Crime Circus

CHAPTER XVII THE NIGHT BEFORE

LIGHTS had dulled along the midway of the Larch Circus and Greater Shows. The last of the crowds had departed. Automobiles were heading townward. Tomorrow would begin the last day of the stand in Hamilcar. One more night would end the worst “bloomer” of the season.

Among the cars that were rolling from the circus lot was Cap Guffy’s rickety coupe. Like other vehicles, it was heading toward Hamilcar. When it arrived there, it pulled up in front of an old brick hotel — The Hamilcar House.

Two men alighted. One was Cap Guffy; the other, Tex Larch. Gloomily, the showmen entered the lobby of the old hotel. While Cap strolled about, Tex approached the desk and spoke to the clerk.

“Jonathan Wilbart stopping here?” questioned the circus owner.

“Room 204,” replied the clerk. “Who wants to see him?”

“Tex Larch” — the showman paused, then spoke again as the clerk pushed in a switch and raised a telephone receiver — “tell him Tex Larch and Captain Guffy. Two of us.”

Tex stood glumly while the clerk phoned the message. The call completed, the clerk turned and nodded. He pointed toward the stairway, to indicate that Wilbart would receive the visitors.

Two guests were in the lobby when Tex and Cap went up the stairs. One was a tall, steady-faced individual, who had registered under the name of Lamont Cranston. The other was a stalwart young fellow who had arrived two days ago, from New York. He was in the book as Harry Vincent.

Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. Harry Vincent was his agent. The Shadow had summoned this new aid from Manhattan. Like Cliff Marsland, Harry Vincent was one upon whom The Shadow could depend when crime reached its climax.

Within two minutes after the pair of showmen had gone upstairs, Lamont Cranston arose and followed the same course. He did not, however, go to his own room. He chose Harry Vincent’s, which was on the second floor.

The tall stranger did not turn on the light. Instead, he groped across the room and found a suitcase that lay beneath a bureau. Black cloth swished. A shape appeared by the open window. Weirdly it moved outward. In batlike fashion, the figure of The Shadow crept along the brick wall at the side of the hotel.

Soft, squdgy sounds announced the progress. With rubber suction cups attached to hands and feet, The Shadow was making safe advance along the vertical surface. His passage ended outside an opened window. Voices sounded from within a room. Jonathan Wilbart was talking to his visitors.

“WHAT is your decision then?” Wilbart was questioning. “Are you ready to sell, Tex?”

“I don’t know,” Tex spoke in gruff rejoinder. “This stand has been a ‘bloomer,’ Wilbart. Worse than I expected. I haven’t got the cash to move my show.”

“Then a sale should be to your liking.”

“Not until I hear from New York. I sent a letter there. I ought to have a wire by tomorrow night.”

“And if it comes?”

“Then my answer will be definite. Either yes or no.”

A pause followed. Jonathan Wilbart was speculating on the possibilities. He put another question.

“Suppose, Tex,” he suggested, “that you receive no word from New York. Does that mean you will sell?”

“It means that I’ll have to go to New York,” responded Tex. “I can’t sell until I get some word.”

“But you won’t be able to move the show.”

“I know it. I’ll have to leave the outfit on the lot.”

“With Stuffy in charge?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Wilbart nodded as he spoke. “Then I can remain here in Hamilcar and receive your answer.”

“Yes. If I have to go to New York, I’ll wire you from there.”

“Very well. Then the best time for me to see you is just before train time. Is that right?”

“Yes. I’ll be in the office up to the last minute. If I have to go to New York, I won’t leave until after the big show starts.”

Wilbart puffed at a fat cigar while he studied Tex. Then he seemed to remember that Cap was also present. He looked at Cap; then turned to Tex.

“What if you sell?” questioned Wilbart. “Where does Guffy’s show come in? Does it go along with the deal?”

“It don’t.” The answer came from Cap. “That option is off. I’m keepin’ my show. Tex Larch ain’t got nothing to do with it. That’s why I’m here — to stand up for my rights.”

“Lay off the squawks, Cap,” growled Tex. “Nobody’s trying to do you out of anything.”

“You’re right they ain’t,” asserted Cap. “Wilbart might as well know the facts. That option business was a fake. Nothin’ but a stall to hold you off, Wilbart.”

“Is that right, Tex?” inquired Wilbart, in surprise.

“Yeah,” acknowledged Tex. “Cap didn’t have to come in here and yell it out. But there’s no harm done. He’s just sore because this week’s been a ‘bloomer’ for him. He can’t take it, that’s all.”

“I ain’t used to squawkin’,” put in Cap. “I can take tough sleddin’ any time. But this wasn’t a bloomer — this town wasn’t — if you hadn’t made it one, Tex. Them crooks wouldn’t have been along with your show if you’d been on the job.

“I’m through with your outfit, that’s all. My show is packin’ up tomorrow. I’m takin’ the road on my own. I’ve got enough dough to handle the ‘nut’ for a month, anyway. If I have to hook up with another guy, I’ll find one that stays on the lot instead of commutin’ into New York.

“My show won’t open tomorrow night. It goes on the trucks and it moves out when it’s packed. Not your trucks, neither, Tex. I’ve hired my own. They’ll be in by six o’clock.”

TEX LARCH was wearing a scowl. Cap Guffy’s bluff face was challenging. Jonathan Wilbart prevented further discussion. Rising, he approached to shake hands with each man in turn.

“I shall see you tomorrow night, gentlemen,” he remarked. “Let me suggest that you forget your difficulties in the meantime. You have been on the road together for the past season. Why not part good friends?”

While Tex and Cap were giving their gruff agreement to Wilbart’s suggestion, The Shadow had turned his gaze back toward the window from which he had come. A tiny glow was showing at the opening. It was the lighted tip of a cigarette.

Harry Vincent had come upstairs. His cigarette was a signal that concerned The Shadow. Slowly, the blackened shape shifted along the wall. Then the form moved upward. Following a vertical angle, The Shadow was rising toward a lighted window on the third floor.

New voices — low in tone — greeted The Shadow as he reached his objective. His keen eyes, peering inward from the blackness of the night, discerned three men. Two were the federal agents: Dunham and Slade. The third was Vic Marquette.

Harry’s signal had announced Vic’s arrival. Harry had seen the secret-service operative pass through the lobby. Thus The Shadow had left one finished conference to listen in on another that was just beginning.

“So you’ve been out on the lot again, eh?” Vic was questioning. “And you’d like to grab the fellow that runs the knife rack? Well — lay off him.”

“He’s shoving the queer, Vic,” insisted Slade. “Doing it just like the mind readers that we took in.”

“Sure he is,” retorted Marquette. “He’s a blind, like they were.”

“I was watching him count queer bills,” argued Slade. “I stood there for five minutes, while Dunham was chucking rings at the knives.”

“Chucking rings?” queried Marquette. “What for?”

“Trying to land one over the knob of a carving knife,” admitted Dunham. “There was a .45 hanging from it. I would have won it, if I’d landed a ring.”

“Just a couple of saps,” snorted Vic. “That game’s ‘gaffed’; yet you walk in and try to play it.”

“Gaffed?”

“Sure. The heads of those knobs are turned away from you. You couldn’t drop a ring on one of them in a million years.”

“The guy did it.”

“Of course he did; but he twisted the knob to the front when he chucked the rings. But that’s not the story. We’re going to forget the fellow with the knife rack. We’re going to get the real people.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

Vic spoke with confidence. His statement silenced his companions. While The Shadow listened, Marquette began to give the details of a compact plan.

“I’VE been watching that circus lot,” he stated. “I’ve been there every night. I know the inside of the outfit that’s handing out the phony mazuma. I told you that before. I told you there was one man in charge — a fellow who must be making contact with the big shot.

“I’ve located the first man. I’m going to watch him. Tomorrow night. You fellows be there, alongside the Ferris wheel. When I slip you the word, be ready. I’m not going to talk to you. I’ll send someone with a note. All he will say is ‘O-blay!’”

“O-blay?”

“Yes. Hog-Latin for ‘blow.’ That word won’t sound funny along the midway. So when some fellow — no matter how funny he looks — says ‘o-blay,’ you ask him why. Then he’ll say ‘ops-kay’.”

“Cops?” asked Slade.

“You’re getting the lingo.” Vic laughed. “Then you ask him for the lay and he’ll either tell you or slip you a note. Follow instructions and you’ll find the queer. If the big shot isn’t there, wait for him to show up. Get him. I’ll join you later. Don’t go until I join you.”

“O-blay,” muttered Dunham. “Ops-kay.”

“Stick tight,” added Vic. “Because there’s a riot due tomorrow night. It’s liable to come pretty quickly after you get my word. Do you understand?”

“Right,” responded Slade.

Vic Marquette’s instructions were complete. Brief words followed; then a closing door announced the operative’s departure. The Shadow was already moving along the wall. His creeping form arrived, beetlelike, at an open window on the third floor.

A soft laugh sounded from the darkness of Lamont Cranston’s room. The last pieces in the picture had been set in place. Others had stated their plans. Others were ready. So was The Shadow!