Crime Circus

CHAPTER XX THE MOB BREAKS

AS Cap Guffy stared in challenge, he found himself looking into the muzzle of a stub-nosed revolver. The weapon was held by Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative spoke in a cold, steady voice.

“Where have you taken the queer stuff, Guffy?” questioned Vic. “What about the real dough you took in?”

“The queer stuff?” gasped Guffy.

“The counterfeit money,” affirmed Vic. “The game was working from your Ten-in-One tent. I figured you to be the big shot, if Tex Larch didn’t prove to be the man.”

“Where’s the girl?” demanded the sheriff.

“What girl?” blurted Cap.

“Lucy Aldon,” stated Adoniram Towne.

“Lucy Aldon?” questioned Cap.

“They mean Lucille Lavan,” declared Tex Larch, suddenly. He turned to the sheriff, then to Vic Marquette. “Listen, you fellows” — Tex was serious — “it looks like a double racket was working on this lot. You accused me of being the big shot. Now you’re on Cap Guffy’s neck.”

“Well?” quizzed Vic Marquette.

“You’re wrong about Cap,” stated Tex, “just as you were wrong about me. Cap’s on the level.”

“He is, eh?” put in the sheriff. “Well, you and him didn’t seem to be such good friends when he was leaving tonight.”

“Cap and I had our differences,” admitted Tex. “But he’s a trouper and a straight shooter. As I get it” — Tex was concentrating on Vic Marquette — “you’re after some fellow who has gone off the lot.”

“Not just off tonight,” insisted Vic. “I want the man who’s been on and off. The fellow who could have brought in counterfeit bills and taken away real cash, by contact with his helpers here.”

“The fellow who could have carried away the bank funds,” put in the sheriff, suddenly. “Like you, Larch, going into New York. Like you, Guffy, going down to the station with a trunk. I’m just beginning to see the game.”

“There are my bags,” asserted Tex. “Nothing in them. And if Cap was crooked, he wouldn’t have come back to this lot, would he? Listen” — Tex narrowed his gaze toward Vic — “I’ll tell you who the real crook is—”

“Jonathan Wilbart!” exclaimed Cap Guffy.

“Bah!” put in the sheriff. “Say — it looks like both of you are crooks. Come on, men. We’re taking them into town. Get a car—”

“Wait!” The command came from Vic Marquette. “These men may be right, sheriff. Where is Jonathan Wilbart?”

“He left a while ago. But he—”

“Hold these two men, sheriff. I’ve seen Wilbart’s car around this lot. I know where he usually parks it. Let me take a look.”

“But he’s gone—”

“I don’t know about that. Allow me five minutes, sheriff. Let me see if Wilbart is still around.”

“All right.”

VIC ducked for the side of the tent as the Sheriff gave his agreement. Coming out into dim light, he scrambled off into darkness. He saw a car parked off the lot. He leveled his gun as he noticed a crouched figure. Then came the glimmer of a flashlight. Vic stopped short, caught by the glare.

“Vic!” Slade’s voice gasped in recognition of the ex-geek’s brownish features. “It’s you, isn’t it, Vic?”

“Yeah,” returned Vic Marquette. “Where’s Dunham?”

“Right here.” Slade spoke with satisfaction. “We got your tip. We grabbed the bozos when they came back to the car. Some guy on the lot must have had a duplicate key to this sedan. It was planted with a tin box full of real dough and a couple of packages of queer.”

Slade turned the rays of his flashlight. Vic saw two sour-faced men standing at the side of the sedan. Dunham was covering the pair. One was Jonathan Wilbart; the other his chauffeur, Lennox.

“So you’re the big shot, Wilbart?” questioned Vic. “I guess you’ve got the bank swag too, eh?”

“No,” growled Wilbart. “I don’t know what this is all about.”

“I’m not in the game,” protested Lennox. “I think I can help you fellows find the swag. It may be in Mr. Wilbart’s safe—”

“Shut up, Lennox,” ordered Wilbart.

“I’ll talk,” persisted the chauffeur. “I thought you were an honest man, Mr. Wilbart, until tonight—”

“You can talk later,” interposed Vic, grimly. “Hold him here, Slade. I’m taking Wilbart with me. Wait until I return.”

Vic planted his gun-muzzle in the center of Wilbart’s back. He ordered the magnate forward. Vic was grim as he forced the exposed crook toward the tent where others were waiting. Vic knew that a riot was due to break. But he counted on at least a dozen minutes before Luke gave the call.

EVENTS had been moving rapidly on the lot. Off in another stretch of darkness, The Shadow was still covering Croaker Zinn and Beef Malligan. There was no flashlight glowing, but The Shadow, shrouded in darkness, could view the outlines of the crooks before him. Knowing that they were covered by the automatics, Croaker and Beef were standing with upraised hands.

Harry Vincent was releasing Lucille Lavan. He had taken the gag from the girl’s mouth. He was working on the thongs that bound her. Lucille, half senseless, was propped upon the rear seat of the car, and Harry was finding difficulty in working loose the leather bonds.

“Her hands are free,” Harry informed The Shadow, in an undertone. “I’m working on the ankle-straps. All right — they’re cut—”

Harry stopped short. A long, wailing cry was coming through the night. It was the signal that no one had expected at this early minute — Luke’s order — the chaos that was to sweep the circus lot.

“H-e-e-e-y Ru-u-u-ube!”

Profound stillness followed the long call. Then, like automatic echoes, came answered cries from other portions of the lot. A dozen men had taken up the shout. A revolver shot sounded in the distance.

Hey Rube!

It was the battle cry of the circus lot. It meant that all would rally to a common cause. The real circus folk, not knowing that crooks had started the riot call, would join forces with the mobsters who had prepared this climax of violence.

The Shadow was motionless in the darkness. His silence, together with the cry, was inspiration for Croaker Zinn and Beef Malligan. Gleaming eyes had turned toward the tents. With one accord, the two crooks shot hands to pockets and leaped forward, drawing their revolvers.

The Shadow whirled to meet them. Fingers pressed triggers as his black form dropped. Croaker’s revolver barked. Its bullet whistled over The Shadow’s head. Beef, aiming low, was ready to pump lead into the fading foeman.

Croaker had been too quick. Beef was too slow. As crooks closed with The Shadow, automatics flared from gloved fists. Spitting bullets did double duty. Croaker Zinn slumped before he could take new aim. Beef Malligan collapsed before he could press revolver trigger.

The Shadow hissed an order to Harry Vincent. His tall form rose from beside the sprawled mobleaders. The cloak swished as The Shadow glided swiftly toward the tents along the midway.

LUKE had been watching Lucille’s tent. That was the reason for the early cry. From a distance, the tattooed man had seen Jonathan Wilbart coming into the range of light, with Vic Marquette behind him. Luke — like Marxia — shared Cleed’s knowledge of the big shot’s identity. To aid Wilbart, Luke had given the “Hey Rube.”

With that cry, Wilbart had swung. Before Vic could fire, the magnate delivered a punch that sent the operative sprawling. Leaping toward the midway, Wilbart cried to Luke and pointed off in the direction of his car. Luke sent mobsters scurrying in that direction.

Revolvers barked in the darkness. Vic, coming to his feet, opened fire on those who had headed for Wilbart’s car. Shots came from the sedan. Vic felt grim satisfaction. He could tell that both Slade and Dunham were shooting. They had given Lennox a chance to prove himself on the level. Lennox was making good.

Mobsters dropped back at the steady fire which came from two directions. The Shadow, passing Vic, knew that the sharp-shooting secret-service men could hold their own. He headed for Lucille’s tent, where shouts proclaimed excitement. His tall form raised the canvas at the rear.

Of the men gathered in that tent, only the sheriff and his deputies were armed. The deputies had still been covering Tex and Cap. The sheriff had been watching Stuffy. Thus, a surprise from the front flaps had caught them helpless.

Jonathan Wilbart and Luke had pulled back the tent flaps. Five mobsters — all pretended roughnecks — had leaped in at their bidding. These gorillas had covered the sheriff and the deputies. They were waiting for orders.

A harsh laugh was on Wilbart’s lips. The officers had dropped their guns. The arch-crook saw no menace. In a sneering, evil voice, he announced his prompt intention. His statement was a revelation of the fiendish nature that lay behind his gentlemanly mask.

“Shoot them down,” ordered Wilbart. “Fire when I give the word. Leave none alive. Ready—”

The shape of The Shadow loomed up within the rear canvas. A weird, taunting laugh stilled Wilbart’s savage lips. Burning eyes were steady above the barrels of leveled automatics. As mobsters swung startled to face the blackclad menace, the automatics spoke.

TWO mobsters staggered as the first shots flashed. The Shadow aimed for others of the squad. Crooks fired hasty shots that tore holes in the canvas. A third mobster sprawled. A fourth wavered. He saw Wilbart and Luke diving for the midway.

Sheriff and deputies were grabbing up their guns. Their shots turned the aim of the mobsters. The fight in the big top was being duplicated on a miniature scale. As The Shadow’s laugh pealed forth its gibing challenge, the last two gorillas became the targets of two fires.

The Shadow’s automatics — the revolvers of the law — these were the weapons that dropped the last pair of crooks. The sheriff and his men leaped forward. Tex and Cap followed, grabbing guns from dying mobsters. While Stuffy Dowson and Adoniram Towne stood rooted, five armed men sprang forth to join the fray on the midway.

Pretended roughnecks — bare arms flashing to show their red circles — were exchanging shots with the rest of the deputies. Circus folk, armed with clubs and iron bars, were joining battle with townsfolk still upon the lot.

Shot were coming from beside Lucille’s tent. The Shadow had gone outside the canvas. Cutting along the fringe of the midway, he was dropping members of the red circle. From beside the office, Cliff Marsland was doing the same.

Tex Larch bellowed an order from in front of Lucille’s tent. Circus folk stopped as they heard the showman’s voice. It rose above the spat of guns that the sheriff and his deputies were employing.

“Get those roughnecks!” shouted Tex. “Get the ones with the guns! They’re crooks! Get them!”

In a trice, the scene was changed. Circus folk who had responded to the “Hey Rube” ceased their battle with the townies. They became avengers as they smothered the mobsters. Members of the red circle went down under the attack of clubs and rods.

Tex Larch had used his head. Guns seldom appeared in fights on circus lots. His cry, passing along the line, had given immediate understanding. Townsmen, seeing that the real circus people were aiding the outnumbered deputies, came to give further aid. As the sheriff strode out into the midway, the fierce fight was coming to a sudden finish. Men of crime were conquered.

CLIFF MARSLAND had hurried toward the trucks of the Ten-in-One. He had seen two men running in that direction: Jonathan Wilbart and Luke, the tattooed man. Princess Marxia was in the rumble seat of Cap Guffy’s coupe. With one arm clinging to the snake box, she was beckoning with the other.

Wilbart reached the car and leaped aboard. Luke clambered to the wheel. Cliff fired wild shots as he cut across the midway. He saw the coupe roll from the lot. Cliff turned toward a sedan that was coming from rough ground. He shouted to the driver. The door opened.

Cliff leaped aboard to find Harry Vincent at the wheel. Lucille Lavan was in the back. Harry shot the sedan forward, to take up the pursuit. They reached the roadway a hundred feet behind the fleeing coupe. Cliff leaned outward with ready automatic. Then he uttered a wild exclamation.

“Look!”

The coupe had slowed to take the first turn in the road. Cliff stayed his fire. For as the sedan shot forward, he saw a black-cloaked figure spring from an embankment and land on the running board of the fleeing car, clinging on to it.

It was The Shadow! He had sped to intercept the flight. His leap had brought him to the side of the car, face to face with Jonathan Wilbart.

THE thud of The Shadow’s form brought swinging guns in his direction. One was gripped by Wilbart; the other by Luke.

Fingers pressed triggers. With split-second speed, The Shadow beat Wilbart to the shot. The arch-crook slumped; his unfired revolver dropped from his hand, while the echo of The Shadow’s shot sounded within the coupe.

With one hand swinging the coupe to the straight road, Luke aimed with the other. The tattooed man had acted with less speed than Wilbart. That proved his undoing.

The Shadow shifted as Luke fired. The shot whistled through a fold of the cloak as The Shadow moved sidewise from the door. The automatic barked its answer. Luke crumpled behind the wheel.

From the pursuing sedan, Cliff Marsland uttered a grim exclamation as the coupe left the road. Crashing through a fence, the light car toppled sidewise into darkness as its wheels skidded on the side of an embankment and went down the incline.

As Harry jammed the brakes, Cliff leaped from the sedan. He sprang to the embankment and stared toward the wreck of the overturned coupe. His flashlight showed one moving form. It was that of Princess Marxia, hurled from the smashed car. Beside her lay the snake box, its top broken.

Horror showed on Cliff’s face as he saw what happened twenty feet below. Marxia, crippled by the crash, was trying to rise. Rattling noises brought a scream from the woman’s lips. Cliff saw the striking heads of poisonous snakes. Moaning, Marxia rolled upon the ground and lay still.

The rattlers, poison unremoved from their fangs, had completed this grim tragedy. Jonathan Wilbart had died. So had Luke. Marxia — as murderous as the two men — had joined her companions in death.

A voice spoke beside Cliff Marsland. It was Harry Vincent’s. Cliff turned his flashlight. Harry was nodding and pointing to the sedan.

“The Shadow?” questioned Cliff.

“He’s all right,” answered Harry. “He landed clear when the coupe took the ditch. He’s in the car.”

“What about the girl?”

“She has left. I helped her up the embankment. She is cutting across to the lot, to inform them that she is safe.”

Cliff followed Harry to the car and joined him in the front seat. The sedan pulled away. Cliff, glancing into the rear, saw only blackness.

But as the car rolled on its way, a weird, whispered sound came to the ears of The Shadow’s agents. It made them tremble, even though its author was their friend.

The laugh of The Shadow!

Shrouded in blackness, traveling away from the scenes where he had conquered crime, the master of the night had uttered his grim triumph.

Mirthless, the laugh rose upon the silence of the countryside; then broke with quivering echoes that seemed to linger with the sighing breeze.

Evil schemes had ended. Minions of crime had died. Their insidious leader had perished. Justice had gained the victory over cross-purposes of crime.

Justice — through The Shadow!