Chain Of Death

CHAPTER XXII THE DIVIDEND

EIGHT days had passed. Another night had come to Manhattan. The lobby of the Hotel Grammont was ablaze with light. This hostelry, for years a central spot near Broadway, never failed to attract throngs of evening visitors.

A stocky man approached the manager’s office. He flashed a badge that gave him admittance. It was Detective Joe Cardona. The star sleuth entered to find two men awaiting him. One was the manager; the other a hotel detective.

Introductions completed, Cardona stated his business. He spoke in a manner that was gruff, but speculative. Joe had come here on a doubtful errand. He did not want it to appear that he might be the victim of a hoax.

“You know what tip-offs are,” explained the ace. “We get them right along and chances are they’re phony. Just the same, if they sound like something might be doing, we play along to make sure.

“Well, I got a tip-off to-night. I was told to be in the lobby of this hotel at nine o’clock. What’s more, I was told to have a squad follow me. That’s a big order — when it comes without anything else — but there’s a reason why I took it up.”

Joe paused for emphasis. He saw doubtful looks upon the faces of the men before him; and he delivered the statement which he had planned for them.

“It was on your account that I came here,” resumed the ace. “The Grammont’s a big hotel, with lots of people going in and out. Sometimes a tip-off means that one smart crook is trying to get even with another.

“If there’s one chance in a thousand that gun business might start in this crowded lobby, it’s worth while to be ready for it. That’s why I’m staying — and there’s six plain-clothes men coming in before nine o’clock.”

The manager nodded in agreement. He saw the wisdom of protection. Cardona arose and sauntered to the lobby; the house detective followed. The time was five minutes of nine.

Joe Cardona had not stated the real reason for his prompt following of the tip-off. The ace held the hunch that business was due to-night. The call that informed Cardona of potential trouble in the Grammont lobby had come to headquarters. Over the telephone, a weird, whispered voice had delivered its instructions in a creepy monotone.

Cardona had heard that sinister voice before. He believed that he knew the identity of the caller — that was, so far as the actual identity of the personage could be traced. Joe Cardona had recognized the whisper of The Shadow.

GIRDING the Grammont lobby was a glittering balcony. Twenty private meeting rooms opened from that mezzanine. On this evening — as on nearly every other — more than half of the chambers were occupied.

In the Gold Room, where curtains of dull orange hung in clustered draperies and walls were ornamented with gilded frescoes, a group of men were gathered about a massive table. Furniture, like decorations, glistened in golden hue. The color seemed appropriate, considering the affluence of the men assembled.

All looked prosperous. There were eighteen present; seven to a side and two of each end of the long table. According to the statement which appeared on the day-board in the lobby, this was a meeting of the Aztec Mines owners. Perhaps that was why the management had designated the Gold Room for the meeting.

Aztec Mines seemed to indicate gold; and wealth was the subject of this meeting. But none of the eighteen had come to discuss treasure wrested from the earth. They were here to speak of profits gained through murderous endeavor. These were the members of Crime Incorporated.

The meeting had been set for eight forty-five. No one had been late. A man with a solemn countenance had risen at one end of the table. It was Fullis Garwald, self-appointed chairman of the meeting.

“According to the by-laws of the Aztec Mine Organization,” began Garwald, in a dry tone, “the holder of certificate number one is to preside at any meeting of this group. I am the owner of that certificate. I shall produce it in due time.

“We have come here to declare a dividend. No time was scheduled for this meeting. Our by-laws state that it could be demanded by a member who could present sufficient reason for its calling. Such reason has been given. I turn the floor over to the man who gave the word. Let him state his identity.”

A figure arose at the far end of the table. It was that of a tall individual whose bluff-faced countenance was hardened in a fixed expression. Staring steadily toward Fullis Garwald, this member announced himself:

“I am stockholder number six.”

“Your name?” questioned Garwald.

“Richard Glade.”

“Identifying members?”

Two men stood up as Garwald looked about the group. Their nods were all that the chairman pro tem required. They were the contacts of Richard Glade.

“Proceed,” ordered Garwald.

“In my message,” came the harsh voice, “I stated that danger threatened our organization. I added that the menace could be avoided by a prompt declaration of a dividend. I gave my reason: the fact that one member of our group had been slain. One, to my knowledge. Possibly more.

“My request for the appointed meeting brought back messages. We know from them that two of our chain have died. The consensus of opinion proved the value of my request.

“I call for a statement of dividends.”

“Is it agreed?” questioned Garwald, as the speaker sat down.

“Agreed,” came the reply, in unison.

GARWALD drew a folded paper from his pocket. It was his certificate: the only one that bore the title “Crime Incorporated.” It passed around the table. Members nodded as they viewed it. This certificate proved Garwald’s title. It bore authentic transfer from Barton Talbor.

“My contribution,” declared Garwald, dryly, as he regained the certificate and laid it on the table before him, “has not yet been converted into cash. It consists of rare gems now in my possession. I estimate their value as approximately a quarter million.”

Other members took their turn, to declare their contributions to the dividend fund of Crime Incorporated. Some were holding cash in large amounts. Others had appropriated trust funds. Culbert Joquill, introducing himself, announced that he had converted securities that were worth a hundred thousand dollars; and that he still held others worth three times that amount.

The statement of Richard Glade brought a buzz. Paintings worth nearly a million were stacked in an apartment, awaiting disposal through profitable channels. There were members of Crime Incorporated who could do their part in fencing art treasures.

More reports came through. Confident in their security, these rogues made little effort to veil their crimes. Every one had his share. Chalmers Blythe, who had pointed the way to crime for Culbert Joquill, had gained a full million on his own, aided in half a dozen crimes by members of Crime Incorporated.

One member did not report. Professor Langwood Devine was missing. But the crafty savant had provided for his wealth in case of death. He had informed one of his contacts, regarding the location of a cache where he had stowed the products of his evil genius. Devine’s loot was estimated at nearly half a million in cash and rare items cherished by collectors.

“Through a committee headed by myself,” announced Fullis Garwald, “our assets will be liquidated. Each stockholder will be apportioned his proper share. Some have gained more than others; all have produced, however, through the full cooperation of our organization. Therefore, we shall share alike. Are there any remarks before adjournment?”

All eyes turned to the opposite end of the table. The member who had announced himself as Richard Glade had risen. Steady words came from his lips. His face showed masklike in the gold-reflected light.

“I spoke of a menace,” was his stern pronouncement. “I shall name it. Crime Incorporated has finished its career. The menace that you face will bring destruction. I am the menace!”

WEIRD hush fell upon the room. The glittering walls, the silent draperies seemed to hold the final words. Gilded surroundings were a mockery. Strange fear crept over the seventeen who listened.

Then came the burst of a fierce, fear-provoking laugh. The rending cry was from the false lips of Richard Glade. It belied the identity of the face that startled men were facing. It was the taunting challenge of The Shadow!

With his cry of mirth, The Shadow whirled toward the draperies at the end of the room. His long hands, coming into view, were whisking automatics from deep pockets. Muzzles pointed toward the massive table as wild-eyed men leaped to their feet.

Desperate villains, some of the members of Crime incorporated had wisely armed themselves before coming to their meeting. Revolvers flashed in answer to The Shadow’s challenge. The roar of automatics preceded the revolver fire.

Aiming at rising arms, The Shadow loosed crippling shots. Hot bullets sped toward backing foemen. His outlandish laugh ringing in new mockery, The Shadow whirled as scattered shots were fired in his direction. Through the curtains at the end of the room, he found a hidden opening. The clash of a sliding door marked his departure.

Frenzied crooks were balked. They feared to follow. The Shadow had closed a barrier behind him. The shots had given the alarm. Three members of the group were clutching wounded arms; three others were slumped upon the floor.

Escape! That was their only hope. With one accord, half a dozen of the beaten crooks sprang toward the door to the mezzanine, brandishing revolvers as they took to flight.

Shots greeted them from the balcony. Cardona and his squad had heard the firing. Reinforced by house detectives, they had come up from the lobby. They fired at the armed men whom they saw coming from the Gold Room.

Wild crooks fired in return. That was proof of enmity. Police revolvers sent tuxedoed rats rolling on the carpeted mezzanine. Trapped, the members of Crime Incorporated sprang back into the Gold Room. One man — Culbert Joquill — tried to close the heavy door to form a barricade.

A SHOT staggered the crooked lawyer. It came from the curtains at the end of the room. Fullis Garwald was the first to turn in that direction. He was the first to see the menace that had returned.

The Shadow was standing by the opened doorway. No longer did he display the guise of dead Richard Glade. He was garbed in cloak and hat of black. His blazing eyes, keen above leveled automatics, spelled doom to Crime Incorporated.

Garwald aimed, hoping to clear the way for escape through the end door. An automatic answered. The crooked successor of Barton Talbor fell coughing to the floor. The others preferred to meet the law. Head on, the surging members of the crime chain leaped for Joe Cardona and his men who had reached the door of the Gold Room in a body.

Unmasked crooks sought no quarter. They fought to kill. Those who had no guns were wielding chairs while their fellows pressed revolver triggers. It was an equal fray; one that would have broken the police attack, but for the enfilading fire that broke from beyond the curtains.

Clipping shots from The Shadow’s automatics dropped aiming gun arms. Bullets intended for Cardona and his men were never fired. Aided by The Shadow’s heavy fire, the men of the law came surging through. The door clanged beyond the curtains as members of Crime Incorporated went staggering backward through the room, sprawling across gilded chairs, staining tufted carpeting of orange with their crimson life blood.

Amid the hollow silence of a blue-draped room, The Shadow’s laugh sounded its parting knell. Crossing this empty chamber, The Shadow reached the further door. He entered another unoccupied apartment that had curtains of a different hue. From then on, his silent course faded.

IT was Clyde Burke who heard Joe Cardona’s version of the fray at the Hotel Grammont. At headquarters, the next morning, the detective recounted the discovery that had followed the annihilation of Crime Incorporated.

“We’ve got the full details of the meeting,” declared Cardona. “The guy that tipped us off — we don’t know who it was — sure pulled a complete job. The place was wired with a dictograph.

“Up on the floor above, two stenographers were taking notes. Do you know who was with them — who hired them? I’ll tell you. Howard Norwyn!

“He’d been hiding somewhere. He got word from an unknown friend to be on deck. From the reports, it appears that a guy named Richard Glade double-crossed the rest of the crew. It was when he told them ‘I am the menace’ that Glade cut off the connection, acting on instructions from his friend.”

“What became of Glade?” inquired Clyde.

“We don’t know,” responded Cardona. “He’s the only one of the lot that got away. But we located his apartment. We landed those pictures that belong to the British Syndicate.

“Looks like Glade crossed himself, as well as the others. I can’t figure it. But the important part is the way we’re tracing the stolen stuff. We’ve landed Gaston Ferrar’s jewels. We’ll have everything else in a week, I’ll bet. What’s more, we’ve got Garry Hewes.”

“Garry Hewes?”

“Yes. The real murderer of George Hobston. One of the crime crew was Culbert Joquill — lawyer with offices in the Zenith Building. We found a secret room in his place. Guess he didn’t trust his own workers, for he had a statement there about Garry Hewes, with the guy’s address. It was hidden with cash, and bonds of Hobston’s.

“We trapped Hewes in his hotel room. He put up a fight; he got the worst of it. Confessed the murder while he was dying in the hospital. We knew Howard Norwyn was all right anyway, after he showed up with his dictograph reports, but the confession that Hewes made cleared Norwyn from all suspicion.

“And it all started from a tip-off,” said Clyde, as he turned to leave the office. “Who gave it to you. Joe?”

“I don’t know,” asserted the detective, staring straight at the reporter.

Clyde Burke was smiling when he reached the street. He knew that Joe Cardona had wisely refrained from stating the source from which the word had come.

For Joe Cardona knew the power of The Shadow. He knew that The Shadow preferred to shroud his work in darkness. He knew that the master sleuth would aid him in the future, so long as his mighty hand could remain unknown.

Detective Joe Cardona, like the agents of The Shadow, knew the true being who had wiped out Crime Incorporated. Yet even they did not know the full details of the master fighter’s war against that evil chain.

That record, hidden like The Shadow himself, belonged within the black walls of the secret sanctum. The facts concerning Crime Incorporated were preserved for the archives of The Shadow.

There, upon a single page of a massive tome was the heading, “Crime Incorporated.” Beneath it, the dividend for which The Shadow had called, its full sum totaled in a single word:

“DEATH.”