Crime Circus

CHAPTER I THE SHADOW’S SEARCH

“SO Dombo Carlin is still in town, eh?”

The questioner was a stocky, swarthy-faced man. He was seated behind a battered desk in a small office. Detective Joe Cardona — at present an acting inspector — was quizzing a pasty-faced, rat-eyed little fellow who sat in front of him.

“Yeah. Dombo’s in town.” The little man whined the statement. “But don’t let nobody wise that I told you, Joe. They’d croak me — honest they would.”

“You’re safe, Dowdy,” growled Cardona, impatiently. “We pulled in fifty others like you with the dragnet. Nobody will know who talked. That is” — Cardona’s gaze narrowed — “nobody will know anything if you tell me all you know.”

“I’m tellin’ you, Joe,” pleaded “Dowdy” earnestly. “Honest, I am. I seen Dombo Carlin aroun’ at a coupla of the joints. He was smart enough to dodge the net, that’s all. He an’ those three gorillas that are stickin’ wid him.”

“And you think we could grab him tonight?”

“Sure. But don’t use the net. He’s too wise for that, Joe. But don’t ask me to go with you. I ain’t no stoolie.”

“You’ll stay here” — Cardona eyed the little man steadily — “until after we’ve checked up on what you’ve told me. If you’ve been handing us a stall, Dowdy, it won’t be good for you.”

“I ain’t been stallin’, Joe—”

The rat-faced speaker stopped suddenly. He was staring at the detective across the battered desk, where the scratched woodwork showed the dull reflection of the ceiling light above. Into the sphere of light had come a shade of fleeting blackness. It was like the passage of a cloud in front of a brilliant sun.

Dowdy turned nervously. A man had entered the office.

TALL, stoop-shouldered, the intruder bore a dull face as pasty as Dowdy’s own. The man was clad in old clothes. He was carrying a mop and bucket.

Dowdy stared; then turned back to Joe Cardona. The detective was chuckling.

“Who’s that?” questioned Dowdy, in a hoarse tone. “What’s he doin’ here?”

“He’s the regular janitor,” returned Cardona. “Going his usual rounds.” Then, to the stoop-shouldered arrival: “Hello, Fritz. Another one of your early nights, eh?”

“Yah.”

Dowdy was watching as the janitor spoke. He observed the man’s expressionless stare. He saw the fellow clank bucket on the floor and lift the mop to begin his scrubbing in the corner.

Fritz had moved from the central range of light. Yet his tall, stooped figure still caused a manifestation of his presence. Stretching across the floor beside the bucket was a long streak of blackness that ended in a hawkish silhouette. Dowdy failed to see the darkened splotch. He was studying the janitor’s face.

“Don’t mind Fritz,” came Cardona’s injunction. “All places are alike to him. He wouldn’t know the difference between headquarters and the morgue. Would you, Fritz?”

“Yah.”

The expressionless tone curbed Dowdy’s qualms. The rat-faced product of the underworld turned toward Cardona. Eying the little man steadily, Cardona resumed his quiz.

“I’m going to get Dombo Carlin,” announced the detective sternly. “I’m sending out thirty men to look for him and his gorillas. I’ll be on the job myself. It’s going to mean a lot of trouble, Dowdy. If the tip you’ve given me is phony—”

“It ain’t phony, Joe,” insisted Dowdy. “I tell you, I seen Dowdy an’ I know he ain’t worryin’ about no dragnet.”

“I’m taking your word for it. But it sounds like a stall.”

“Why?”

“Because Dombo Carlin is too wise a mug to stick around for no good reason.”

“He’s got a reason, Joe!”

“He has, eh?” Cardona’s gaze narrowed. “So there’s more than what you’ve already told me? I thought so. Come on, Dowdy. Spill it!”

“I don’t want to make trouble for nobody,” whined the rat-faced prisoner. “But I ain’t tryin’ to stall you, neither. I thought maybe you’d know why Dombo was stickin’ aroun’ town, Joe. He’s after Beef Malligan.”

“Beef Malligan?” Cardona laughed gruffly. “Say, Dowdy, what’s this you’re handing me now? Beef Malligan cleared town a month ago — or more — along with his pal, Croaker Zinn.”

“Croaker got out, Joe, but Beef didn’t. He’s still here in town, hidin’ out somewhere.”

“What’s he hiding out for? I’m not looking for him — or Croaker, either. I thought the two of them had dived for the sticks, along with those mugs that used to work with them before their bum racket busted.”

“Croaker cleared out,” explained Dowdy, “an’ so did the muscle men. I don’t know where they went, Joe. There ain’t nobody in the know. But Beef stayed aroun’ — alone.”

“Why?”

“To send the gorillas along to Croaker. They’ve been sorta slidin’ out one at a time. It looks like Beef has been hearin’ from Croaker.”

“And sending the old boys along the line, eh? Well, that doesn’t bother me. The more that clear out, the better. But why is Beef keeping under cover?”

“So Dombo Carlin won’t find him.”

“I get you now, Dowdy,” nodded Cardona. “Why didn’t you spill this story in the first place? Let’s see” — the detective paused thoughtfully — “first the racket goes haywire. Croaker Zinn leaves town. He finds some happy hunting ground and Beef Malligan stays here to steer the mobsters along to join Croaker.”

“That’s what it looks like, Joe.”

“And all the while, Beef is hiding out. He’s afraid of Dombo Carlin. Now we’re looking for Dombo and his best bet is to take it on the lam. But he’s sticking around a while hoping that he can take a shot at Beef.”

“That’s the dope, Joe.”

CARDONA arose and paced across the floor. Dowdy eyed him with an anxious gaze. All the while, Fritz continued with his slow, methodical mopping.

“Do you think Dombo has located Beef?” queried Cardona, suddenly.

“Yeah,” responded Dowdy. “That’s what he’s stickin’ aroun’ for, ain’t it?”

“It looks that way, according to your story. If your dope is correct, Dowdy, Dombo is likely to come out of some dive with three gorillas at his heels. He’ll be starting on the war-path to get Beef Malligan.”

The detective paused abruptly. He stalked to the door and shouted for Sergeant Markham. A burly detective arrived in response to his call.

“Take this fellow back to a cell,” ordered Cardona, indicating Dowdy. “We’re giving him another night’s lodging.”

“I’m gettin’ out in the mornin’, Joe?” pleaded Dowdy.

“Maybe,” responded Cardona. “It will probably be healthier for you tomorrow, Dowdy.”

“You mean—”

“That I’m following your tip. I’m leaving the joints alone. But if Dombo Carlin and his gunners start out to get Beef Malligan, they’ll find a wrecking crew tagging them.”

Cardona was chuckling at his own plan while Markham was leading Dowdy away. The clatter of a bucket handle reminded the acting inspector that he was not alone in the office. Cardona turned to see Fritz picking up the bucket. Mop in hand, the janitor headed toward the hall.

“Good night, Fritz,” remarked Cardona.

“Yah.” With his dull response, the janitor departed from view.

CARDONA thought no more of Fritz. Joe had important plans that now concerned him. The capture of Dombo Carlin was paramount.

The dragnet had failed to land the wanted crook and his three gorillas. Raids on underworld dives would probably prove fruitless. But to intercept Dombo and trail his crew while they were seeking Beef Malligan seemed a logical and effective course.

While Cardona was planning this procedure, Fritz was shambling along the dismal corridor. The janitor reached a secluded spot. He opened a locker, removed his overalls and placed them on a shelf.

Hands drew black cloth from the locker. Rising arms released a garment. The folds of an inky-hued cloak settled over stooped shoulders. Then a slouch hat topped the bowed head. The faint whisper of a laugh sounded by the locker.

A transformation had taken place. No longer was Fritz, the janitor, in view. In his place stood a tall, spectral being. Burning eyes blazed from beneath the hat brim.

Fritz had become The Shadow!

With gliding, noiseless tread the phantom figure moved from the locker. The whispered laugh was repeated as The Shadow made his way to a side exit. A blackened shape merged with the darkness of a street. From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable.

HALF an hour later, a stalwart man of chiseled countenance entered an obscure store near an East Side elevated. He stepped into a telephone booth and dialed a number. A voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Marsland,” informed the chiseled-faced man.

“Report.”

“No trace of Beef Malligan.”

“Any signs of Dombo Carlin?”

“Yes. He’s at the Black Ship.”

“Instructions.” Burbank’s voice was a monotone. “Watch Dombo. He and his mob are after Beef. Learn if they have located him.”

“Instructions received.”

Leaving the store, the stalwart young man wended his way through the darkness of narrow streets that were walled with decadent buildings. Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was well acquainted with the underworld. Cliff had a rep among mobsters. It enabled him to keep tabs on new gang movements.

Yet until tonight, Cliff had gained no lead that might enable him to locate “Beef” Malligan. Cliff knew certain facts that Dowdy had reported to Joe Cardona, namely, that Beef was hiding out and that he was evidently sending gorillas to “Croaker” Zinn. But the news that Beef was evading “Dombo” Carlin was something that Cliff had learned for the first time.

Cliff reached the Black Ship. The place was a notorious dive. Cliff had left the joint earlier in the evening; his return excited no comment, for he was known in the place. There was nothing extraordinary in the fact that Cliff chose a table close by a corner where Dombo Carlin and three cronies were gathered.

Minutes passed while Cliff sat stolidly staring toward the wall. He could hear Dombo’s growl; at times, he glanced sidewise to observe the man’s ugly, unshaven countenance. Then came a query from a gorilla that brought Cliff to attention.

“Time we was leavin’, ain’t it, Dombo?”

“Not for a half hour yet,” was the growled response. “It ain’t far over to Clipper’s.”

“But we’re goin’ in the back—”

“Sure. That’s where he is, ain’t it? On the second floor? Keep your shirt on, mug. I’m running this.”

“I get you, Dombo.”

Cliff Marsland shoved away a bottle and glass. He arose and strolled from the Black Ship. “Clipper’s,” to Cliff, meant an old hotel near The Bowery. It was called the Hotel Santiago, but mobsters called the place “Clipper’s” in honor of its hard-boiled proprietor.

Cliff had never thought of the Santiago as a potential hideout for Beef Malligan. The crumbling hotel was but one of many others in its vicinity. Dombo Carlin had not mentioned Beef Malligan’s name, but Cliff, with Burbank’s information, was sure that he knew whom Dombo sought.

IT took Cliff seven minutes to reach a secluded telephone. In the quiet corner of a little cigar store, Cliff called Burbank. He passed the word to the contact man; then hung up and leaned against the wall in response to Burbank’s order to wait for a reply.

Five minutes passed. Cliff lifted the telephone receiver a second after the bell began to ring. He spoke in monosyllables to acknowledge Burbank’s instructions. Sauntering out into the night, Cliff headed in the direction of the Hotel Santiago.

The Shadow’s search was ended. For two weeks, the black-garbed master had been keeping Cliff Marsland on duty to gain some trace of Beef Malligan’s whereabouts. Through Dombo Carlin, Beef’s hideout had been learned.

Joe Cardona sought Dombo Carlin. Hence Joe would be in the game tonight, with detectives at his heels. But The Shadow’s quest concerned Beef Malligan. The Shadow was depending upon Cliff Marsland as his lone aid.

Amid these different purposes, Dombo Carlin and his gorillas were out to get the man whom The Shadow sought. Plans and counterplans were in the making; and the Hotel Santiago was to be their focal point!