Crooks Go Straight

CHAPTER XI. THE HUNTED MAN

AT the time when four men were concluding their lunch in a Manhattan hotel, a fast train was speeding eastward toward the Jersey City terminal of the Central Railroad of New Jersey.

This was a Baltimore and Ohio limited that had left Washington about five hours earlier. Its eastern terminal was the depot of the Jersey Central; and passengers in the dining car were finishing their lunch in anticipation of a prompt arrival in Jersey City.

Among those in the dining car was a long-faced, dark-haired man with bushy brows and heavy mustache. Glancing from the window, he saw that the limited was nearing the long bridge that crossed Newark Bay. The man arose and went back to the club car.

Under his arm this individual carried a book that he had been reading. That accounted in part for the fact that he had not perused the morning newspapers in the club car. There was another angle, also, to his choice of reading.

Among the newspapers on the train, this traveler had not spied any of the New York dailies. He had passed up Washington, Baltimore and Philadelphia newspapers with a mere glance; then had reverted to his book instead.

In the club car, the long-faced man sat down beside a table. He looked up momentarily as another person arrived from the dining car. He observed a quiet-faced young chap who sat down and looked from the window.

Realizing that they were nearly to the end of the run, the long-faced man put aside his book. Then, on the table beside him, he chanced to spy a New York newspaper.

Some one must have brought the journal aboard. It was a morning newspaper that might have been purchased by a passenger who boarded the train at Philadelphia. The long-faced man picked up the newspaper. A suppressed exclamation came from the lips beneath his mustache.

Staring at the front page of the newspaper, the long-faced traveler had recognized his own photograph.

Above it was the caption: “Wanted on Murder Charge.” Below it was his own name in small capital letters:

A shudder came to Murson’s shoulders. Wild-eyed, the broker looked about. No one had apparently noticed the tremor that had quaked his frame. Avidly, Murson began to read the column that appeared beside his name. It was an account of murder in the penthouse of Theobald Luftus.

“Jersey City!” came the porter’s announcement. “Last stop—”

MURSON rose unsteadily. His bags had gone out to the vestibule. Clutching the telltale newspaper, the broker jammed it into his overcoat pocket. He moved to the door as the train coasted into the terminal.

Stepping from the club car, Murson saw the line of heavy busses that meet all incoming trains of the B.O. From his pocket he pulled a cardboard ticket that bore a large figure 1. He recalled that he had arranged to go uptown by bus.

His bag had already gone aboard the rear of the bus when Murson arrived and handed the ticket to the driver. Entering the bus, the broker slumped into a deep leather seat and muffled the collar of his overcoat about his chin.

He was a hunted man. Wanted for a part in robbery and murder. Face quivering, Murson tried to cover up his identity. He drew the newspaper from his pocket, glanced at the picture and tried to steady himself.

A poor photograph. An old one that had not reproduced well. It gave Murson an idea. He drew a small case from his pocket and extracted a pair of pince-nez spectacles that he seldom used. Adjusting the glasses to his nose, Murson felt that they might help him as a temporary disguise.

Drawing the newspaper from his pocket the broker held it in front of him and tried to read. He noted that the police were searching for him — according to the account; that he had presumably left for Washington the day before.

Dimly, Murson recalled an incident this morning: police at the Union Station in Washington, watching people going through a train gate. But they had been watching southern-bound passengers. Murson realized why. No one would have suspected that he, Adolph Murson, would be coming back to New York.

Murson realized something else. In Washington, he had not stopped at a hotel. Instead, he had stayed over night with a friend in Arlington. He had left by taxicab to catch his train. Had his friend read the newspapers and informed the police that he had left for New York? Murson hoped not.

The bus had started; passing through the terminal, it rolled aboard a ferryboat. Murson continued his reading. He was nervous. He expected that police would be on the other side. He was tempted to leave the bus; but the presence of the other passengers deterred him.

Across the aisle was the young man whom Murson had seen in the club car of the train. This chap was reading a magazine, not a newspaper. Murson felt at ease on that score. Here, at least, was one who would not recognize him.

The ferry reached the Manhattan slip. Big wheels spun; chains clattered; gates were opened. The bus moved forward through a tunnellike passage. It stopped as it reached the street.

Murson groaned. He saw a policeman coming over toward the bus.

Then came a break. Another bus, one bringing passengers to the depot, rolled up from the opposite direction. The policeman turned and began to look through the windows of the arriving vehicle. He was interested more in people who were leaving New York, rather than those coming into town.

MURSON’S bus rolled northward. As it sped along a broad avenue, Murson felt a sickening-sensation.

He had intended to ride to the bus depot on Forty-second Street, opposite the Grand Central Terminal.

He realized that there would be officers at that spot.

Fumbling for a time-table, Murson read the names of places where the bus stopped en route. A weak smile came to his lips. He clenched and unclenched his hands, rustling the newspaper with the action.

Then, as the bus crossed a broad street, he arose and stepped forward to the driver.

“I want the Zenith Hotel,” he said. “You stop near there, don’t you?”

“Next stop,” informed the driver.

Murson held to the handle of a seat, staring through the front window. The bus rolled along another block; then, swerved and pulled up beside the entrance of a hotel. Murson stepped out when the driver opened the door. An attendant put his bag off at the back.

Not waiting for the hotel porter to pick up the bag, Murson headed through the revolving door and reached the lobby of the Zenith Hotel. He had seen a patrolman strolling down the street. In his haste to avoid the officer, he did not learn that another passenger had followed him from the bus.

It was the young man with the magazine. He arrived at the desk in the lobby while Murson was registering under the name of John Dyler, giving his home city as Baltimore.

The young man heard the clerk give Murson Room 912. Then, as Murson turned about, the young man strolled away toward a magazine stand, unnoticed by the broker.

Murson entered an elevator, a bell hop carrying his bag. The young man went directly to a telephone booth and dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Vincent calling,” acknowledged the young man.

“Report,” came Burbank’s order.

The young man spoke in detail. He told of Adolph Murson’s trip from the ferry. He gave the broker’s false name and room number.

The call completed, the young man strolled from the booth and left the hotel. Harry Vincent, active agent of The Shadow, had reported to the contact man, Burbank.

UP in Room 912, Murson was fumbling with a phone book The bell boy had gone. Finding a number, Murson put in a call. He asked for Mr. Dobbs. He was informed that Mr. Dobbs was out. Murson hung up and paced the room.

Ten minutes later, he repeated the call — with the same result. Mr. Dobbs was still out. The girl at the other end of the wire wanted Murson’s name. Murson stammered incoherently; then hung up.

The broker’s back was to the door. Hence Murson did not see a motion of the barrier. Though he had locked it, the door was opening inward.

Murson swung about. A cry came from his lips.

Standing in the room was a personage dressed in a dark, well-fitted suit. The intruder’s face was a calm one, a moulded visage that seemed almost masklike. There was something hawkish in his countenance; and his eyes were burning orbs that gleamed upon the hapless broker.

Murson sank gasping into a chair. He babbled weakly, incoherently; then buried his head in his hand.

The tall intruder’s thin lips formed a smile; from them came the faint whisper of a mirthless laugh.

The arrival was The Shadow. Guised as a chance visitor, he had come here to find Adolph Murson.

Within a half hour after Murson’s arrival in New York, The Shadow had uncovered the hunted man for whom the police were searching everywhere in vain.