Death Clew

CHAPTER XII. MURDER AT NIGHT

SHAKES NIEFAN had unwittingly eluded The Shadow. While the gun-fray was going on about the killer’s discarded hideout, Shakes had reached a new objective. After alighting from an uptown station, he had walked two blocks to make a phone call from a booth in a cigar store.

With receiver wobbling in his unsteady hand, Shakes was talking in the fashion of the night before. Once more the slayer was reporting for grim duty.

“Hello…” Shakes was using his affected growl. “Yeah… I’m all ready… Sure… Last night was O.K. wasn’t it? All right… Tonight will be the same… No, I’m not going back to the old place… I’m going to keep away from those joints… Yeah… Some guys think they’re too wise…”

Leaving the store, Shakes walked westward to an avenue. He went one block north; then turned into a side street. He reduced his pace as he neared a lighted archway that occupied a broad space between two old-fashioned buildings. Shakes noted the inscription on the arch:

Shakes walked beneath the archway. The space within widened out into a large courtyard. Two-story buildings— old English houses in miniature — flanked the sides of Ballantyne Place.

A secluded spot in the heart of Manhattan, this exclusive section consisted of houses built, on the cooperative plan. There were perhaps a dozen residences in Ballantyne Place; each bore a conspicuous number upon its door. Shakes Niefan strolled along until he reached Number 8.

Pausing to light his cigarette, Shakes feigned the part of a chance visitor while he glanced about to make sure that no one was in the quiet court. He noted lights in the upstairs windows of the house at which he stood. He tried the door and found it locked.

The style of the lock was its weakness. A large keyhole offered an easy task. Shakes pulled a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket. On the third trial, the lock opened.

Shakes pressed the door inward. It yielded only a few inches. Pulling the glove from his right hand, Shakes inserted his fingers. He found a chain instead of a bolt. This, again, was a factor in the crook’s favor.

The chain would not loosen, but when Shakes brought his jimmy into action, the work was simple. A dull, splintering sound occurred as the wall fastening broke loose. Shakes threw a nervous glance toward the courtyard; then entered.

Closing the door Shakes began a flashlight inspection downstairs. He found a small living room where the embers of a dying fire glowed from a grate. Desk and table drawers revealed an assortment of papers.

Shakes bundled these without further inspection; he tossed them in the fireplace and watched them burn to ashes. With a short laugh Shakes approached the stairs and sneaked upward to the darkened hall above.

THERE was a light beneath the door of a front room. A low, hoarse voice issued forth in frightened tones. Pressing close to the door, Shakes distinguished words:

“This is Hiram Engliss speaking… Number Eight, Ballantyne Place… I believe that my house has been entered… Yes… I could hear some one breaking in downstairs…”

While his lips formed a fierce, distorted grimace, Shakes Niefan pressed his jimmy into place against the edge of the frail door. He was sure that this barrier was locked. The man within was calling the police.

There was no time to lose.

Pausing, Shakes heard the clatter of the telephone receiver. He used the jimmy with full force. A startled cry came from within. Hiram Engliss knew now that danger had arrived.

Woodwork splintered from the door. Another wrench of the jimmy. As Shakes leaned to his work, he heard a window come open; he caught the shout that Hiram Engliss uttered:

“Help!” The man was frantic. “Help! Burglars—”

The door snapped open. Shakes Niefan dropped his jimmy as he plunged forward. His right hand shot to his coat pocket. He was face to face with a pale-faced, elderly man who was turning from the window.

Hiram Engliss was holding, an old-fashioned pepper-box — a four-barreled pistol that looked like a honeycomb.

The gun was wobbling in the old man’s hand. Hiram Engliss, clad in dressing gown, was ready with a frantic effort to stop this intruder. Wildly, he fired. Even at this close range, the bullet went wide.

Shakes was bringing out his revolver with a hand that shook as much as the old man’s. But the murderer lacked the nervousness that had gripped Hiram Engliss. The pepper-box spoke with a puny bark. Again, the aim was faulty.

Shakes pressed the trigger of his stub-nosed revolver. His hand had steadied for the action. His aim had its customary perfection. The old-fashioned gun fell to the floor as Hiram Engliss collapsed.

Shakes Niefan lost no time. He yanked open the bureau drawers. They contained no papers. Turning, Shakes dashed down the stairs. He passed the living room, hurried through the front door and crossed the court.

Shouts came from other windows. Shakes turned and delivered a shot that shattered a pane. Heads bobbed from view. Shakes reached the street. He saw a taxicab stopping at the opposite curb.

“Scram!” shouted the murderer.

Cab driver and passenger jumped to the sidewalk. Shakes grabbed the wheel and shot the car full speed ahead. A patrolman appeared as the cab reached the corner. Shakes opened fire. The officer ducked for the cover of a doorway. He responded with futile shots as the cab swung around the corner.

Once again, Shakes Niefan had delivered death. The murderer was still ahead of The Shadow’s pursuit.

The police had shown their inability to cope with his swift ways of killing.

The taxi swung into an obscure block. It came to a leisurely stop as a patrol car sped past. The police were on the way to the scene of death; but the murderer had gone.

Shakes Niefan again wore his evil smile as he alighted from the cab and strolled along the street. Safely away, a new hideout chosen for tonight, he was ready to make his telephoned report concerning the death of Hiram Engliss.