Crooks Go Straight

CHAPTER VIII. CROOKS MOVE

A CLOCK was chiming nine from the mantelpiece of an oddly furnished room. A sour-faced old man was seated in a Morris chair, reading a newspaper. This was Theobald Luftus, in his penthouse atop the Swithin Apartments.

Though it was evening, Luftus was still engaged in perusing a morning journal. He was behind time so far as the day was concerned; his establishment showed that he was years backward in his environment.

For the furnishings of this penthouse were old pieces that Luftus had brought from an antiquated house.

They were evidences — even to the soiled, dingy curtains — that Theobald Luftus preferred not to spend money whenever expense could be avoided.

Beyond an old sideboard stood a battered safe, another relic of the past. As a strong box, that steel container was no more than a piece of junk. Yet Luftus apparently considered it good enough to protect his belongings. For the old man’s face registered full signs of security.

Some one knocked at the door of this piecemeal living room. Luftus croaked an order to enter. His bald head shone in the light as he looked upward through his glasses. Then an expression of alarm came upon his withered countenance. Luftus had expected a servant to enter through the door. Instead, two masked men stepped into view.

“What — what is the meaning of this?” blurted Luftus. “Who — who are you? What have you done with Barry?”

“You mean the flunky?” came a growl. The voice was Beak Latzo’s. “Don’t worry about him. We’re bringing him along. Here he is.”

As Beak and his companion stepped aside, two more masked men entered. Between them they had a haggard prisoner. The fellow was the servant who had admitted them. The one whom Luftus had called Barry.

Rough hands sent Barry spinning into a corner. The servant, a corpulent, middle-aged man, cringed as he stared hopelessly toward his master.

Theobald Luftus, quivering with indignation, tried to speak. Beak flourished a revolver under the old man’s chin. Luftus backed against the wall.

“What’s the combination to that box?” growled Beak, nudging a thumb toward the safe.

“I won’t give it,” challenged Luftus, in a quavering tone.

“You won’t?” began Beak. “Well, we’ll see—”

“Hold it!” The interruption came from another raider. This masked man was Lucky Ortz. “I can crack that piece of junk with a hammer and a cold chisel. Watch me.”

He produced the tools and stepped to the corner. The first strokes indicated that he could make good his boast. Chunks chipped from the edge of the door as Lucky began his efficient work.

“Like cutting cheese,” scoffed Lucky. “All I need is a start; then I’ll jimmy the box. Let the old dub hang on to his secret. This is a laugh.”

Luftus, his hands half raised, was clenching his fists excitedly. He recognized that the task was an easy one for Lucky. He began to blab half incoherently. Beak caught his words and snorted.

“Lay off, Lucky,” ordered Beak. “The old boy don’t want his trick box ruined. Saving it to amuse his grandchildren. Here — let me at it; he’s spilled the combo.”

LUFTUS gasped in horror-stricken fashion. Almost unwittingly, the old man had passed this news. He watched Beak step up and turn the dial, while Lucky stood by with hammer and chisel. The door of the safe came open.

Inside were stacks of envelopes, bound with rubber bands. Most of them appeared to contain documents of importance; but with the bundles were loosely arranged sheaves of correspondence.

Beak produced a soft cloth bag. Without ceremony, he and Lucky began to dump the stacks into the bag.

A hoarse cry from Luftus. The old man faltered forward, his eyes ablaze with fury. One of the gorillas blocked him, shoving a revolver muzzle against the old man’s chin. Luftus subsided, backing close to Barry.

“Ropes,” ordered Beak, as he and Lucky completed the rifling of the safe.

“We’re going to tie those two geezers and let them cool a while—”

He stopped short and held up a hand as he was interrupted by the ringing of a phone bell. He pointed to the table where the telephone was resting.

“You’d better answer it, Lucky,” he said, cautiously. “It might be one of these gorillas you left down at the hideout.

“Chances are it ain’t,” protested Lucky. “Let ‘em ring. They’ll think the old mug here is out.”

“Yeah? They’ll figure something’s wrong. This bird Luftus looks like he never goes out. Answer it.”

“But what about my voice?”

“Fake it. Tell them you’re Barry.”

Lucky nodded. He picked up the telephone and spoke in a tone that was a thin disguise for the servant’s.

He heard a gasping tone across the wire. His own voice changed. Lucky spoke in his usual tone.

“Yes,” he said, quickly. “This is Lucky… Yes… What? He got Hunk? Whew…”

Lucky turned quickly to Beak.

“It’s Goofy,” he informed. “He’s in his own hangout. Had to scram. The Shadow blew in on your hideout.”

“And he got Hunk?” demanded Beak.

Lucky nodded.

“Find out where he went from there,” ordered Beak, in a tense growl.

Lucky talked over the wire. This time he had trouble in getting Goofy’s reply. His tone was troubled when he turned to Beak a second time.

“He may be on his way here,” explained Lucky. “So Goofy says. He figures The Shadow could be anywhere.”

“Did he get into my room?” demanded Beak.

“No,” returned Lucky. “That’s one break. Hunk and Goofy spotted him outside the door.”

“Then we’re all right,” assured Beak. “If he didn’t get those letters that were in my pockets. But if Goofy blew the place, The Shadow might go back there.”

“Goofy brought your duds with him,” stated Lucky. “I’ll tell him to look in the pockets.”

LUCKY spoke over the wire. At first he did not receive a response. Then Goofy’s voice clicked on the line. Lucky spoke. A pause; again Goofy’s voice clicked. Lucky turned to Beak and nodded.

“He’s got the letters,” assured Lucky.

“Great,” acknowledged Beak. “Tell him to burn them — in a hurry— right now—”

Lucky nodded. He gave the order to Goofy, adding comments of his own. There came another pause — a full three quarters of a minute. Then Lucky began to listen intently. He had one hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone while he reported Goofy’s words to Beak.

“Goofy’s read the letters,” he assured. “They’re both from Steve… He’s burned them. Ashes out the window… Wait a minute, I can’t get what he’s saying… Something I can’t get…”

Lucky suddenly dropped the receiver on the hook. He turned his masked face toward Beak. An oath came from Lucky’s lips.

“Goofy’s croaked!” was Lucky’s added exclamation. “He was telling me he was wounded — I could hear him coughing! Then he gasped and I could hear him clatter to the floor, the telephone along with him. The Shadow must have got him!”

“Come on!” snarled Beak. “We’re moving!”

GORILLAS seemed eager to go. They grabbed hold of Luftus and began to wind a rope about his wrists. The old man uttered a defiant protest.

“Shut up, you old fool!” snarled Beak. “You want a thump from the butt of my rod?”

“You can’t silence me,” crackled Luftus. “Never! I’ll tell what I’ve heard!” He was fighting free from the mobsters. “I’ll tell about Steve — about this man here — the one you called Lucky—”

Fiercely, Luftus broke loose. Springing forward, he hurled his clawlike hands at Beak’s throat. The attack was effective because of its unexpectedness. Beak went staggering back, trying to bring his gun into action. Luftus yanked at his mask while the gorillas fell upon the old man from behind.

Then came a sharp cry from Barry. The servant came leaping forward from the wall, to fling himself upon Lucky. Barry had seen that ruffian about to perform a murderous act. The servant wanted to prevent it; but his thrust came too late.

Lucky’s gat spoke straight for Luftus. The old man collapsed as the gorillas seized him. His body writhed upon the floor. Then Lucky went jouncing sidewise as a furious form landed on him. Ripping like a demon, Barry was clawing at this killer who had slain his master.

Lucky lost his gun as he sprawled on the floor. Barry, furious, seized it and tried to aim in vengeance.

Another gun spoke. This time it was Beak’s rod. Barry gasped; sidled to the floor and lay there groaning.

Beak ripped off his mask and hurled it into the open bag. He motioned the others to do the same. They complied. Hoisting the bundle, Beak tucked it under his arm. He snapped an order.

“Out by the service elevator,” he ordered. “The way we came in. Get going before they come up to find out about those shots.”

“I had to let the old duke have it, Beak,” declared Lucky. “He was on you — and he was going to squawk—”

“You don’t hear me crabbing do you,” broke in Beak. “Didn’t I give it to the flunky when he was on your neck? Couldn’t he blab, too? They had it coming — both of them.”

Four raiders hastened through the door. Silence followed their departure. Theobald Luftus was dead.

Barry’s groan had subsided. Death held sway in this antiquated room.

Murder had fallen despite The Shadow’s efforts to prevent it. Though rescue was already on the way, Theobald Luftus and his servant had succumbed. Had Luftus used discretion, he and Barry could have remained alive, waiting the arrival of the police.

But Luftus had used wild judgment. Murder had followed robbery. The track which The Shadow must from now on follow would be a trail of blood.