Gray Fist

CHAPTER III MEN IN THE DARK

SPLOTCHES of lamplight glow were visible on the street in front of Worth Varden’s home. The entrance to the side alleyway beside the importer’s house was blank and black. Though not far from the heart of Manhattan, this location formed a silent spot. On avenues, the current of New York’s traffic flooded; but little of it floated down this lone side street.

The figure of a man appeared close to a lamp. The stroller moved onward and stopped just past the glare. A spot of light — the cigar that he was smoking — seemed to give a momentary trace of his identity. The man was Ruggles Preston.

Not more than a dozen minutes had elapsed since the lawyer had walked away along this very street. His prompt return could mean only that he had performed a simple but definite mission. Preston had gone to a drug store on the avenue to make a telephone call. That done, he had returned.

Preston moved back into the fronting darkness of a building across the street. He was watching the alleyway beside Varden’s home. His cigar tip moved nervously downward; then upward. It glowed as the lawyer puffed.

Minutes passed. The arrival of Detective Joe Cardona was becoming imminent. Why was Preston lurking here? He had told Varden that he would be at his home. It was obvious that Preston had some purpose all his own, otherwise he would not have returned to this spot.

An automobile swished down the side street. It came to a sudden stop beside the entrance to the alleyway. Ruggles Preston strained his eyes. He watched as he saw the faint outline of a man who was leaving the car. He thought he caught the murmur of subdued voices. Preston waited.

A man had stepped from that car. He was walking into the alleyway, heading for the obscure door at the side of Varden’s house. The token of his arrival came in guarded knocks that tattooed on the barrier which Varden had told Joe Cardona to enter.

In his study, Varden, seated at his desk, became suddenly alert. He caught the sound of the raps. He arose from his desk and went through the corridor. He softly opened the outer door. He noted that a man was standing there.

“Detective Joe Cardona?” questioned Varden cautiously.

“Yeah,” came the low response. “Are you Worth Varden?”

“Yes. Come in.”

The door closed after the visitor had entered. The two men went to the study. There, Varden closed the door and turned to meet the man who had come to his home.

HE saw a stocky, firm-faced individual who was watching him with steady eyes. The detective’s appearance gave some confidence to the importer. He had expected Cardona to be a man of action; but not one of such challenging aspect as this fellow. Until now, Varden had held doubts regarding the course that he had taken. Here, however, was a representative of the law who looked as hard-boiled as any mob leader.

It was the visitor who opened the conversation while Worth Varden eyed him. The man’s voice, though dominating, carried a question.

“Well? Here I am. What’s the dope on Seth Cowry?”

“I have a great deal to tell you,” returned Varden. “But first, I must ask you questions. Are there others with you?”

“Sure,” came the prompt response. “You didn’t give me any details. I brought a couple of men along. I didn’t know what to expect when I got here.”

“Good,” commented Varden. “Are you in a police car?”

“Say” — a laugh came with the answer — “you don’t see me in a uniform, do you? You said there might be people watching here. So I came in a regular car — a sedan that we had at headquarters.”

“Excellent,” decided Varden. “One point more. I have papers here.” He opened the desk drawer. “They are vital to what I have to tell you. I should like to place them in your possession after we have discussed them. Therefore, to be sure that I am right, I suggest that we visit my lawyer, Ruggles Preston.”

Varden saw a questioning expression on the detective’s face. The importer hastened to explain that this would not mean a long delay.

“I can go with you and your men,” he said. “Preston’s home is less than a mile from here. We shall be undisturbed there — particularly since you have given no indication that you are connected with the police.”

The papers in Varden’s hand were convincing. The importer smiled as he saw the man from headquarters begin to nod. There was no use in further delay. Varden walked directly toward the door to the corridor, carrying the papers with him. He beckoned his visitor to follow.

Varden was the first to reach the alleyway. His companion was crowding close behind him as the importer turned to lock the door. The detective growled an order.

“Slide down to the car,” he said. “I’ll see that the locks catch. You’ve got me worried. Maybe there’s trouble around here.”

Varden grunted his agreement, and moved toward the car, which he could see at the end of the alleyway. When he reached it, his companion had overtaken him.

“That you, Joe?” came a question from the car.

“Sure,” was the detective’s response. “This fellow is coming with us. He’s O.K.”

The rear door of the sedan opened. Varden entered and sat down beside a man on the back seat. He edged over to let Cardona take a place beside him. The car started forward as the driver shifted into second on the slope.

The sedan rolled toward the avenue. It crossed that thoroughfare, and its tail-light twinkled into the distance. It was then that Ruggles Preston, his cigar still between his teeth, stepped into the dim light of the street lamp.

THE lawyer was smiling wickedly. He stepped quickly across the street, and reached the darkened alleyway. He threw his cigar butt away as he neared the side door which gave access to Worth Varden’s study.

The door yielded to Preston’s push. Evidently Cardona had not pulled it tightly enough to spring the locks. Preston hurried through the corridor and into the study. He found the drawer of Varden’s desk unlocked.

There were papers there; Preston examined them quickly. He placed a folded note upon them, chuckling as he did so. From his pocket he drew a sheet of gray paper. He held it thoughtfully; then dropped it into the drawer. Turning, he went out through the corridor, and closed the side door behind him. Again, the barrier remained unlocked.

Ruggles Preston hastened through the alley and walked rapidly toward an avenue. Each light that he passed beneath showed a wicked smile upon his shrewd face. On the avenue, Preston hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to Times Square.

Evidently the lawyer was not going back to his home to keep his appointment with Worth Varden and Detective Joe Cardona.

Why not?

The answer to this question was taking place in the sedan that had Worth Varden as an occupant. The automobile was rolling westward along a side street, while Ruggles Preston was riding southward in his taxicab.

SEATED between two men, Worth Varden was giving a direction as he gestured toward the left.

“We turn here, Cardona,” he began. “Preston’s house is two blocks south—”

There was no response from the man beside Varden. The sedan swept forward across an avenue, passing through the heavy traffic.

“I said left—”

A growl came from the man whom he had addressed as Cardona.

“We’re going straight ahead,” the man said, in an ugly tone. “Straight ahead — and you’re coming with us. Savvy!”

An astonished gasp came from Worth Varden’s lips. It ended as something cold was jammed against his neck. In one feverish instant, Varden realized that the man on the other side had pressed the muzzle of a revolver against his flesh.

“I’ve got him, Ruff,” came a snarling voice from the man who held the gun.

“O.K., Snakes,” laughed the man whom Varden had addressed as Cardona. “Keep him covered.”

Worth Varden collapsed between his captors. The truth dawned upon him. These men were not detectives. They were mobsters, minions of Gray Fist! Somehow, the superfiend had learned that Varden had communicated with detective headquarters. He had sent his underling to anticipate Joe Cardona’s visit!

The man called “Ruff” — the false Joe Cardona — was plucking the papers from Worth Varden’s hand. That was the action that brought final understanding to the importer’s frenzied brain. Ruggles Preston! He was the traitor! He, too, belonged to Gray Fist, for only he could have brought about this terrible climax.

Preston had seen the papers. Preston had learned that Cardona was coming. Preston had suggested the trip to his home for a conference. Then Preston had gone — to summon the trappers. They had arrived ahead of Joe Cardona. They now held the evidence that could thwart Gray Fist; and with it, they had the only man who could — or would — tell the truth of Gray Fist’s game!

Fiercely, Worth Varden came back to life. The sedan was turning an obscure corner. With a shriek, the importer leaped from his seat and tried to reach the door of the car. The effort was futile.

“Snakes” swung his gun. The barrel caught the gray-haired importer behind the ear. Stunned by the sudden blow, Varden crumpled. Ruff — the hard-faced mob leader who had introduced himself as Joe Cardona — uttered a nasty chuckle as he caught the importer’s body and thrust it back into the seat.

The sedan rolled on, its stolid driver at the wheel, its two hardened men on the back seat. Between the captors was the helpless form of the man whose escape they had foiled.

These minions of a supercrook were men who gave no mercy. They were carrying a helpless victim to a spot of doom. The career of Worth Varden would soon be ended.

Thus had Gray Fist ordained!