Crime Circus

CHAPTER XVIII THE SILENT SHADOW

THE show was on in the big top. It was the last night of the circus in Hamilcar. Straggling groups were drifting along the midway. They were the remnants of the small crowd that had gone into the circus tent.

Most of those who had come to the lot were idlers. Some of the concessions were doing business; but several of these “joints” were packing. In this, they were setting the example of Cap Guffy. The spot where the Ten-in-One tent had been now formed a barren stretch of ground. Idlers were watching Cap superintend the loading of the trucks that he had hired.

Tex Larch had supplied the roughnecks for the loading. Cliff Marsland was among this crew. He was the only one who wore the tattooed red circle. The others were genuine roughnecks, not members of Croaker Zinn’s mob. A spirit of pessimism dominated their palaver.

“Cap’s started it by pullin’ out,” one fellow said to Cliff. “Look over there. Jubo the Geek is packin’. When that show quits, business must be lousy.”

Cliff nodded. He saw the ticket taker pulling down the geek’s tent. Jubo was aiding while a wise-cracking group of town boys commented on the tame appearance of the wild man from the snake pit.

“There’s another ‘grifter’ foldin’,” continued Cliff’s companion. “That guy’s been runnin’ a two-way joint. Say — when a grifter can’t make nothin’ when he’s workin’ the game strong, it’s a sure bet there’s no dough on the lot.”

Cliff nodded his understanding. He had picked up the midway lingo. He knew that a ‘grifter’ was a concessionaire. He also knew that by a ‘two way joint’ was meant a game that could be run on the level or fixed to trim the suckers. The operation of a ‘two way joint’ was called working ‘strong.’

“Say” — the speaker was a concessionaire who had come across the midway — “can one of you fellows give me a lift? I’m loading some stuff aboard a truck. Can’t hoist it alone.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” responded Cliff.

“Thanks.”

Cliff walked across the midway with the grifter. He had been looking for a break like this. He wanted to contact with other members of the red circle and none of them were near Cap Guffy’s trucks. Cliff knew that trouble was impending. He wanted to be ready when it broke.

“I’ve been running a ‘grind,’ pal,” confided the grifter, as Cliff helped him hoist a crate aboard a truck. “Get that? Running a ‘grind’ — working for a five-cent play. They call me a ‘nickel gouger’ on account of it, but I took in dough until we hit this town. But I’ve went broke in this burg. Look” — the crate was aboard the truck when the grifter pointed down the midway — “there’s a fellow taking down his ‘flasher’ When those jumping lights don’t bring the dough, it’s time for everybody to quit.”

STROLLING down the midway, Cliff encountered a roughneck headed in the opposite direction. The fellow plucked at his left sleeve. Cliff did the same. Tattooed circles came in view. The roughneck spoke in a low tone.

“Have your gat ready,” he advised Cliff. “When it breaks, the mob is goin’ to cut loose.”

“I’m set,” returned Cliff.

As he turned away, The Shadow’s agent ran shoulder to shoulder against a tall personage who was standing near a tent. As he stared into a calm, impassive face, he caught the glare of steady eyes. Lips that barely moved gave Cliff a weirdly whispered order.

“Watch Jubo the Geek.” A cigarette moved up to the lips. “Keep him from the mob.”

Cliff turned toward Jubo’s tent. The canvas was down. He saw the geek staring across the midway. Cliff turned to nod to the stranger who had spoken. The tall visitor had moved away. Cliff, however, needed no further injunction. He had received an order from The Shadow.

“Watch Jubo the Geek.”

Oddly, The Shadow was not the only one who had uttered that admonition. Off beyond one of the Ten-in-One trucks, Cleed — otherwise Croaker Zinn — was saying the same words to Luke, the tattooed man. A glower was showing on the pasty face of the so-called Cleed as Croaker studied a list that Luke had handed him.

“Watch Jubo?” questioned Luke.

“Yeah.” Croaker was emphatic. “Say — it was a good idea to have Hank check up on all the crew. When did you put the circle on Jubo?”

“I don’t remember usin’ the needle on him.”

“You don’t eh? Well, that’s all I wanted to know. Pass the word along to watch Jubo.”

Luke moved away to obey. Cap Guffy approached and beckoned. In the languid fashion of Cleed, Croaker Zinn arose to follow the owner of the Ten-in-One.

“Forget you’re a dope,” ordered Cap. “‘Give me a hand while I load this box of rattlers aboard the back of my coupe. I’m not trusting these reptiles to no truck. These babies have hot stingers.”

Croaker gave Cleed’s sickly grin as he aided with the box. The rattlers whirred from within the box. Neither Cap nor Croaker seemed to be disturbed by the sound.

“All right, Cleed,” said Cap. “Go back and take another nap. Come on, you roughnecks. Get a hold of some of those crates. This finishes the load.”

JUBO THE GEEK was watching from the spot where his tent lay on the ground. His blinking eyes were following the form of Cleed. He saw the pretended cigarette fiend sneak off in the direction of the meeting tent.

Dropping a strip of canvas, Jubo followed.

The trail led in and out among the circus trucks. The lights from the midway barely showed the outline of Cleed’s form. Jubo moved with quick paces from truck to truck, anxious not to lose his quarry. They were approaching the isolated tent. It was dark.

Losing temporary sight of Cleed, Jubo made a stooping sprint to another truck. He arrived there and peered into the darkness. He was panting slightly; that was why he did not hear the sound that occurred behind him. Before Jubo knew that danger was close by, figures from the dark pounced upon him and sent him sprawling to the turf.

“Drag him into the tent.” It was Luke who gave the word to Jubo’s captors. “I want to take a look at him. Maybe he’s a phony.”

Roughnecks obeyed. Jubo’s body was limp. Swift blows had knocked the geek senseless.

When they reached the tent, Luke turned on the light. Jubo’s form plopped to the ground and lay face up. Luke studied the brownish countenance while four roughnecks stood by.

“A phony all right,” decided Luke. “Wait’ll I take a look at his arm.”

He pulled up the sleeve of Jubo’s jersey. A red circle showed in the light. Luke grunted. He strode across the tent and shoved a big sponge into a half-filled water bucket. Coming back, he applied the sponge to the geek’s arm. The red circle began to fade.

“Dye,” announced Luke. “I knew that was no tattoo job. Say — let’s look at the rest of your arms while I’m about it.”

The roughnecks raised their sleeves. Luke’s inspection made him nod with approval. The tattooed man was satisfied with their red circles. He pointed to Jubo’s inert form.

“Phony make-up,” he announced, “and a wig. But I’m leavin’ it on him. When they find this guy full of lead, he’ll still be Jubo the Geek. Two of you stay here. If he comes to, tap him another on the bean. When you hear the ‘Hey Rube,’ give him the works. Get me?”

The roughnecks nodded.

“Who’s stayin’ then?” asked Luke.

“I’ll stay.” It was Cliff Marsland who spoke.

“I’ll stick,” added a roughneck. Luke beckoned to the other two men. They left the tent. Cliff and his companion sat down to keep an eye on Jubo the Geek.

THERE was motion in the darkness outside the tent. A silent figure shifted into the night. It was the form of The Shadow. The tall visitor had donned his sable-hued garments. He, like Cliff, had noted the capture of Jubo. With Cliff on the job, The Shadow was satisfied concerning the helpless geek.

Reaching the office trailer, The Shadow lurked in darkness. His keen eyes commanded a broad view of the midway. Certain figures caught his immediate attention. The first was that of Cap Guffy. His trucks loaded, the owner of the side show was coming toward the office.

From across the midway, a newcomer was heading for the same objective. It was Jonathan Wilbart. The circus magnate was here to make his final offer for the purchase of the show.

As the two men neared the office door, The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the big top. There he observed Tex Larch, coming out through the turnstile.

A whispered laugh. The Shadow moved away. He found a space between two concession tents. The joints were close together. The front of the space — not more than two feet in breadth — was blocked by the sturdy form of a lounger who was watching the varied activities of the midway.

The Shadow approached. A soft, weird whisper came from his hidden lips. It brought a nod from the lounger. The Shadow’s form faded back between the two small tents. Then it merged completely with the darkness. The Shadow had become a part of the night itself.

The lights of the midway showed the face of the lounger who was standing between the fronts of the concessions. This man was Harry Vincent. He had received The Shadow’s order. He knew that he was to act according to instructions already given him.

Sauntering from the idle spot, Harry strolled across the midway and approached the clattering Ferris wheel. He spied two men who were standing a short distance from the huge device. Harry walked up and nodded. The men looked him over in a suspicious manner.

“O-blay,” said Harry, in a low voice.

The men exchanged glances. Then one put a growled question:

“What for?”

“Ops-kay,” added Harry.

“What’s the lay?” quizzed one of the pair.

Harry looked about. No one was watching. The Shadow’s agent pulled an envelope from his pocket. It was Dunham who received it. Harry turned away and found an opening between two tents. He ducked out of sight and started a long, circling course toward the fringe of the circus lot.

Slade had opened Harry’s envelope. His face became grim as he read the message. He tore the paper into shreds and let the pieces float to the ground.

“From Vic?” questioned Dunham, in an undertone.

“You bet,” responded Slade. “Come along. Over past those tents. We’ve got a job ahead.”

DOWN near the big top, a thick-faced, ugly-lipped man was standing alone. He seemed restless as he watched toward the circus tent. The wheezing music of the steam calliope came muffled to his ears. The constant sound made him feel uneasy.

A winsome figure was coming from the direction of the big top. Red hair showed in the light. It identified Lucille Lavan. The queen of the high wire had finished her act. She was humming as she approached the tent and entered. She did not see the ugly-faced stranger who was waiting.

“Beef!” The stranger turned at the sound of the growled whisper. He stared unbelieving at the pasty face of Cleed. A grin appeared upon the dopey visage.

“Hello, Beef,” came the repeated whisper. “It’s me — Croaker. All set?”

“Sure am,” responded Beef. “Say, Croaker. I wouldn’t have knowed you by your mug. Was that the moll?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

Stooping, Croaker cautiously lifted loose canvas at the side of the tent. He edged beneath and Beef followed. They were in Lucille Lavan’s private tent. Ten feet away, the girl was sitting at a small dressing table, applying cold cream to remove her make-up.

Croaker Zinn pounced forward. Lucille, staring in the mirror, spied the face of Cleed. Gamely, the girl swung to meet the intruder. She was too late. Croaker’s fingers caught her throat.

Beef Malligan aided in ending Lucille’s struggles. Together, they produced leather thongs and bound her hands and feet. A large handkerchief served as an effective gag. Croaker pointed to a couch. Beef placed the girl upon it.

“No rush,” chuckled Croaker. “Wait a couple of minutes, Beef, while I get rid of this punk make-up I’ve been using.”

Dipping his fingers in cold cream, Croaker smeared the substance over his pallid countenance. The job was a quick one. A mopping towel finished it. Beef Malligan grinned as he saw the swarthy features of Croaker Zinn supplant the pasty visage of Cleed.

“All right,” ordered Croaker. “Out through the back. How far away is your car?”

“A hundred feet.”

“You lead the way. I’ll bring the moll.”

Croaker was chuckling as they neared a darkened sedan. Over his shoulder, he held the bundled form of Lucille Lavan. In an undertone, he was telling Beef Malligan the story.

“They call this jane Lucille Lavan,” Croaker was saying. “That’s who she thinks she is — Lucille Lavan. That’s the name she’s always used; but it ain’t her right name. She’s Lucy Aldon, the million-dollar moll.

“Open the back door, Beef. We’ll chuck her in there. That’s the stuff.” Lucille’s huddled form rolled on the back seat. “You take the wheel, Beef. We’re going places—”

The two mobleaders were side by side as Croaker’s speech came to a sudden end. Something had clicked from the hood of Beef’s car. The two crooks were standing in the glare of a flashlight. The torch was held by Harry Vincent.

But it was not the glare that caused the two crooks to stop in their tracks. It was a figure in the range of light that made them cower with upraised hands. There, like a living specter, stood a shape whose power they well knew.

Burning eyes blazed from beneath a blackened slouch hat. The mouths of mammoth automatics loomed like tunnels that boded death. Silent, The Shadow had risen from the dark. The master of vengeance had arrived to conquer crime!