplomatic personage. As a result, he worked well with the former vassals of Gallanta. He, alone, knew their doings, and they followed his advice in all matters. When Barruci advised, he was actually giving orders. But he was crafty enough to make it appear otherwise.

To-night, Al Barruci was comfortably ensconced in his suite at the Napoli. The prestige that he had gained through Mike Gallanta was serving him well.

By being conservative, Barruci encountered very little trouble. But as the right bower of the absent big shot, Barruci was still a power to be feared.

It was a known fact that he seldom stirred from his comfortable abode. It was that very fact that made prospective enemies wary of him.

The telephone rang, and Barruci answered it. He listened in mild surprise as a name was announced from the desk downstairs.

"Tell him to come up," he ordered.

There was a rap at the door a few minutes later. Al Barruci opened the portal and a tall, hard-faced man entered. It was the visitor— Jake Quellan— a noted New York racketeer.

Barruci had met the man before, when Quellan had conducted secret negotiations with Gallanta. He was puzzled by this surprise visit.

"What brings you to Chicago?" he questioned affably, as they sat down in the living room. Quellan lighted a cigarette before he spoke. He looked firmly at Barruci, with cold, staring eyes.

"I'm after a guy that is here in Chicago," declared the New York gangster. "Maybe you've heard of him. They call him The Shadow."

"The Shadow!" exclaimed Barruci. "He can't be in Chicago!"

"Why not?"

"Because" — Barruci paused reflectively — "he was here once before. He made plenty of trouble, then. If he was here, he wouldn't be laying low. So I figure he isn't here."

"No?" Quellan's question was challenging. "Well, you're wrong, Barruci. He is here and he is laying low. That's why I've come to get him. Before he starts more trouble. We don't want him back in New York."

"We don't want him here, either!" Barruci exclaimed.

"Great. Then you can help me get him," Jake replied.

"How?"

Slowly, Jake Quellan began to unfold his plan.

"The Shadow," he said, "is on the run, for once. He does things pretty much his own way. Once in a while he crosses the police, and they never can do anything about it.

"Well, this time, they've got the goods on him — and there's a man on his trail who is outsmarting him."

"Who?" quizzed Barruci incredulously.

"A New York dick, named Cardona," declared Quellan. "He's working alone out here — and from what I hear, The Shadow is keeping under cover, for fear Cardona will find him.

"The Shadow's quick when it comes to battling with mobs, because he knows their ways. But he's yellow when the police get on his trail. Take it from me. I know."

"You think Cardona knows where The Shadow is?" Barruci questioned.

"Yes," Jake answered. "But there's only one guy can make him tell."

"Who?"

"You're looking at him."

Al Barruci was thoughtful. He wished that Jake Quellan had arrived a while ago. Still, it might not yet be too late. Barruci wanted to know more.

"We heard that Cardona was here," he said. "But we weren't tipped off to the lay. We heard just enough to let us know that there was trouble coming. That was all."

"I'm telling you what the trouble is," declared Quellan emphatically. "What's more, I know where Cardona is located. He's staying at a hotel, here in town. I came out alone, so as not to let the New York cops get wise.

"Here's what I want to do: I want to grab Cardona — with your help — and then I'll make him spill the whole story."

"How?" Barruci asked.

"Easy enough. I know part of it. What I know will make Cardona tell the rest. But I'm telling you straight, nobody else could make that dick squawk!" Jake was emphatic.

"You know where Cardona is?"

"Yes — at a hotel."

"You're wrong," declared Barruci, with a broad smile. "We've got him right now. One of my men is making him talk. When he gets through, there'll be one less flatfoot to bother you in New York."

"You aren't bumping off Cardona!" exclaimed Quellan, in consternation.

"That's just what we are doing," returned Barruci. "After he talks, or if he doesn't talk." Quellan drove his right fist against his left palm.

"You're pulling it wrong!" he exclaimed. "All wrong. Cardona is too wise! He'll either keep mum, or he'll give a phony story. Then you've lost the chance to get the lay on The Shadow!"

"Will that matter much?"

"Matter! Don't you see what it does? The Shadow is bottled while Cardona is hot after him. With Cardona out, The Shadow is loose again.

"You don't know The Shadow, Barruci. He spots mobs like a hawk spots a flock of pigeons. He'll be loose, I tell you — loose, here in Chicago!

"Well" — Quellan settled back with a deprecating gesture. "I should worry about it. The Shadow will have enough to keep him busy here. We'll have things easy, back East."

It was the final statement that brought a worried frown to Al Barruci's forehead. He saw the logic in the New York gangster's argument. He stroked his chin reflectively, then said:

"We've gone pretty far with it now. Cardona's got to take the bump. That's all."

"Let him take it," declared Quellan. "He's no friend of mine. But I want to hear him talk before he goes out — and it's more to your advantage than to mine."

Al Barruci was a man who made quick decisions when the occasion called for it. Moreover, he was naturally conservative. Also, he had been somewhat apprehensive about Snooks Milligan's quick action with Joe Cardona.

He realized now that they had worked too hastily. Without more ado, he arose and faced the New York gangster.

"Come along," he said. "Maybe we'll be in time!"

Jake Quellan followed him downstairs. Two men in the lobby arose the moment that Barruci appeared. The four left by a side entrance. Barruci and Quellan climbed into the rear seat of a sedan; the others took the front.

The New Yorker knew their occupations. One was Barruci's chauffeur; the other, his bodyguard. The man at the wheel nodded in response to his chief's order. The other man sat sidewise, keeping watch as they rode along.

"Maybe you've heard of this place where we're going," said Barruci, as they reached the outskirts of the city. "It was built to look like a country house, but Gallanta had it fixed as a blind to store hooch.

"Then we had to soft pedal the racket when Gallanta took his rap. So we've been using it to dump guys we don't want. Putting them where the booze was supposed to have been." The car was speeding rapidly along the shore of Lake Michigan. The New York gangster gave no betrayal of the tenseness he felt.

"No telephone out there," explained Barruci apologetically. "The place is kept empty. If there was a phone, we could have tipped Snooks to lay off for a while. Maybe we'll be in time — I hope so!" The final words showed that the Chicago gang leader shared the anxiety which he supposed gripped Jake.

The sedan drove up to a low house. The four men piled out, and Barruci led the way down the steps. They crossed a room, and Barruci gave a series of five quick taps at an inner door. Five taps responded. Barruci rapped twice. The door opened, and the arrivals stepped in to witness a strange scene.

Joe Cardona, completely unconscious, was drooping from the roller which held his rope-encircled wrists. One man was confronting the arrivals with an automatic. Another was standing by the winch. Snooks Milligan was at the wall, his hand upon a knob, on the point of giving an order.

"Barruci!" he exclaimed.

"Is that Cardona?" quizzed Barruci.

Milligan nodded.

"This is Jake Quellan," explained Barruci, indicating the New Yorker. "He's out here to make Cardona squawk. Has he told you anything?"

"No. Says he is looking for a spook."

Barruci was close beside Milligan.

"Cardona is after The Shadow," he said, in a low voice.

A look of surprise came over Milligan's coarse face. He motioned to the man at the winch to release pressure. Cardona's form slumped to the platform. Milligan stepped away from the wall. The Chicago gangsters watched, while the New York gunman strode forward and leaned over the form of Detective Cardona, who was still senseless.

He had shown his mettle to-night. He had borne the racking cruelty with amazing stoicism. His senses were gradually returning, but his eyes were still shut.

"You can't make him talk," growled Snooks Milligan. "He won't open his mouth—"

"Won't he?" rasped Jake Quellan's harsh voice. "I'll make him talk! I'll give you the dope on this guy. He's nervy enough, but he shies away from a rod. Flash a gun under his nose, and if he can't get away from it, he'll quit.

Quellan saw that Milligan was dubious. The New Yorker looked around the group — from Milligan to Barruci, and to the four other mobsters.

"Watch me," Quellan said. "Cardona's coming to. Watch me make him squawk—" He drew two automatics from his pockets as he leaned over the weakened detective. With one of them, Quellan roughly nudged Cardona's head backward so that the opening eyes were staring toward the ceiling. With the other gun, the New Yorker struck against the ropes that were dangling from the roller. Cardona's hands were bound, but he was free of the rack. His body slowly turned until it lay sidewise on the platform.

Stooping beside the platform, Quellan brandished one automatic close to Cardona's face. The detective's eyes opened; then closed. Rising slowly, Quellan turned toward the other mobsmen. It was Snooks Milligan who sensed what was about to happen. He caught the strange gleam in Quellan's eyes. In a flash, a complete understanding came to his startled mind.

He had no chance to utter his suspicion. He sprang forward with a sudden cry, drawing his gun. It was a futile effort. Quellan, hardly noticing Milligan's action, held his aim as well as his fire until the threatening gun had swung almost to a level. Then the New Yorker's automatic spoke. Milligan suddenly sank to the floor to avoid the shot, but it was too late. His gun rattled ahead of him. He had been shot just above the elbow.

The whole episode was a revelation to the other Chicago mobsmen. As they saw the New Yorker step back so as to protect Cardona's body — as they heard the peal of insidious laughter that rang from those firm-set lips — they knew the menace that confronted them.

The man who called himself Jake Quellan was The Shadow!

With cool indifference, this strange avenger had delayed his attack against the six enemies. The gangster at the door was his greatest danger, for that man was ready with his gun the moment that Snooks Milligan fell.

The Shadow's left arm bent before his body. Simultaneously, his right let its automatic rest upon the left fore-arm.

With precise, quickly gained aim, The Shadow pressed the trigger, and the threatening gangster slumped to the floor, his gun unfired.

Four men were coming up with their weapons. Al Barruci and his three henchmen were acting individually but simultaneously. They hurled themselves upon their enemy, and the barks of The Shadow's automatics sounded another note of doom.

There were reports on both sides now; but even at that close range, The Shadow remained unscathed. One gangster toppled before he could fire a shot. The Shadow, leaping forward, seemed to grapple with the body.

It formed a momentary bulwark against Barruci's quick fire. Then one of The Shadow's shots dropped Barruci.

A strange, short fight — unexpected in its beginning, amazing in its climax. Barruci and the man at the door lay still. Milligan and two others were writhing on the floor. The sixth gangster lay sprawled against the form of The Shadow.

Cardona, eyes wide at the sound of gunfire, saw his rescuer step aside. The leaning form of the gangster fell when the support was removed. It fell face downward on the floor. The Shadow's quick eyes were everywhere, looking for lurking danger.

Snooks Milligan was crawling helplessly away. His gun was by The Shadow's feet. Then another mobster, coughing blood, rose to his knees and made a futile dive for a weapon that lay on the floor. His effort ended in a helpless sprawl.

Realizing only that this man was a friend, Cardona tried to call a sudden warning, but the shout was no more than a vague rattle in his dry throat.

The Shadow heard, but did not receive the meaning. That was unnecessary. The quick eyes of The Shadow saw, and understood.

Snooks Milligan was raising his body against the wall. His left hand, dripping with blood from the wound, was gripping the knob against the wall. As it gained its mark, The Shadow fired. The gangster slumped forward, and lay pressed against the wall, but his dying fingers were turning, twisting at the knob.

Another shot would have meant his doom. But even in the last futile moments, the reflex action of his dying clutch could have succeeded. The Shadow did not fire again.

Turning, he dropped his automatics and stepped upon the platform, to seize the body of Joe Cardona. The platform was moving as The Shadow, with long, powerful arms, drew Cardona toward him. The Shadow's feet were on the solid floor; his body was flinging backward as the platform fell. For a split second, Cardona's body hung over a black abyss as it was being swept to safety. Then the detective struck the floor and lay there, utterly helpless.

The Shadow stooped and picked up his automatics. He looked toward the wall, and watched the form of Snooks Milligan as it swayed in convulsive gyrations. The gangster sprawled upon the floor, dead. Cardona's bonds were cut. Supported by his rescuer, the detective staggered out into the night, and was helped into the waiting car. The cool air revived him; but as his mysterious companion took the wheel, and headed back toward the city, the aftermath of the terrible strain had its effect. Cardona lay in a stupor that was only momentarily broken when he found himself being urged through the darkened lobby of his hotel.

The ringing of a telephone awakened the detective. It was broad daylight. Groggily, he answered the call. It was the clerk, telling him it was ten o'clock.

Ten o'clock! Cardona could not understand why he had been called. His mind was groping dizzily, trying to recall the dreamlike events that he had encountered the night before.

He remembered his capture dimly. The torture was a vivid recollection. Cardona's weakened, aching shoulders were a strong reminder.

But the rescue was a haze. A tall man, whose face Cardona had only glimpsed, had effected his delivery from death. Cardona awoke to the knowledge that only one man could have accomplished it — The Shadow!

Cardona spied a small package lying on the desk. With numbed fingers, he opened it. From within, he produced a bunch of violets.

A new message from The Shadow!

It was the first since Cincinnati, Cardona thought. He did not know that a warning message had gone astray the night before — a message with three brief words that would have kept him from walking into the unexpected danger which had beset him.

With fumbling fingers, the detective found the disk. It bore these words:

Cardona realized now why he had been called at ten o'clock. He could reach New York by eight to-night, if he took the noon plane from Chicago.

Hastily, the detective dressed and packed. He reached the airport in time for the plane. Still dazed, he watched the outskirts of the city drop away, and saw the broad expanse of Lake Michigan spread away into the smoky haze.

In Cardona's pockets were the notes of all the information he had gathered on this trip. Scattered facts, which had significance, yet which required more to make them complete and useful. Cardona's thoughts flew ahead of him to New York. What awaited there?

A newspaper lay beside him. Cardona looked at the front page. Then he temporarily forgot his problems. He was reading the account of a gun fight in a house on the shore of Lake Michigan. Al Barruci and Snooks Milligan, noted gangsters, had been slain. A death trap had been discovered. Two other gangsters had died in the fray. The police, brought to the spot by a mysterious telephone tip, had carried away two more who were wounded.

The news of the affair was causing consternation in gangland. The two men who lived would not talk. It was believed that a quarrel had taken place between the two gang leaders and their underlings. That was all.

Joe Cardona grinned. The account bore no reference to the surprising rescue of a captured New York detective. Nor did it mention the fact of a rescuer.

The Shadow had come and gone, leaving no trace of his mysterious, timely presence!