The Mobsmen On The Spot

CHAPTER XVII THE THEATER TRAGEDY

THE Tuesday morning newspapers carried sensational stories of the fight at the Brooklyn dock. The conflict had continued between the rival factions, who sought revenge for their fallen leaders. Police intervention had followed. Arrests had been made.

The results, as reported in the evening journals, would be disastrous for the racketeering that so long had cankered New York’s water front.

With Bart Hennesy and Hoke Larrigan dead; with neither Spunk Hogan nor Big Ben Hargins to gather up the reins that had been dropped, there was no one to fix matters with the authorities.

It was rumored that Hoke Larrigan had been backed by some big shot who had been using him to gain control of the docks; but with the chaos that now reigned, this hidden personage was afraid to reveal his hand.

The executives of steamship lines had long tolerated the presence of the public loaders on their piers, simply because they did not desire trouble with union laborers who might have an unofficial alliance with the dock wallopers.

Now, with the racket broken, announcements were being made that the most important lines would no longer allow the old condition to commence again. Union leaders denied any connection with the dead czars of the docks.

New York’s most notorious racket had been killed in a single night!

Cliff Marsland read the newspaper items with avid interest. He knew who had produced the fatal blow. The Shadow, prepared for the opportunity, had been on hand to bring confusion to the intended reign of Hoke Larrigan!

It was true that Nipper Brady had fired the shots that had caused the great fray; but it was through The Shadow’s planning that the little gangster had been present. Furthermore, Cliff was positive, The Shadow would have started things himself had not Nipper unwittingly anticipated him.

There was a mention of the trucks that took part in the battle; but no one could give the identity of the men who had manned them. They were accepted by the newspapers as part of the plan of battle. It was assumed that they had contained reinforcements of dock wallopers.

Hoke Larrigan was dead. His story could never be learned. Bart Hennesy was dead. He could not mention his secret feud with Killer Durgan.

Killer Durgan! There was a new mystery.

Durgan had disappeared. He had been seen in Larchmont Court at midnight, shortly before Cliff had returned to the apartment hotel. Durgan had left with Madge. There was no clew to their destination.

Cliff tried to picture the scene in Durgan’s apartment, when Mike Wharton had been talking with Durgan over the telephone. Durgan must have told the girl that her man had been killed. He would know now that he was wrong — for an item in the morning paper had told of the garage manager’s sudden death.

It was probable that Durgan had kept the news from Madge. So the girl was somewhere, hopelessly in Killer Durgan’s power.

The thought was not heartening to Cliff. He felt that he owed much to Madge; at the same time, he had a hunch that she would find an opportunity to communicate with him.

RACKETS were the topic of the day. The warehouse racket had been smashed. The garage racket had come to a sudden end. Now the dock racket was doomed.

Along with these, smaller rackets had collapsed; and in almost every case, some mysterious, unknown cause seemed present.

But while the newspapers gloated and editorials urged the police to action, no mention was made of a newer and greater racket that was striving to enfold a great business within its slimy meshes!

For Howard Griscom and George Ballantyne were persisting in their refusal to meet the demands of the theater racketeers.

Maurice Belden, the suave representative of the Theater Owners Cooperative Association, still continued his visits to Griscom’s office. He made no effort toward high-pressure salesmanship. He merely spoke of the advantages that his association offered.

There was no way to link him up with the disturbances that had occurred in the theaters controlled by Griscom and Ballantyne.

Since the detection of Steve Marschik and his loaded package of cigarettes, there had been no trouble at the Paladrome Theater. The detectives spent their time in and out of the lobby.

George Ballantyne, when he was not at other theaters, made his headquarters in the office of the Paladrome. He was there on Monday. He did not arrive again until late Tuesday afternoon. He opened the door with his own key.

While he was in the office, Babson, the house manager, entered. He opened a closet and removed his hat and coat.

“Raining a bit,” he remarked.

Ballantyne nodded. His own hat and coat were lying on a chair. He went on writing a letter.

“Don’t latch the door when you go out,” said Babson. “An usher is coming in with some packages. He’ll latch it. Have you seen the picture?”

“Saw it yesterday.”

“A great thriller. That shooting scene gets them. Realistic stuff. The supper show goes on pretty soon.”

With that, Babson left. He stopped to speak to the usher who stood at the back of the theater, to remind him of the packages.

“Take them in when they come,” he said. “Latch the door when you leave — unless Mr. Ballantyne is there. No; latch it anyway. He won’t want to be disturbed.”

About twenty minutes later, the usher saw Ballantyne walking from the office. He did not have his hat and coat. He was carrying a letter which he evidently intended to mail.

Ten minutes went by. The packages arrived. The usher took them into the office and left them in a corner. He hesitated at the door.

He had noticed Ballantyne’s hat and coat on the chair. Probably the executive had gone out for supper. He would be coming back. Ballantyne had a key, the usher knew, so he latched the door.

He went toward the lobby and saw Ballantyne come in a short time afterward. Ballantyne was headed for the office.

THE feature picture was on at the time. It was a Western subject that reached its climax in a barroom scene where shots were exchanged.

The usher grinned when he saw the two detectives come in from the lobby. They liked that scene, and were here to see it again. They leaned over the rail behind the back row, and awaited the dramatic moments.

The usher, too, was interested. He stood close by. The sound effects were good in this feature.

Now it came. The screen actors were in view, amidst the hubbub of a Western building that combined barroom and dance floor.

“Get these shots, Bill,” said one of the detectives, in a low voice. “Sounds like they’re coming right out of the picture. Real, I call it.”

A Mexican was seizing one of the dance-hall girls. The scene showed the entire length of the barroom.

A lone cowboy drew a revolver and fired. The Mexican staggered, gripping his wrist. Two of his countrymen rose from a table. They drew their revolvers, in time to receive the fury of the cowboy’s fire.

There were five shots in rapid succession; a slight pause; then two more. Finally, a last shot. That was all. One of the detectives looked around him curiously.

“Say,” he said, “that’s funny. Did you get that? One shot sounded kind of muffledlike — it didn’t seem to come from the screen. Sounded like it was somewhere in the theater.”

“You can’t tell where they come from, Joe,” replied the other. “It all depends on where you’re standing. That’s what makes the act sound so good.”

The first detective saw the usher and beckoned to him.

“Did that one shot sound funny to you?” questioned Joe, the detective.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know which one — it was when those Mexicans were shooting. There were five shots.”

The usher scratched his head.

“I wasn’t noticing close,” he said. “There should be only four. First one Mex fires; then the other; then the cowboy shoots twice. That’s the way it goes. Four shots.”

“The cowboy must have fired three this afternoon,” said the second detective jocularly. “Guess he figured two wasn’t enough. Eh, Joe?

“If I was him, I’d have given them the works. Well, come on. We belong out in the lobby.”

NOT long after the two detectives had gone, Howard Griscom entered the theater with Babson, the manager. The latter stopped to speak to the usher.

“You got those packages all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come along with me, while we go in the office. Is Mr. Ballantyne still there?”

“He went out and came back, sir. I didn’t see him go out again.”

Babson stopped at the door. He knocked. Receiving no response, he unlocked the door. He entered, then recoiled against Griscom.

Beside the desk lay the body of George Ballantyne, a gaping wound in his forehead! The man had been shot at close range. A single bullet had ended his life!

Howard Griscom was aghast. The meaning of this tragedy gripped his brain.

George Ballantyne, chief opposer of the theater racket, had been killed in cold blood!

The usher had gone for the detectives. They arrived to find Griscom and Babson examining the body of the murdered man. The detectives stood aghast. Then Joe spoke solemnly.

“The fifth shot!” were his words. “I heard it! The fifth shot was fired — in here!”