Crime Circus

CHAPTER XIV SAWDUST AND SHOTS

“THAT’S Lucille Lavan, eh? Boy! Look at the way she balances on that high wire!”

“Best act I’ve ever seen.”

The speakers were two deputies, sitting beside Sheriff Howard. Their comments brought a growl from their chief. He and the squatty bank watchman were watching the rings — not the high wire.

“We’re looking for some tough guys,” the sheriff informed his deputies. “You won’t see ‘em up there at the top of the tent. Keep your eyes down.”

“All right, chief.”

The sheriff turned to the watchman beside him. The squatty man needed no injunction. His one purpose here was the identification of the robbers. He seemed determined to complete it.

“See any suspects?” questioned the sheriff.

“Not one,” returned the watchman, soberly. “I could tell any of the five, sheriff. I saw them clearly when they made their get-away.”

“Too bad you didn’t shoot a couple of them.”

“I was excited, sheriff. I saw them unexpectedly while they were escaping. But tonight” — the man shifted his hand to his pocket — “I’m ready to help you when we see them.”

“If we see them,” returned the sheriff ruefully. “It looks like we’ll have to search the grounds after this show is over. There’s been a lot of faces out there; but you haven’t picked even one.”

The sheriff’s sentence ended just as an outburst of applause came from the small audience. Lucille Lavan had completed her act. Dropping from the high wire, the slim girl landed in a net. Her red hair formed an attractive, tousled mass as she bobbed her head to the plaudits of the crowd.

As Lucille walked from the ring, shouts arose and a flock of clowns came bounding along the track. The spectators began to laugh at their capers — all except the sheriff and the bank watchman. The sheriff’s face was steady; the watchman studied every clown without a smile. He was looking for the robbers in this band of funmakers.

“Say,” growled the sheriff. “If those robbers are working as clowns, it’s going to be tough to spot them. You couldn’t recognize your own uncle in back of a lot of paint like that. If we don’t see the birds we want, the first bunch we’ll look over after the show will be the clowns.”

The watchman nodded. He was forced to admit that the painted makeup made it impossible for him to view the clowns successfully. Yet he persisted in watching their merry-making. He was studying the gait of different clowns, trying to find some token of identity that might enable him to pick a rogue from among them.

ROUGHNECKS were rolling in the big cage. Then came the smaller cages, with the lions, tigers and leopards. Eric Wernoff appeared; he was greeted by applause. While attendants aided him, he saw to the opening of cages.

One by one, the growling “cats” responded to his prods. Armed with sticks and gun, Wernoff was forcing his dangerous pets through doors from small cages to large.

This work completed, the smaller cages were wheeled away. Wernoff, stern-faced and imposing, was ready to enter the big cage. He was eying Ganges while he waited. The big tiger, usually defiant, was acting in subdued fashion — something that Wernoff could not understand.

Cavorting clowns were finishing their stunts. They were scamping along the track, getting out of the way before the animal act commenced. The spectators were already forgetting them. The ring master was waiting to make his introduction.

Off by the runway, four clowns were mumbling among themselves. They had placed blue bandanna handkerchiefs across their eyes. They were peering through holes that they had cut in the cloth. Beside them rested a bulky wooden box, painted in imitation of a safe.

“Where’s Koko?” queried one.

“Don’t ask me,” growled another. “He ought to have been here three minutes ago. Say — maybe we ought to hold this stunt until after Wernoff has finished in the cage.”

“We will hold it if Koko doesn’t show up pretty quick.”

“Here he is now!”

The other clowns turned as the last one spoke. They stared at sight of the black-cloaked figure that had appeared in the runway. Tall and sinister, the mysterious form of The Shadow stood before them. A gloved hand was stretching from the cloak; its forefinger pointing toward the track.

“Come along,” gasped one of the clowns.

The four grabbed the fake safe and carried it out into the track.

A LAUGH greeted them from a sprinkling of spectators. The clowns faked a stumble and dropped their burden. They looked over their shoulders. The cloaked figure was following them. Frantically, the clowns seized the box and staggered forward.

“Say,” panted one. “That rig of his is spooky. It gives me the creeps.”

“Act like you was scared,” suggested another.

“Like I was scared!” retorted the first. “Say — if I wasn’t sure Koko was under that cloak I’d be so scared I’d hop in the big cage just to get away from him.”

The clowns did another stumble further along the track. Laughter was greeting them. It died as the spectators spied the pursuing figure. Something in the carriage of that swiftly stalking shape made the observers stare in wonder.

“Say” — a clown gasped as he helped hoist the wooden safe — “Koko’s working it good. He’s got the hicks woozy. Look at him.”

The others looked back as they prepared to run. One of them spoke in a voice that sounded serious.

“He’s got me woozy, the way he’s comin’ after us,” the funmaker declared. “That walk of his! He’s comin’ as fast as we’re runnin’.”

The next stumble was a brief one. The cloaked figure was looming closer. Gloved hands were swishing from the black garments. Businesslike automatics appeared in rigid fists.

“Lug it ‘til we get in front of the cage,” gasped a clown. “That’s where he’s goin’ to spring the ‘shootin’.”

“Too late,” returned another. “There go the glims. Drop the box.”

The clowns were only a dozen yards from the box where the sheriff was seated with his deputies. The officials were turning to view the cause of excitement on the track, when the lights were suddenly extinguished.

DARKNESS was only momentary. An instant later, a mammoth spotlight hurled its brilliant glare from across the ring. The steel bars of the cage glistened. The ring master mounted a pedestal and waved toward Eric Wernoff.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” came the ring master’s bellow. “Before you stands the king of all wild animal kings. He is the celebrated trainer whose name is known throughout the civilized globe whenever—”

The four clowns were not listening to the coming introduction. They had dropped the wooden safe at the very fringe of the spotlight’s glare. They formed a clustered, whispering group as they gazed toward a spot a dozen feet away.

There, at the inner edge of the track, stood their black-garbed pursuer. His vague form was barely discernible in the rim of brilliant light. There was something spectral in the figure’s bearing. The clowns could catch the flash of glittering eyes that were turned toward the big cage.

“Look at the way the light hits him,” gasped one clown. “Say — his eyes are brighter than the big tiger’s!”

“Whew!” exclaimed a second, mopping his painted brow with the bandanna that he had wrested from his temples. “If it wasn’t Koko—”

“Maybe it ain’t Koko!”

The other clowns laughed at the suggestion; but their mirth was feigned. Something in the statement worried them. They gathered close about the wooden safe. Not for an instant did they cease to gaze at the strange figure which stood so motionless before them.

“Presenting the same famous performance” — the ring master’s announcement had reached its highest pitch — “that he has given before the crowned heads of Europe and Asia. Ladies and gentlemen. I take pleasure in introducing — Eric Wernoff!”

Cheers and handclaps came with enthusiasm. The ring master stepped from his pedestal and mopped his forehead with a huge silk handkerchief. Wernoff gave a short bow; then turned to enter the cage.

Roughnecks who wore the coats of uniforms approached with poles and revolvers, to take their stand about the cage. Wernoff entered a door and closed it behind him. He was in a little compartment. He received a whip; opened the next door and stepped into the center of the cage.

A lion opened its jaws to growl. A leopard leaped down from its pedestal and prepared for a spring. Wernoff snapped his whip. The lion’s growl ended; but the leopard remained crouched. Another whip snap failed to make the beast retire. Wernoff fired a blank straight for the spotted cat’s face. The leopard snarled; then turned back toward its perch.

Even the sheriff had forgotten his mission here. With the deputies, he was staring tensely at the cage. The watchman alone remembered his appointed purpose. He plucked the sheriff’s sleeve.

“Look!” he exclaimed. “That man at the side of the cage! Outside — by the right corner—”

“Holding a revolver?”

“Yes. He’s one of the robbers. And the fellow next to him — the one turning this way — he’s another of the bunch. Look! There’s a third!”

The sheriff was rising. His badge caught the flash of the spotlight and returned it with a brilliant glitter. The watchman was pointing out another pair of roughnecks.

Eric Wernoff was cracking his whip with savage fury inside the cage; but the act no longer thrilled the sheriff and the men with him.

The sheriff had growled a command. Deputies and watchman were reaching for their guns. Their rising forms were conspicuous before the spotlight. They did not realize the mistake that they were making.

THE roughneck who had turned uttered a sharp cry. Like a flash, his four companions turned toward the box. Gleaming revolvers showed in their fists. One gun barked its first, quick warning. A bullet whistled past the sheriff’s head.

The roughnecks had become furious, leering mobsmen. Hard-fighting gorillas, they were whirling to beat the sheriff and his men in a quick duel of shots. The guns that they held were not charged with blanks. They were loaded with bullets, in readiness for this fray.

A second shot ripped splinters from the back of a chair beside the watchman. The sheriff and his aids were caught flat-footed, with their hands fumbling for guns. They were helpless targets for desperate murderers. Five guns were aiming toward them before they had drawn a single weapon!

Three of the clowns by the fake safe had turned toward the ring at the sound of the first gunshot. Only the fourth man had still kept his eyes upon the black-cloaked figure that they thought was Koko. It was his cry that brought the eyes of the others toward the same spot.

“Look! Look quick!”

As gorillas fired, the tall black figure stepped suddenly forward. Above the crackle of revolvers; above the roars from the big cage came a laugh that rose with weird crescendo. Like a mammoth moth within range of an attracting flame, The Shadow stood revealed with outstretched arms.

It was The Shadow — not Koko. The flames that belched from his huge automatics were tokens of that truth.

An aiming mobster slumped as he turned to meet the menace that the taunting laugh had warned was present. The gangster had picked the sheriff’s glittering badge as his target, but he never fired the shot that he intended.

The other gorillas snarled as they swung their leveled gats. Revolvers crackled while the automatics thundered. Certain in aim, The Shadow dealt with crooks as they deserved. One — two went down as their wild bullets sped past the living target that they sought.

As the last pair aimed, shots burst from the box ahead. The sheriff and a deputy had gained their revolvers. Their bullets dug up sawdust in front of the big cage. These were hasty shots that went wide of the fighting roughnecks; but they served a vital purpose.

The Shadow was dealing with spreadout foemen. Had the mobsters been clustered, his rapid fire would have vanquished them entirely. These last two gorillas, however, had gained the edge while The Shadow was mowing down their pals.

The fire of the sheriff and the deputy gave The Shadow a momentary respite. Both mobsters faltered for an instant as the new shots broke in their direction. The Shadow, acting in fifth of seconds, performed a sidewise drop as the gangsters pressed triggers with fingers that had rested for a fractional interval.

Bullets whistled past the tall form as it rolled in the sawdust of the track. The shots were high as they sped above the cloaked left shoulder. Yet, as he performed his fade-away, The Shadow guided the sweep of his left hand. Its automatic barked as The Shadow struck the ground. One mobster staggered, wounded.

The other swung to new aim. He was twenty paces distant from his pal. The Shadow’s right hand poked its gun upward from the sawdust. A gloved finger pressed the trigger.

The Shadow’s aim, however, was not directed toward the last gorilla. In the split second that he had to fire, he aimed for a more certain target — the spotlight.

GLASS shattered as the light went out. The last mobster blazed away in darkness. He was shooting at the spot where he thought The Shadow was; but the total blackness played havoc with his aim. His shots found sawdust — not The Shadow.

Chaos reigned within the big top. Shouts of men — screams of women — the roars of maddened beasts within the cage — above all these came the barks of guns as the desperate mobsman turned his aim toward the box. Shots from the sheriff, the watchman and the deputies — delivered toward the ring — were answered by the last gorilla.

Flashes of guns were the only targets for these fighters who numbered four against one. Yet the gorilla held the advantage. His enemies were clustered in the box. He was moving across the ring. A deputy groaned as he sank wounded.

The mobster thought that he had finished with The Shadow. He was wrong. An unseen shape was moving from the sawdust. The Shadow was picking the moving target by the spurts of the revolver. Cool amid the darkness, he gauged the gorilla’s speed by the interval between two shots.

An automatic spoke. Its flash came an instant after a shot from the ring. Sheriff Howard and two companions kept up their fusillade. There was no reply from in front of the big cage. A weird laugh whispered from the track. It seemed to trail as it faded into nothingness.

Flashlights were appearing. Their beams swept toward the ring, the center point of all attention. Then, of a sudden, the tent lights came on. Gasping spectators stared toward the ring. It showed a scene that captured all attention.

Eric Wernoff had gained the safety of the little entry to his cage. He was away from the roaring, snarling beasts that were fighting and sprawling in the space behind the bars. On the sawdust in front of the big cage lay three motionless mobsters. Two others were on hands and knees, seeking to regain their guns.

The sheriff and the unhurt deputy came leaping from the box. The wounded gorillas tried to aim at them. Sheriff and deputy each picked a man. As mobster guns came up to fire, the men of the law shot point-blank. Riddling bullets dropped the two crooks whom The Shadow had crippled in the final moments of his fight.

Standing in the ring, the sheriff looked all about. So did the four clowns who were cowering by the wooden safe. Spectators followed their example. They were looking for the weird, blackclad warrior who had brought down the desperate mobsmen.

None found the object of their search. The Shadow had departed. Blood stained the sawdust where dead gorillas lay; but no token remained of the one who had vanquished the bullet-riddled crooks.

The trailing laugh had marked The Shadow’s swift passage to the runway. He had left the big top just before the lights came on. The results of the brief warfare remained as evidence of his mighty prowess.

Coming from darkness, The Shadow had won the conflict single-handed. He had left the fruits of victory — represented by the murderous gorillas — where the law could find them. The sheriff had found the robbers that he sought. Dead, they could offer no resistance.

The Shadow — his work accomplished — had returned to the darkness from which he had emerged to strike down fiends of crime.