The Mobsmen On The Spot

CHAPTER III A STRANGE MEETING

THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron’s little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.

He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly seated himself and lighted a cigarette.

The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to Tim Waldron’s headquarters.

He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.

His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the gangster.

Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.

It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York’s underworld. Eight years is a long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!

As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.

When he had flicked the final cigarette into a bowl that served as an ash tray, Marsland noted the clock on the table. He had been waiting ten minutes. He arose and glanced at the half-opened door that led to the inner room. He stepped over and tapped on the door. Hearing no response, he entered. He stopped short the moment that he stepped through the doorway. Neither surprise nor confusion were registered upon his firm features. Marsland merely stood motionless as he stared at the form of Tim Waldron, with its crazily spread arms.

Marsland’s eyes were focused on that one spot in the room. He walked forward and examined the body with the cold precision of a man to whom death is no stranger.

He picked up the automatic that lay on the table. He examined the weapon in a matter-of-fact manner, then replaced it upon the table.

A low sound came from the end of the room. Marsland turned without haste.

Once more he stood motionless. In the corner of the room, at a spot where the light was obscure, stood a tall man clad in black. He formed a strange, imposing figure, with a huge cloak over his shoulders. His broad-brimmed hat, turned down in front, shrouded his face in shadow.

The only color that showed amidst this mass of black was a splotch of red, where the lining of the cloak was folded back. The crimson hue of the lining rivaled the blood that covered the desk where Tim Waldron’s body lay.

CLIFF MARSLAND made no move. He did not even attempt to reach for the gun that lay on the desk. He studied the man in black with a steady glance.

For a few moments neither moved. Then Marsland calmly slipped his hand into his left coat pocket. He drew forth a cigarette, and lighted it.

A low, chuckling laugh came from the man in the corner. For the first time, Marsland was startled. The match dropped from his fingers.

He suddenly regained his composure and stepped upon the lighted match.

The man in black stepped from the corner. He extended an arm and waved a black-gloved hand in the direction of a chair. Marsland sat down. He still puffed his cigarette, but a puzzled expression had appeared upon his face.

The puzzlement was mingled with awe. He began to feel uneasy. He could see no face beneath that broad-brimmed hat — only the glint of two eyes that seemed to fathom everything.

“You are Cliff Marsland,” spoke a whispered voice.

Marsland nodded.

“Why did you come here?” asked the man in black.

Marsland pointed his thumb toward the body of Tim Waldron.

“To see him,” he said tersely.

“For what purpose?” came the question.

Marsland shrugged his shoulders.

A low laugh came from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Even to Marsland, the laugh was chilling. He shifted uneasily and stared narrowly at his inquisitor.

“Cliff Marsland!” said the whispered voice. “That was not your name — fourteen years ago — when you were overseas—”

Marsland stared incredulously as the voice trailed away. He moved slightly in his chair, seeking to gain a new angle from which to view the man in black. He was unsuccessful.

“Perhaps,” said the voice, “you remember the village of Esternay, in the Spring of ‘18 or, perhaps, that trip to Monte Carlo, three weeks after the Armistice? Do you recall Blanton, the Frenchman—”

Marsland half rose from his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his face suddenly tense, his body rigid with suppressed excitement.

“Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely. “Who are you?”

A low, whispered laugh was the only response. Its sibilant sound seemed to come from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling — as if the room itself were taunting the listener. Marsland sank back in his chair.

“Like yourself,” came the low voice, “I am a man whose name has been forgotten. We shall speak no more of years gone by. You are now Clifford Marsland. I am” — the voice halted impressively — “The Shadow!”

“The Shadow!” echoed Marsland.

“Yes! You have never met me in my present guise. For I began my new career while you were in—”

“Sing Sing,” supplied Marsland.

“In Sing Sing,” said The Shadow. “There — for a robbery you did not commit!”

CLIFF MARSLAND raised his head in sudden surprise.

“How do you know that?” he questioned. “I made no defense. I never denied it — I never—”

The low voice of The Shadow interrupted him.

“The fact that I know is sufficient,” came in his even tones. “Nor is that all I know.

“There was another crime a greater one — a murder — which has also been attributed to you. Not by the police, for they do not know; but by the underworld, whose secrets belong to The Shadow!”

Marsland nodded, still staring at the man in black.

“You came here,” said The Shadow, “because you were summoned. Tim Waldron knew your secret. He used it as a threat over your head. He believed you to be a murderer as well as a convicted robber.

“He did not know what I know — that you bore one crime for the sake of another man; that you would also accept the other if it should be blamed upon you!”

The man in the chair moved restlessly. These revelations were uncanny. He stared at the man in black; then gazed toward the figure sprawled upon the desk. It became his turn to question.

“You did — that?” he asked, pointing toward Waldron.

“No,” replied The Shadow. “It was intended for you! It was the irony of fate, Clifford Marsland, that another crime should be planned so that it might be laid to you.

“Once again, you are a murderer — by proxy!”

Marsland gazed hopelessly at the form of Waldron.

“You came here” — the voice of The Shadow seemed far away to the listener — “reconciled to a life of crime. You were ready to do Waldron’s bidding — to cast in your lot with criminals, for you had been branded as one.

“You are bitter because of the past. You are willing to accept any future, if it brings you gain. So I offer you — a future!”

“Like the one Waldron had for me?”

“No! Not for the cause of crime!”

“For the cause of justice, then?” Marsland laughed bitterly. “For justice? I would prefer crime!”

“For neither crime nor justice!” came the low voice. “Your future lies in the cause of The Shadow! To do my bidding will be your one task. Do you accept?”

A strange light gleamed in Clifford Marsland’s eyes as he turned his gaze upon the man in black. The room and its surroundings seemed unreal.

Beside him, the body of a murdered man; before him, a mysterious figure that possessed amazing knowledge.

It captured his imagination. Clifford Marsland could make but one reply.

“I accept!” he said.

“You promise full obedience?”

“I promise full obedience!”

“With no conditions?”

“With no conditions!”

THERE was silence while the import of his words impressed themselves on Clifford Marsland’s brain. He realized now the strangeness of his position.

He had become a figure in gangdom, due to his incarceration in Sing Sing for a daring robbery which had been attributed to him. He was believed to be a murderer. He was known in the underworld. He had come here tonight in answer to a summons.

A sudden light dawned upon him. When he left, his reputation would be even greater! Even as the thought occurred to Cliff Marsland, The Shadow spoke.

“A man lies murdered in this room,” came the sinister tones of the being in black. “He was a notorious racketeer — a man with few friends, but with a wide reputation for his deeds.

“The killer of Tim Waldron will gain great fame in the underworld. But only two men — besides the killer himself — will know the identity of the murderer! You are one; I am the other!

“To the underworld, the slayer of Tim Waldron will be Cliff Marsland — the only person who is supposed to have visited this room tonight. We shall let that rumor spread.

“But listen closely, Clifford Marsland, while I speak the name of the real murderer — Ernie Shires! When he killed Waldron, he planned your death, for he knew that you were coming here, and that the crime would be laid to you.

“Remember the name of Ernie Shires! When the time comes, you will have your turn. You will lay open the path that will lead to the doom of Ernie Shires!”

Cliff Marsland’s lips tightened grimly. He understood The Shadow’s meaning. This was Marsland’s own idea of retribution — it had been molded in him years before, when he had battled overseas; it had been hardened by the years of imprisonment that he had undergone.

“It is not your task to kill,” continued The Shadow. “That will remain for others. It is your task to wait — and to obey.

“When you leave here, double back to the street above the hotel. You will see a sedan awaiting you, at the entrance of the first alley. Enter it and go where you are instructed. You will have work to do.

“But now our time is short. Ernie Shires left this place unmolested because his presence was unknown. Your case is different. You have been watched from the moment you entered this hotel.

“Outside, in the hallway, men are waiting — the same men who observed you in the lobby. Fight your way through them! Go down the stairs beside the elevator. Escape by the street. Are you ready?”

Marsland grinned grimly. He nodded, tense with anticipation of the adventure that lay ahead.

“Pick up that gun!” ordered The Shadow, pointing to the table.

Marsland obeyed.

“Remember” — The Shadow’s voice was a hissing tone — “you are an escaping killer! Five seconds more, and you have no other choice! Wait there — by the doorway to the outer room.”

A black-gloved hand came from beneath the crimson-lined cloak. An automatic appeared in The Shadow’s hand.

With his revolver aimed through an opening beside the window shade, the man in black fired two quick shots. Then, with a sweeping motion, he swung across the room and extinguished the light.

CLIFF MARSLAND understood. The two shots were for the benefit of the watchers in the hallway. They were the reports that would be considered as the shots that had killed Tim Waldron.

Even as these thoughts flashed through Marsland’s keen brain, the door of the outer room was flung open, and three men dashed into the apartment. Quick as a flash, Marsland ducked behind the door and swung his arm toward the onrushing avengers.

Two shots rang from his automatic. One of the men dropped. The second swung by the falling body. A ferret-eyed gunman spotted Marsland, crouching. With a cry of vengeance, the gangster aimed his automatic. Marsland saw the danger an instant too late.

Then, while Cliff remained a perfect target for the gunman’s aim, two shots came from the darkness of the inner room.

The Shadow, ever watchful, had met the need! Marsland’s enemy fell.

The third man was at the doorway. Cliff leaped upon him as he entered the darkness. A quick swing of the arm that held the automatic, and the third of Waldron’s gorillas fell.

Cliff looked quickly over his shoulder, seeking The Shadow. The man in black had completely disappeared. Only the light-colored window shade was rustling in the darkness.

Where was The Shadow?

This was no time to wonder. Cliff remembered his instructions.

He dashed across the outer room. As he reached the door, he instinctively stopped. He was just in time. The muzzle of an automatic threatened as a fourth gunman leaped from cover. Shots rang out simultaneously.

Cliff staggered in pain as he received a bullet in his shoulder. But his own fire had not missed its mark. The other man was down.

Cliff pulled the light switch in the outer room and swung his body against the wall. It was a wise move, for a fifth man had just appeared in the hallway.

The crippled men in the inner room were firing now shooting blindly in the darkness, toward the open door of the outer room. The newcomer was not visible to them. He leaped through the outer doorway blindly, and fell a victim to the gunfire of his comrades.

Crouching low, Cliff sprang across the body and dashed toward the stairs.

All was well until he arrived in the lobby. There he staggered as the lighted place seemed to whirl. He saw men there; he did not wait to decide whether they were gunmen or merely guests of the hotel. He fired two shots and saw the men scurry, like rats, for cover.

He dashed for the door, firing another shot as he went. Answering reports came from the desk behind him. The clerk tried to stop his flight; but the shots went wide.

FOR an instant, Cliff staggered as he reached the street. He was momentarily confused, not knowing which way to turn. Then the cool air revived him.

He turned parallel with the elevated line, and dashed along the sidewalk. A man rushed in to block his path, but cringed and dropped away as Cliff swung his automatic. Shots came from the front of the hotel, while the corner was still yards away.

Cliff nearly slipped as he caught a thick lamp-post and turned to fire his remaining bullets at his pursuers. He saw the men leap wildly for cover. Then he began a last dash for his goal.

The pursuers made one last attempt at long-range, as Cliff reached the corner. A bullet ricocheted from the sidewalk and struck him in the leg.

He stumbled and fell; then crawled quickly beyond the corner and pulled himself to his feet, clutching the side of a building with his right hand.

He saw the car ahead of him, waiting by the entrance to the alley. He stumbled onward, wondering if he could reach it. His feet seemed incapable of action. He slipped and plunged forward, clutching against the wall of the building beside him.

Some one caught him as he fell.

To Cliff’s excited mind, it seemed as though a mass of darkness had come to life. Then powerful arms virtually lifted him the last few yards, and he was thrust through the open door of the car.

He knew then The Shadow had saved him. Somehow he understood it all — the strange disappearance and the rustling of the window shade in Tim Waldron’s room.

The Shadow had come and gone up and down the wall on the outside of the building! Above the black alley, he had crawled, a human fly, along the surface of projecting bricks!

When he had fired the shots that downed the menacing gangster, he had left the room by his own exit — through the window — to await Cliff’s arrival at the sedan!

Thoughts turned to confusion in Clifford Marsland’s mind. He knew that the car was moving, pulling away from the curb, traveling faster now. There were shots somewhere behind — far behind. The pursuers were being outdistanced.

Cliff’s leg pained him. His shoulder was helpless. He was weak and fainting. The episodes that had just passed were becoming hazy.

Cliff’s head dropped backward. It bumped above the cushion of the rear seat. He opened his eyes and fancied that he saw a black form looming above him, with two shining spots that glowed like the piercing eyes of The Shadow.

Then his own eyes closed, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.