Crime Circus

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW’S AGENT

HALF an hour had elapsed since Cliff Marsland’s departure from the Black Ship. During that interval, nothing had occurred to disturb the quiet that surrounded the old Hotel Santiago.

Situated on a side street, half a block from The Bowery, the old brick-walled hotel stood away from the rumble of traffic and the clatter of the elevated. Staring from its plate glass window was Clipper, the hard-boiled proprietor.

Though riff-raff formed the patrons of the Hotel Santiago, the challenging proprietor was strict regarding guests. Clipper knew many mobsters by sight. If they were wanted by the law, they were not welcome in his hotel. Clipper had no yen for police visits.

It was because of this policy that Beef Malligan had chosen the Santiago as his place of residence. Seated in a tawdry upstairs room, Beef was smoking a cigarette while he read the contents of a letter. Thick-lipped and ugly-faced, Beef leered with satisfaction.

Beef was not wanted by the police; nor were the gorillas who had previously formed his racketeering crew. Hence Beef enjoyed security and had the privilege of receiving the visitors whom he desired.

Those whom Beef did not want to see — specifically, Dombo Carlin and his crew — were in wrong with the law. Hence Clipper, with no welcome for Dombo and his ilk, was unwittingly serving as a sentinel in behalf of Beef Malligan.

Beef Malligan knew of the rear entrance to the Hotel Santiago. He had, however, given it but little thought. Confident that no one had breathed the news of his whereabouts, Beef felt quite free from intrusion.

In fact, he saw no reason to lower the torn shade that was rolled above the only window in his room. The window opened on a low roof at the side of the building, and Beef was convinced that no prying eyes would appear from that direction.

Blackness alone greeted Beef’s gaze as the thick-lipped ruffian happened to glance toward the window. Rising from his chair, Beef tore up the letter that he had been reading. He applied a match to the fragments and crumpled the ashes after the flame had died. He turned to let the charred remnants fall into a lop-sided wastebasket.

It was then that eyes appeared where blackness had been. Blazing orbs flashed from the darkness beyond the opened window. Vaguely, the outline of blackness upon blackness manifested itself in the form of a sinister shape that Beef Malligan did not see as he swung past the window.

The Shadow, like a specter of the night, was looking in upon Beef’s hideout.

EYES vanished as Beef made a turn toward the window. The ex-racketeer saw nothing there but blackness. Then his stare turned suddenly toward the door. The sound of a muffled footstep caused Beef to become suddenly alert.

Beef had left the barrier unlocked. Impelled by instinctive nervousness, he stepped forward to turn the key. He was too late. The door swung open as he reached the center of the room.

A sour twist showed on Beef’s thick lips. With Beef’s expression came a snarl from the door. A heavy, unshaven intruder shouldered his way into the light. Beef Malligan was face to face with the man who sought his life: Dombo Carlin.

“So this is your hideout, eh?” growled Dombo. “Figured I wouldn’t get by Clipper, did you? Well — you figured wrong.”

Beef had no reply. He could see other men beyond the doorway. He knew that his enemy was backed by a squad of gorillas.

“Guess you thought I’d taken it on the lam,” sneered Dombo. “Well — that’s just what I’m going to do — after I finish with you, mug. Maybe I’ll run into that side-kick of yours, Croaker Zinn. If I do, I’ll hand him the same dose that I’m giving you right now.”

“Lay off, Dombo,” pleaded Beef, in a hunted tone. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to queer your game.”

“You’re right, you ain’t,” rasped Domino. “You did enough — you and Croaker — when you muscled in on my racket, six months ago.”

“The racket went sour, Dombo. It wasn’t no good to any of us.”

“Yeh? Says you? I thought it was good enough. When you guys queered it for me, I had to go into the stick-up game. That’s why the bulls are on my trail. That’s why I’ve got to head for Chi — but I’m squaring with you before I start.”

“That won’t do you no good, Dombo,” Beef continued though pleading seemed useless. “If you put me on the spot, the bulls will have somethin’ new on you.”

“Huh?” Dombo snorted. “Listen, bimbo, you won’t be the first mug that got the works from me. The bulls didn’t wise up the last two times. They won’t wise this time. Three is my lucky number.”

Beef stared as he saw Dombo coolly raise his gun to a steady level. For the first time, he had learned that Dombo was a murderer. Quaking, Beef eyed the muzzle of the .38. He saw an eager finger resting on the trigger. He stared into Dombo’s sullen, evil eyes. To his amazement, Beef saw those optics bulge with sudden alarm.

Dombo Carlin was staring past his victim. A chance shift of gaze had enabled him to see the figure that Beef had not observed. Beyond the opened window, Dombo caught the glare of burning eyes; he saw the outline of a sinister shape that commanded recognition.

The Shadow!

LIKE other hardened rogues of scumland, Dombo knew the menace of The Shadow. He had heard gasped utterances of rats who had tried to combat this superfighter. He had listened to coughed stories from dying lips — tales of an avenger clad in black who had struck down those who deserved to die.

With a snarl from his ugly lips, Dombo Carlin raised his gun. His aim was shifting from Beef Malligan to that figure at the window. Dombo’s finger yanked the trigger. The .38 crackled its prompt message. A bullet, whistling past Beef’s ear, found its resting place deep in the battered woodwork of the window frame.

Dombo’s shot had come from a moving gun. The crook had fired before the muzzle was squarely toward the window. With a quick snap of his recoiling wrist, Dombo sought to despatch another bullet, less than a second after he had delivered that first wide shot.

The action was too late. The Shadow, dealing in split seconds, sent his answer within the brief interval. An automatic roared from the darkness of the window. Dombo faltered. His revolver fell from his hand. His convulsive finger snapped at emptiness. No trigger remained for it to pull.

Three gorillas were springing in to their leader’s aid. While Dombo Carlin staggered, half slipping toward the floor, flashing revolvers showed in the hands of ugly-faced mobsmen who had seen The Shadow at the window.

Revolvers barked quick, wild shots. Like Dombo, these minions were shooting while they aimed. But The Shadow’s response was perfect in both timing and precision. The staccato bursts of his automatics sounded a knell to evil foemen.

One mobster staggered back toward the door. A second slumped to the floor. The third was marked for doom when Beef Malligan, leaping desperately forward, locked in conflict and tried to wrench the gorilla’s revolver from his grasp.

An arm swung. Beef rolled away as the gun glanced from his head. Dropping behind Beef’s slumping form, the gorilla snarled an oath as he aimed for The Shadow.

An automatic spoke from the window. The gorilla sprawled to the floor. In aiming, he had peered from beside Beef Malligan’s shoulder. He had received The Shadow’s bullet through his brain.

The first mobster, wounded in the left shoulder, had jumped for the hall under cover of the struggle between Beef and the third gorilla. Out of The Shadow’s range, this mobsman raised his gun to fire at the stairs, where a newcomer had put in a sudden appearance.

It was Cliff Marsland, armed with an automatic. Cliff’s arm came up with the speed of the gorilla’s. Revolver and automatic echoed simultaneously.

Either because of haste, or weakened by the wound that he had received from The Shadow, the gorilla fired wide. Cliff’s shot, however, was well placed. The last of Dombo Carlin’s crew rolled on the floor.

Cliff reached the door of Beef’s room. He saw Dombo Carlin and two gorillas lying motionless. Beef Malligan, on hands and knees, was trying to rise from the floor. He was groggy from the blow that he had received.

Then came the blare of a whistle. Shouts from outside. Pounding squads at the rear door of the old hotel. Cliff knew the answer. Police, trailing Dombo Carlin and his crew, had heard the gunfire. Bluecoats and detectives were already on the stairs.

A HISS came from the window. Cliff stared. He saw the figure of The Shadow. A pointing finger, projecting into the room, was directed at Beef Malligan’s form. With a nod, Cliff grabbed the ex-racketeer under the arms and hoisted Beef’s body up to the window.

The Shadow gripped the burden. With a quick sweep, he whipped Beef’s body through to the darkness of the roof. Cliff scrambled after. He could see The Shadow’s shape, silhouetted against a dull glow from the front street. Across the blackened shoulders was the form of Beef Malligan. The Shadow was carrying Beef like a bag of hay.

Following, Cliff reached an opened window in an old house at the other side of the low roof. He dived through the opening. The window sash came down with a dull thud. The Shadow’s hand drew Cliff away from the window.

The action was timely. Already, police had reached Beef’s room in the Hotel Santiago. Flashlights were sending sweeping gleams across the roof. A glare focused through the window of the old house and made a luminous circle on the further wall; but it revealed none of those who had arrived there. The beam moved away.

“Come.”

In response to The Shadow’s whisper, Cliff groped his way through a door and down a flight of stairs. A door swished open; Cliff found himself stumbling across the cracked cement of an abandoned court; then through the door of another old dwelling.

Another path through darkness. Then came a hand that stopped Cliff. The Shadow’s agent heard Beef Malligan slump groaning to the floor.

“A coupe in the alley.” The Shadow’s whisper was close to Cliff’s ear. “Take him to your place. Await instructions while you talk to him.”

“Order received,” responded Cliff, in a low tone.

A slight swish as The Shadow moved away. Groping, Cliff found a door. He threw his arm around Beef’s body. As he raised the ex-racketeer, he heard Beef grumble incoherently. Then, with Beef stumbling beside him, Cliff moved through the door into the quiet of a little alleyway.

The coupe was standing beside the door. With an effort, Cliff hoisted Beef into the seat. He slammed the door of the car, hurried around, and gained the wheel. The motor purred as Cliff presser the starter. The car moved forward and shot out into the traffic of The Bowery.

“Hey, you—”

Cliff jammed the accelerator as he heard the call. A police whistle blared two seconds later. But Cliff had already picked his spot. Negotiating a swift left turn, he cut across the path of a looming truck and sped to safety as the driver jammed his air-brakes.

IT was a quick get-away and Cliff followed it with a tortuous course that he knew would baffle any pursuers. He turned corners, doubled on his course and threaded a speedy way among the East Side streets that he knew so well.

At last he reached the quiet of an isolated street and brought the coupe to a stop. He nudged Beef Malligan.

“Who — who are you?” blurted the racketeer, rubbing his head.

“Never mind,” responded Cliff. “You’ll be safe if you come along.”

He shoved Beef from the coupe, grabbed the man before he fell and dragged him through a secluded stairway; then up a flight of stairs to a room on the second floor. This was Cliff’s lodging in the underworld.

Beef slumped in a chair as Cliff guided him to it, but when Cliff turned on the light, Beef seemed very much alive. He stared at the man who had brought him here. His eyes widened with recognition.

“Cliff Marsland!” he exclaimed.

“The same,” responded Cliff, calmly.

“Say” — a gleam showed on Beef’s face — “you’re the bird that plugged Dombo Carlin. Ain’t you?”

Cliff nodded. He was standing by the door. Beyond Beef, who was facing the door, was a window that led to a low roof above a rear porch.

“He was goin’ to croak me, Dombo was,” announced Beef. “Only you come in an’ handed him curtains. Him an’ his mob. Say, Cliff — you’re a regular.”

“Never mind the thanks, Beef. I had it in for that false alarm. I wasn’t going to see him hand you a final ticket. Getting Dombo wasn’t the tough part, though. I had more trouble pulling you out before the bulls arrived.”

“Say” — Beef’s expression showed alarm — “do you think they trailed us?”

“Not much chance. But Joe Cardona was with them. I heard his voice. He’ll be looking for me.”

“Why for you?”

“Because I came through the front.” Cliff made this statement so emphatic that Beef nodded in belief. “Clipper saw me. That was while Dombo and his gang were coming through the back.”

“That don’t matter, Cliff. We can use this joint as a hideout, can’t we?”

“You can, Beef. You were hiding out at the Santiago anyway, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, keep this place then. You’ll be safe here. But two of us — well, that would be taking too big a chance. I’d rather scram, Beef. New York’s getting too hot for me anyway.”

Beef rubbed his bruised head. He smiled. He preferred to hide out alone; the offer was to his liking. He saw a double advantage in acquiring this unexpected friend.

“Listen, Cliff” — Beef’s tone was inquiring — “where do you figure on heading?”

“No place in particular,” responded Cliff. “Just out of New York, that’s all.”

“Croaker Zinn knows you, don’t he?”

“He ought to. I saw him at a lot of places while you and he were working together.”

“That makes it jake. Have you got any dough, Cliff?”

“Enough to clear town.”

“Great. How would you like somethin’ soft at the end of your trip?”

“I wouldn’t mind it. What’s the lay?”

BEEF MALLIGAN motioned to a chair by the door. Cliff Marsland sat down to listen. Beef leaned forward and spoke in a confiding tone.

“I’m stickin’ here, Cliff,” he explained. “because I’m still workin’ with Croaker. He’s in on the best racket you ever heard of. I’ve been diggin’ up the old mob, one by one, an’ sending ‘em along to Croaker. He needs some good torpedoes, see?”

“I get you, Beef.”

“I was waitin’ for a guy to show up tonight. I won’t see him on account of what happened. So the job’s yours if you want it.”

Beef dug in his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. He handed it to Cliff, who opened it. Cliff stared as he pulled out slips of paper.

“What are these?” he questioned.

“Passes to a circus,” returned Beef with a grin. “That is, one of ‘em is a pass to the circus; the others will take you in to the other shows.”

“Larch Circus and Greater Shows,” read Cliff, as he looked at the slips of paper. “Pass one. This one is signed by Tex Larch — here’s one with the signature Captain Guffy—”

“The circus is playin’ at a town called Marlborough,” broke in Beef. “That’s where you go, Cliff.”

“And what do I do there?”

“Use those passes.”

“Is that all?”

“No. Somewhere along the line, you will hear somebody say the word ‘Ceylon’. That’s your tip-off. You ask that person: ‘Where is Ceylon?’ — an’ then you’ll get told what to do next.”

“Have you gone screwy, Beef? Let’s see where that gorilla slugged you.”

“Listen Cliff” — Beef’s tone was impatient — “this is on the level. Maybe it sounds screwy, but it ain’t. I’m lettin’ you in on a racket that’s got a load of gravy. I’ve sent plenty of the real guys along to get in on it. This is your chance. I ain’t forgettin’ that you took me off the spot tonight.”

Cliff Marsland stared toward his ugly-faced companion. But his gaze saw more than Beef’s thick-lipped countenance. Beyond the racketeer, framed in the opened window, was a shrouded figure of blackness. The Shadow had followed. The Shadow had heard.

A gloved hand projected into the room; instead of pointing, it moved up and down. The action symbolized a nod. Cliff Marsland rose to his feet and thrust the envelope into his pocket.

“All right, Beef,” he declared firmly. “You’re on. It sounds like a good lay — even though I don’t know the details. I’m taking it.”

“You’re wise, Cliff. I’m tellin’ you, it’s real.”

“Keep this hideout. I’m beating it. The sooner I get started, the better — before Joe Cardona gets on my trail.”

Cliff thrust out a hand. Beef shook it. The Shadow’s agent turned and opened the door. He closed the barrier behind him and descended to the street.

CLIFF was wearing a smile as he reached the coupe. He had no fear of Detective Joe Cardona. His pretence had been for the purpose of gaining the very result that he had attained.

Following The Shadow’s lead, Cliff Marsland had learned facts that he had previously known only as rumors; namely, that Beef Malligan was shipping gunmen on to Croaker Zinn.

More than that, Cliff had carved his way into the select outfit. He had taken credit for The Shadow’s work. He had passed himself as Beef Malligan’s rescuer. He had received his reward.

A secret agent of The Shadow, Cliff Marsland was on his way to learn the inside working of hidden crime. As The Shadow’s emissary, Cliff would send back word of the game which concerned the notorious Croaker Zinn.

Cliff Marsland had received the order of The Shadow! While Beef Malligan remained secure in the hideout which Cliff had offered him, The Shadow’s agent would be at work uncovering crime instead of abetting it.

Such was the work of The Shadow’s agent. Behind it lay the strategy of The Shadow himself!