Death Sleep

CHAPTER XVIII THE SHADOW’S THRUST

DUSK. Cliff Marsland was standing by a table in a tawdry room. This was a place that The Shadow’s agent used for temporary living quarters in the underworld. The door was locked; Cliff was holding a small package that he had brought in his pocket.

An hour ago, Cliff had left the confines of the badlands. Respectably garbed, he had visited the office of an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. There, Cliff had received the package with instructions not to open it until he was safely alone.

Mann served as a contact agent of The Shadow. When Cliff opened the package, he was, therefore, not surprised to find a folded envelope accompanying the small cardboard box that lay within.

Last night, Cliff knew, a crew of selected raiders had met their Waterloo in the service of Spud Claxter. Shock troops eliminated, it was obvious that Spud would have to draft new raiders from his outside crowd. Cliff knew that he was eligible. He had reported that fact to The Shadow.

This was The Shadow’s answer. Cliff placed the little box upon the table. He opened the envelope. He read coded lines that had been inscribed in ink of a vivid blue. Cliff was familiar with the code. He read the message easily, then watched the writing vanish. That was the way with orders from The Shadow. Cliff tore the sheet of paper, tossed the blank pieces into a cracked wastebasket and stood in thought.

The Shadow had planned a clever thrust. The delivery depended upon Cliff Marsland. The agent was picturing the work that lay ahead. He fancied that he would encounter no great difficulty, provided, of course, that Spud chose him to act as a raider. Would that be tonight or later? Cliff considered.

Spud knew where Cliff was located. But Cliff had no idea where Spud could be reached. The mobleader’s orders were to stay either here or at the Black Ship. One thing had bothered Cliff. He imagined that contact with The Shadow might be difficult should he receive a sudden summons from Spud. But that worry was ended.

The Shadow’s instructions had placed Cliff on his own. Should Spud require him for the new band of raiders, The Shadow would know that Cliff had accepted the job. Lack of a call to Burbank would establish the fact. Once with the inner group of mobsters, Cliff could follow The Shadow’s orders.

The task might be easy. If so, Cliff would be able to report after he had accomplished what The Shadow required. The one hitch would be an emergency. Work done, the thrust made, Cliff might find himself in a position from which there was no immediate escape. If that difficulty arose, there would be an out. Cliff smiled as he picked up the cardboard box. Within this container — according to The Shadow’s note — lay an instrument which Cliff could use in emergency. The Shadow had provided for whatever might occur.

Cliff opened the box. Inside was a tiny leather bag. From the bag, Cliff drew a cylinder of metal. It was a hypodermic syringe, fully loaded. Cliff examined it carefully, then replaced it in the bag. He put the bag in his coat pocket.

A cautious knock sounded at the door. Cliff tossed the little box in the wastebasket. He went to the door and growled a challenge. A whispered voice gave a password. Cliff unbolted. A scrawny, pasty-faced gangster entered.

CLIFF knew the fellow. Skeet Wurrick. He realized instantly that Skeet must be a member of the selected raiding squad. Spud had not informed him that Skeet was in the game; but Spud had told Cliff to follow anyone who gave the password.

Skeet beckoned. Cliff followed. They went down the stairs of the rickety building that Cliff had chosen for a rooming place. Skeet glanced cautiously about as he stepped into the darkened street. Then he whispered to Cliff to follow. The little mobster led the way through an alley.

Cliff wondered if The Shadow were nearby. He doubted it. The Shadow probably had other work to do. He had left this task to Cliff alone. The odds were that Cliff could report back. If something went wrong, Cliff could take care of himself, thanks to the completeness of The Shadow’s plan.

Cliff and Skeet reached a touring car parked on the next street. They climbed in and the vehicle set out. Growled voices told Cliff the identity of his companions. Louie, Gabby and Muggsy were the other three who had been chosen to work with Skeet.

Louie was at the wheel. He followed the twisting course that Skeet ordered. When the car came to a stop, it was north and west of Times Square. Louie pulled into a wide, blind alleyway in back of an old garage.

The wall of the building had no windows. No one could have seen the crew that alighted. Skeet used a flashlight. He led the way to a grating and raised the bars of metal. He ordered the others to drop in and push their way through the open window beneath. Skeet followed last.

They were in a portion of the cellar. This part of the garage had evidently been abandoned. Skeet’s flashlight showed where archways had been walled on the right. They followed a narrow passage and came to an iron door that Skeet unlocked. The passage continued on the other side, but at the left were small doors, also of iron. All were closed.

Skeet turned on a light that hung from the ceiling. Its rays could not be seen, for Skeet had closed and locked the outer door. The scrawny mobster led the way to the final door on the left of the passage. He unlocked it, turned on a light and introduced the new crew to a small, stone-walled room, where a table stood in the corner.

Upon the table was a heavy wooden box. Skeet lifted the lid and showed the interior. It was divided into sections like an egg crate. Half of the compartments were empty; the rest contained small objects shaped like pineapples.

“Bombs,” explained Skeet. “Loaded wid stuff dat’ll knock you cuckoo in a jiff. One of dese’ll put you under for two days. Worser dan a sniff of snow. Dat’s wot’s been de matter wid all dem mugs up in de hospital.

“Dere ain’t no trick to usin’ dem. Just give a heave; de end pops off an’ goes blooey.” He picked up one of the pineapples. “Like dis. Only let de ting go. Don’t hang on to it like I did. Get me?”

The others nodded. They formed a tense group in this little room behind the iron door that Skeet had locked as an additional precaution. Skeet dived under the table and fetched up a stack of gas masks. They were provided with goggles that projected above a small cylinder that was made to cover the nose.

“Dese take the stuff dat queers de gas,” explained Skeet. “We wear dem under big handkerchiefs so no guy gets no chanct to lamp dem, see? Now dese masks ain’t no good if dey don’t have de stuff in dem.”

“You got to empty dem after each trip. De stuff keeps, just so long as it don’t get hit by de gas. But dat puts it on de blink. De gas does. Dese masks are empty. Watch while I fill dem.”

FROM beneath the table, Skeet brought out a gallon jug, which was about one third empty. It contained a greenish liquid. The bottle was corked; a tin funnel was inverted on top of it. Skeet ordered Muggsy to hold a gas mask with the cylinder open. He set the bottle on the table; produced a small sponge which he thrust into the cylinder of the mask; then inserted the funnel.

Carefully, Skeet uncorked the big bottle and poured a small quantity of the fluid into the mask. He replaced the bottle, leaving the cork out. He showed the gorilla how to close the cylinder and lock it. Then he took the mask from Muggsy’s hands.

It was Skeet’s intention to replace the mask on the table and proceed with the filling of others. Before Skeet could do so, however, Cliff reached forward and took the gas mask from Skeet’s hands. He examined it in the light.

“This thing is all set?” questioned Cliff. “Ready to use when we go out?”

Skeet nodded.

“And all you’ve got to cover is your eyes and nose?”

“Dat’s right. But keep your mouth shut. Don’t breathe dat way. We ain’t got no piece to cover de mouth because we want de bandannas to cover de whole mask. See?”

“I get you.”

In natural fashion, Cliff attached the gas mask to his head. The others looked on curiously, interested to see how easily the job could be done. Skeet paused with his hands on the large bottle, figuring that this was good instruction for the new crew. Grins appeared when the others saw Cliff in his outfit.

“All set,” remarked Cliff, smiling in return. “All I need” — he looked toward the table and thrust his hand in the big box — “is one of these.”

“Look out dere!” exclaimed Skeet, as he saw Cliff pluck a bomb from the box.

“Don’t monkey wid dem pineapples yet. Easy dere, easy—”

Cliff had stepped back with the bomb. Skeet started forward with an expression of alarm, which the others shared. Before the little crook had taken more than a single step, Cliff performed the unexpected. He had raised his hand; now, with a quick motion, he swung his fist forward and hurled the pineapple to the stone floor.

The bomb burst with a seething hiss. Instantly, a green cloud filled the room, obscuring the figures of those who stood therein. The vapor settled. Cliff, staring, saw the amazing result. His companions were rooted to the floor.

Skeet had settled back toward the table. Muggsy was leaning up against the wall, in a rigid pose. Gabby and Louie, away from table or wall, were balanced oddly on their feet in strained positions. Their bodies were swaying. Gabby’s toppled as Cliff stared; then Louie’s form lost its balance and went tumbling.

Only Cliff had evaded the death sleep. This was by virtue of the mask that he had donned. Cliff stepped over and found Skeet’s keys. He unlocked the iron door to the hall. It opened inward. Cliff saw no need for hurry. The gas had subsided promptly; drops of moisture were drying on the floor.

One task remained. Cliff went back to the table and pushed the big bottle over the edge. The jug smashed; the precious neutralizer splashed across the floor and formed greenish streams that trickled in the direction of the doorway.

THE atmosphere had cleared. The neutralizer was following the evaporation process that had marked the disappearance of the gas drops. Cliff removed his mask, pulled out the sponge and dropped it down a grated drain that he found in the corridor.

His job was done. He had orders to leave the bombs untouched. The whole affair was to look like an accident — as if Cliff had not been here. A bomb set off by mistake; the neutralizer spilled — that would be all. But it left Spud Claxter without a crew; and it meant that no new raiders could fare forth protected against the fumes of the bombs that they might throw.

As Cliff turned back into the little room, he heard a click from down the hall. Someone was opening the door in the passage. Cliff dived back into the little room and shut the door. He locked it. Then he realized the futility of his action.

This must be Spud, coming alone, to see if the crew had assembled. Had Cliff drawn a gun, he could have made a break for it. That was too late. The light in the passage told Spud that Skeet and the others were here. The fact that Spud had a key for the outer door indicated that he had one for this door also.

Spud would be on the alert. He would see trickles of green that had gone out through the doorway. The chances were that Cliff would be trapped. A fight offered the way out even yet; but Cliff feared that it might injure The Shadow’s plans. The game was to make this whole affair look like an accident.

Quickly, Cliff drew the little bag from his pocket. He brought out the syringe and jabbed it in his forearm. Someone was pounding at the door: Spud had arrived. He was announcing himself by name. Cliff was grim.

The keys! He had almost forgotten them. He shoved them back in Skeet’s pocket. The syringe! He must dispose of it. Cliff thrust the needle through the bag; leaning against the table, he reached beneath and pressed the point deep into the woodwork.

Neither object would be found. Spud could come in any time. He was still pounding at the door, but that meant nothing to Cliff. The opiate from the syringe was working. Cliff swayed dizzily and slumped softly to the floor. Consciousness faded.

Two minutes later, Spud Claxter decided to unlock the door. The barrier swung inward. The mobleader started in consternation. Five henchmen — all in a stupor. The neutralizer gone! Fierce curses came from Spud’s evil lips.

Crime was off for tonight. This crew of rookies had made some blunder. A dropped gas bomb; a broken jug. That ended the game that Wolf Barlan had planned. Spud fumed; then became calm. He knew that he would have to take care of these henchmen. That meant a call to Wolf for instructions.

Spud looked the crowd over before he left to call Wolf. Cliff Marsland, like the others, was lying in a rigid posture. He passed Spud’s inspection. The mobleader took Cliff — like the others — for a victim of the death sleep.

That emergency measure, the use of the quick-acting hypodermic, had been the final touch of The Shadow’s scheme. It had served Cliff Marsland when he needed it. The thrust was made. All was well. Through his agent, The Shadow had delivered a stroke to forestall crime.