Atoms of Death

CHAPTER XVI CRIME STRIKES AGAIN

IT was early the next evening. A dampening drizzle was producing haze about Manhattan’s lights. On intermediate avenues, where traffic was not heavy, darkened spaces were prevalent between the spots where street lamps glowed.

A patrolman, following his beat, paused to study a huge mansion that stood surrounded by a high brick wall. He noted lights from the upper floors; satisfied, he resumed his pace. This old building, relic of a once fashionable neighborhood, was the residence of Montague Reisert, elderly multimillionaire.

The man on the beat was not alone in his careful scrutiny of the large residence. A patrol car, coming up a side street, rolled slowly by while its occupants took front view of the building’s perspective. Observation of the Reisert home was definite routine duty on the part of the police.

As long as all was well outside, the law was satisfied. The millionaire’s home was a veritable fortress, garrisoned by a dozen servants. It would take a healthy mob invasion to make a dent in the portals of that mammoth building.

At the same time, Reisert’s residence was known to contain a mass of wealth. It housed art galleries, curio rooms and furnishings of incredible value. Beneath the buildings were vaults that contained treasures that were neither on display nor in use.

One of old Reisert’s hobbies had been the collection of solid gold tableware. This penchant had cost him a fortune, despite the fact that the millionaire was a shrewd bargain hunter. Some thirty-odd years ago, he had purchased gold table sets that had been carried from a Peking palace during the Boxer insurrection.

A few decades later, he had acquired similar items that had been the property of the Czar of Russia. When kings had abdicated in Europe, when members of the nobility had found themselves in straitened circumstances, Reisert had stepped in with ready cash to buy their plate.

Reisert had acquired most of his treasures at little more than the actual value of their gold content. Some for less, for in certain cases he had made purchases from doubtful owners; in other instances, he had accepted valuable items as pledges for loans that the recipients had been unable to repay.

But except on special occasions, when he gave receptions for wealthy guests, the old millionaire kept his golden possessions buried away in the deepest of the formidable vaults beneath his home.

THE cop kept along his beat. He passed the end of a row of houses, tawdry buildings that fronted on the street in back of Reisert’s mansion. Glancing down this thoroughfare, the patrolman spied a small truck parked at an angle from the curb.

Two men were arguing as they jacked up a rear wheel of the vehicle. The policeman could see them in the light from the tail-lamp. Walking in that direction, he noted that the truck was old and empty; it carried New Jersey license plates.

“What’s the idea?” growled the cop. “Obstructin’ traffic, eh? How long are you goin’ to keep this wagon stalled here?”

“Sorry, officer,” replied one of the truckmen, rising in the darkness. “We’ve got a flat and no spare. We’re yanking off the tire so my helper here can take it over to a garage and have it fixed.”

“Yeah?” queried the patrolman. “And you’re keepin’ this junk of yours halfway in the middle of the street? For an hour or two? Nothin’ doin’, friend. You’re movin’ along!”

“It’s the only tire we’ve got, officer. We can’t afford to cut it up—”

“Maybe not. But you’re not parkin’ here, nor on the aveynoo, either.”

While the truck driver mumbled to himself, a newcomer arrived. The light of a street lamp showed a stocky man who was wearing an oilskin slicker. The arrival had heard the last words of the conversation.

“You don’t have to worry about the tire, you guys,” informed the man in the slicker. “I’ll help you out and all it’ll cost you will be two bits.”

“Who’re you?” quizzed the officer.

“I’m the night man for that parking lot that Bill Morey is running,” was the reply. “He just put me on the job tonight. You’re name’s Henderson, ain’t it?”

“Yeah?”

“Morey told me you’d be on this beat. Said to say hello for him.”

“So Morey’s figurin’ on pickin’ up some night business again, huh? Well, it ain’t a bad idea. Got any other customers yet?”

“Only a couple. But Morey said I ought to be able to tag a bunch of cars along this street.”

“Morey’s a good talker. What’s he doin’ — havin’ you work on a percentage?”

“Yeah. Fifty-fifty.”

“I thought so.”

The patrolman was laughing to himself. Meanwhile, the truck men had decided that it was worth a quarter to use the parking lot. They pulled the jack from under the rear wheel and the parking lot attendant guided them to a space between two buildings, twenty yards ahead.

The patrolman followed. He watched the crippled truck limp crosswise, in order to back into the narrow lot. Then, hearing a motor coming from the avenue, he turned around to see the patrol car.

“What’s up?” came a query.

Henderson strolled over to explain. While he stood with one elbow on the window of the patrol car, the truck limped back into the parking lot. The attendant followed, his figure barely discernible in the feeble light of the truck’s poor lamps.

The patrol car rolled along. Its occupants glanced into the parking lot as they went by. They saw two cars parked at one side; they noticed the dull lights of the truck, with steam rising from the radiator, to mingle with the mist.

WHEN Henderson paced by, the lights of the truck blinked out. Then a flashlight appeared by the crippled rear wheel. The cop continued along his beat. Immediately, whispers began. The chief truck driver was talking.

“All right, Digger” — Matt Theblaw’s voice was no longer disguised — “get the boxes out so we can set up. All clear into the cellar of the old house, Bevo?”

“Bevo” was the man in charge of the parking lot. A member of the gang, he had framed the story that he had given the cop. His voice came in an affirmative grunt.

“When the touring car shows up,” ordered Matt, “flag it in here and chase the boys along. And all the while, Bevo, you stick out by the street, like you were flagging other cars. That will kid the harness bull, if he comes by again.”

Another grunt from Bevo.

“Louis won’t be driving the touring car,” added Matt. “Pike is bringing the bunch. Tell him to stick around, after you park his car alongside those others. Kid the real customers when they come around.

“And another thing. Have Pike ditch those Jersey license plates off this truck. I knew the harness bull would spot them. Pike can stick on the Pennsy plates instead. They’re under the front seat.”

Joining Digger at the rear of the truck, Matt aided with the hoisting of two boxes. Straight behind the truck was the broken entrance to the cellar of an old house. Taking the boxes downward, the two crooks used a flashlight when they reached the cellar.

Together, they produced the shallow, five-foot bowl of Professor Jark’s disintegrating ray machine. Mounting it on a semicircular base, they carried it to the front of the cellar, where a niche past the furnace afforded an excellent starting point.

Matt used a flashlight to find the switch of the house current. He attached a wire to a plug. On came the juice. The bowl of the ray machine began to flicker. Digger pressed its mouth squarely against the wall. Bricks and mortar began to melt away.

“It’s working swell tonight,” growled Matt, as he pushed the sliding base forward. “Look at it take away that first foot. Warming up, too. Say, the prof sure stepped up the power since that last job.”

“I’ll say he did,” chuckled Digger. “Wait’ll we tell his nibs about the way it’s bitin’. I’ll bet he’ll get a kick.”

“Maybe; maybe not. He’s still goofy over that long-range gun of his. He might just as well be, since we’re handling this work. It’s good for us, though.”

“How do you figure that, Matt? That gun stunt ain’t goin’ to work. An’ if it does, how’ll we use it?”

“We’re getting the benefit of it right now. The improved coils that the prof fixed for his gun were just the ticket for this machine. I had him put a set of them in the disintegrator. That’s why it’s moving so fast.”

Already, the machine had eaten so deep a hole that Matt was crawling in to keep it going forward. Digger, crawling after, kept up conversation while they worked.

“LOUIE’S seein’ Cully?” questioned the dynamiter.

“Sure,” replied Matt. “Luke’s staging the stunt; but Cully’s covering. This is one job we don’t need any cover up for, So it leaves Cully loose.”

“And we’ll have him waitin’ after tonight, until we pull other jobs.”

“Other jobs nothing. We’re through with this business after we clean out Reisert’s vault. When we land Marsland, we’ll have a line on The Shadow. Luke’s going to be with us from now on; between him and me, we’ll figure a way to get The Shadow after Marsland talks.”

“Goin’ to put the heat on Marsland in a hurry?”

“We’ll take our time, maybe. It all depends. But I’ve got other ideas, Digger. I think the prof will like them. We’ll be close to a million, after we make this haul.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, but not enough. But it fixes us so we can lay off New York.”

“And hit around the country?”

“No. Take a trip abroad. The prof was suggesting that we ought to make another move. Maybe he’s right. We could go to London, for instance, live swell, and figure how we could take a crack at some joint like the Bank of England.”

“But the prof’s goin’ to be missed. And Baird—”

“That’s just it. If the prof writes Tellert from England, saying he’s quit inventing, and sending dough to pay off the investors with a profit, that whole business can be settled nice, without anybody getting wise. See the idea?”

“But won’t Tellert have to say the prof is phony?”

“Why? He’s got a reputation, hasn’t he? He’d be acting dumb to shoot it, wouldn’t he? It’s the natural way out for him as a promoter. He’ll tell his clients that the prof is where he can’t be reached. An unproven swindle, with money returned, won’t allow a chance for extradition. What Tellert will do will be to talk things over with his clients. They’ll all be glad to get better than an even break when they realize how eccentric the prof has been.”

“What about the sawbones?”

“Baird? The prof can handle him. You remember how we listened in while they talked.”

“The prof sure handed out the soft soap.”

“The old boy’s sure been warmin’ up as we go along. I thought he was kind of goofy at first, when he began spillin’ his ideas. But the way he’s stepped up is somethin’ nifty.”

“I’ll say it is! Look at this new baby burn!”

THE improved ray machine had been going steadily onward; Matt and Digger had followed it well beneath the street. They were more than halfway to their goal — the rear of Montague Reisert’s mansion.

Digger crawled back through the hole. He was gone for a dozen minutes. When he returned, it was with the news that Pike’s men had arrived. These were all members of the gang that was hiding out with Matt and Digger at Professor Jark’s new headquarters.

Matt told Digger to stand by. A few more minutes passed. The glow from the machine began to widen, forming an aura around the edges. Matt clicked off the switch. Waiting a few moments, he turned the machine edgewise and flashed a torch.

They had reached Reisert’s lowest vault. Locked cabinets showed where the swag was housed. Matt entered. Breaking a lock, he opened a cabinet to reveal stacks of golden dishes that looked like mammoth coins. Matt blinked the light through the tunnel.

Digger and the helpers came through the shaft. Sacks were laid flat on the floor. Mobsters set to work on each cabinet that Matt cracked. Spoils, literally worth their weight in gold, were passing into the hands of these lawless raiders.

The rifling required fifteen minutes. Matt, the last to leave, passed Digger in the cellar of the old house. The little crook had brought in new boxes from the truck, handling them gingerly. He was ready to set the charges.

Outside, Matt found the golden harvest stored in the truck that now had Pennsylvania license plates. He took two mobsters aboard; the rest joined Pike in the car that was to serve as rear guard. Matt waited at the wheel of the truck until Digger joined him.

The truck rolled away at a signal from Bevo on the sidewalk. The patrolman, Henderson, had passed ten minutes before, suspecting nothing. At the corner of the avenue, Matt blinked the tail-light. Bevo gave a signal to Pike. The car — a sedan — rolled out to the street and Bevo sprang aboard.

A dozen minutes later, the loaded truck was chugging through upper Manhattan. A hidden spare tire had been fitted on the rear wheel during the stay at the parking lot. That had been Pike’s job. The old dilapidated vehicle was actually much more powerful than its appearance indicated.

Digger’s time-fuse was a slow one tonight. There was no need for rapid results, since a cover-up crew was absent. The blast was due to go an hour after the crooks had made their get-away. Then the police would have a new dynamite mystery on their hands.

Matt Theblaw was chuckling at the wheel of the truck. But the tall crook was not thinking about the coming explosion. He was considering events that were due to happen elsewhere.

For, as a climax to successful robbery, another important piece of business was in the making. Luke Cardiff was due to spring a fast one that would leave The Shadow guessing.