Gypsy Vengeance

CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HIDEOUT

THE old Coblenz Hotel was a deserted structure of crumbling brick that stood within the confines of the underworld. The buildings that adjoined it were squat two story structures that were also in sad need of repair.

No longer used as regular residences, these houses had been occupied by vagrants. Neglected by their owners, the buildings had reached the last state of decay. Only bums who lacked the necessary dime would stay there in preference to a flop house.

Cliff Marsland, loafing at Red Mike’s, had seen Muggsy Wagram answer the telephone, in response to a wave from Red Mike, the proprietor of the dive. Muggsy had left immediately afterward. Cliff had trailed him. He had seen Muggsy enter the third house below the empty hotel.

Cliff’s inference was well calculated. Muggsy would not be calling on a chance bum who happened to be living in the building. The only answer was that this must be Marty Lunk’s hideout. Hence Cliff had mentioned that fact in his report to Burbank.

Waiting at a telephone one block from the old hotel, Cliff had received the return call to stand by. Going back to the old house, he knew that this must mean a quick arrival of The Shadow. Confident of that fact, Cliff decided to learn more.

The Shadow’s agents, though they followed every bidding of their chief, were men who used their own judgment as they operated. Had Muggsy Wagram come here with a crew of mobsters, Cliff Marsland would have been content to wait outside. Positive, however, that no guards were on the job, Cliff crept to the door of the old house and entered.

A dim light, showing from the second floor, revealed a broken stairway. Cliff crept forward. He moved carefully up the steps. Creaks avoided, he reached the top. There he observed the source of the light.

The illumination came from the opened doorway to a room. The door itself had been removed, probably by prowling thieves. Edging to the side of the hall, Cliff reached the opening. He listened.

“SO that’s the story, eh?” Cliff recognized the growl of Marty Lunk. “He wants me up there by ten o’clock. Well — I’ll be there.”

“He says to bring some gorillas with you,” came the tones of Muggsy Wagram. “What’s more, he says you can keep on goin’. The job is set — but it ain’t in New York.”

“Where is it then?”

“He didn’t say. He’s goin’ to talk to you. But the outfit’s all ready, Marty.”

“At Red Mike’s?”

“Naw. I’d be a sap to have ‘em hangin’ around there. Down the alley past the Black Ship — that’s where I’m keepin’ them. They’re tipped to take orders from you.”

“That’s the idea, Muggsy. All right — listen. I’ll slide down there and start out with the mob. See? You go back to Red Mike’s. Mooch around there, like you’ve been doing. It ain’t a good idea for you to go out of town. I may need you here.

“I’ll take the outfit” — Marty’s voice carried eagerness for action — “and I’ll stop at Jerwyn’s on the way. This is good stuff, Muggsy, the job being out of town. I ain’t been in this lousy hideout for no dumb reason—”

There was a sudden break. Cliff Marsland, edging closer to the door, had brought the toe of his shoe against a warped board in the floor.

“Did you hear somethin’, Marty?” quizzed Muggsy.

“No,” growled Marty. “Just getting jittery I guess. Listen, now — you stick around Red Mike’s. Keep waiting there until I call you. Maybe this bunch of gorillas ain’t enough. I said a dozen — you got them — but maybe they ain’t as good as the old crew.

“You can’t count on a green guy, Muggsy, and you don’t know whether a guy is green until you’ve seen him work. Plenty of gorillas say they’re good — but you find out they ain’t. They don’t come around with references — they couldn’t get them from the big shots they used to work for — and they wouldn’t want to carry them anyway.

“That’d be hot, wouldn’t it, Muggsy — the bulls picking up a guy with a gat and a letter of recommendation saying he could handle his cannons—”

Marty’s voice had become louder. Cliff was listening, puzzled. He could not understand this trend of conversation that had come in the midst of serious business. It sounded like a stall for time. One moment later it proved to be.

Something jabbed Cliff in the back. The Shadow’s agent did not move. He knew the feel of a revolver muzzle. Then came the order, in Muggsy Wagram’s growl:

“Stick ‘em up!”

Cliff obeyed. At Muggsy’s urge, he moved into the lighted room, with hands above his head. Marty Lunk, a sneer on his ratlike face, was standing there alone.

“A tough guy, eh?” Marty leered as he recognized Cliff. “Well — what’s the racket?”

Cliff made no reply. Staring beyond Marty, he could see the door to another room. He realized how he had been tricked. Marty Lunk, after hearing the sound from the hall, had motioned Muggsy Wagram through another room. While Muggsy had left to corral Cliff, Marty had feigned a conversation with his underling. It had been a ruse well played.

“You ain’t got anything to say, eh?” quizzed Marty. “Well, I’ve seen you plenty of times, Marsland. Sort of a lone wolf, huh? Never hooked up with any mob. Just one of those eggs that muscles in on another guy’s game, eh?

“It ain’t going to do you much good this time. Maybe you haven’t heard much — but you’re not going to spill any of it. Get over there — in the corner.”

CLIFF responded slowly. He turned back to the wall to face the two crooks. Marty Lunk approached Muggsy Wagram and whispered in his minion’s ear.

“I’m leaving this to you, Muggsy,” said Marty. “There’s no time for me to fool with this guy. I’m heading for the Black Ship, to pick up the crew. Give me time to get started. Then plug him.

“Nobody’s going to know this was my hideout. Nobody’s going to hear your rod. Leave the guy here. Let the bulls find him — next week, maybe. It’s getting close to ten o’clock—”

Muggsy nodded. Steadily, he kept his gun on Cliff. Marty Lunk directed a vicious glance toward the man in the corner; then, picking up a rough package that lay by the wall, the mobleader made his exit.

Cliff had not heard Marty’s words. He knew well, however, what the mob leader had ordered. It would be a question of minutes, only, before Muggsy loosed hot lead from the looming gat.

Stolidly, Cliff calculated. Not more than a dozen minutes had passed since word had come from Burbank to stand by. The Shadow was on his way; but from where?

Cliff figured half an hour at the most. He also gave Muggsy ten minutes to allow Marty to reach the Black Ship. Twelve plus ten — twenty-two.

Eyeing Muggsy’s revolver, Cliff made new calculations. Give The Shadow twenty minutes. That would mean salvation. But would Muggsy wait the full ten? Already, the underling was showing signs of impatience. An idea occurred to Cliff.

“Well?” growled The Shadow’s agent. “Why don’t you plug me? What’s the stall? I’m ready.”

“Yeah?” Muggsy laughed. “Well, since you want it, you can wait. I’m givin’ you five minutes, if you want to know. That’s to please Marty. I wouldn’t waste no time of my own.”

Five minutes! Cliff steadied.

Twelve to begin with — three since Marty had left — five more to come — twenty in all.

Still watching the revolver, Cliff tried to time the seconds. Somehow, he had confidence that The Shadow would arrive within the twenty minutes. Cliff had faced death before — The Shadow had rescued him from more than one crisis.

Had Cliff continued to retain his calm, all would have been well. Singularly, his calculations had been exact. From the Hotel Gardley to this house was a trip which The Shadow had scheduled for precisely nineteen minutes.

Muggsy, sneering at Cliff’s impatience, was determined to wait fully five minutes before delivering the death shot. All was working in Cliff’s favor. But the prolonged sight of that ready gun muzzle — threatening as a torture of the middle ages — was more than Cliff’s strained nerves could bear.

Three minutes — Cliff had counted them as near as possible — they were all that he could stand. Cliff seemed to feel himself detached from him own body. He could picture his bullet-riddled form dropping to the floor, lifeless

INSTINCT won from reason. Almost without his own volition, Cliff Marsland leaped forward from his corner, springing in grim desperation to lock with the man who held the gun!

Muggsy Wagram fired. Like Cliff, the gangster acted instinctively. He had been holding the gun pointed toward Cliff’s heart. He pressed the trigger automatically. But in that instant of delay, he did not change his aim.

The bullet clipped Cliff’s shoulder as The Shadow’s agent launched himself into a flying tackle. The shot did not stop the drive. Headforemost, Cliff battered squarely against Muggsy and sent the gangster sprawling on the floor. Rolling, Cliff clutched at Muggsy’s wrist.

One hand — his right — was all that Cliff could use. He caught Muggsy’s right wrist. He forced it upward, then rolled sidewise, in his effort to prevent another shot. Muggsy, twisting from the wall, drove a southpaw punch to Cliff’s chin. The wounded man dropped helpless.

Muggsy arose. Panting with fury, he surveyed the prone form before him. He had fired one shot — now for another — then a getaway. Muggsy raised his gun. A sudden thought made him stare toward the door.

There stood a form in black. Hastening from below, The Shadow had arrived. Like a vengeful specter, he had come to find his trusted agent, Cliff Marsland, felled by a bullet from the gun of a would-be murderer.

GANGSTERS had quailed before The Shadow. Not so Muggsy Wagram. His mind was surging with the heat of murder. Burning in his fury, he snapped his hand straight toward The Shadow and pressed his finger to the trigger of his gun.

An automatic boomed. Muggsy Wagram faltered. He swayed. He seemed to have lost all power of action. Then he tried to raise his wavering hand. It trembled. The gun was wobbling as Muggsy, with a defiant snarl, gained strength to pull the trigger.

The bullet burrowed through the floor. The Shadow’s laugh replaced the finished snarl. Muggsy Wagram crumpled; his gun clattered; his arms shot forward as he sprawled face downward upon Cliff Marsland’s motionless body.

The Shadow stepped into the dreary light. His form cast a grotesque blotch in the illumination of the gasoline lantern. Gloved hands seized Muggsy’s shoulders and flung the dead mobster from Cliff Marsland’s form. The Shadow examined Cliff’s wound. A soft laugh came from hidden lips.

Cliff, though a husky fellow, was no burden as The Shadow raised him from floor. Hoisted above a black shoulder, Cliff seemed to poise in mid air. His drooping form disappeared through the doorway.

WHEN consciousness returned to Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent found himself propped against the cushions in a limousine. Padded bandages were swathed about his stinging shoulder. The car was moving along a darkened street.

Groggily, Cliff realized that he was not alone. Then came the pressure of an unseen hand. A vial touched Cliff’s lips. The wounded man sensed the taste of a pungent, biting liquid. He swallowed.

The elixir brought new vim; but with it, a dizziness. Vaguely, Cliff repeated the first thoughts that came to his brain:

“Marty — Marty Lunk. Going — out of town. Must stop — somewhere — somewhere before ten o’clock—”

A whisper hissed for silence. The Shadow understood. Cliff’s strength was needed for later speech. The Shadow’s words came to his agent’s ears.

“We are stopping,” was the whisper. “Enter the house. Speak to Doctor Rupert Sayre. Tell him Lamont Cranston sent you.”

Cliff nodded as the car rolled to the curb. He heard a voice — it seemed very far away — speaking in quiet tones through the speaking tube that led to the front seat.

“You will aid my friend to the door, Stanley.” It was the voice of Lamont Cranston. “He is not well. He wishes to see Doctor Sayre.”

Cliff arose as a strong arm pressed beneath his back. Steadied by the unseen hand of The Shadow, he stepped from the door as Stanley opened it. The chauffeur aided Cliff to the door of a doctor’s office.

Watching from the limousine, The Shadow saw his agent enter when the door had opened. He also glimpsed the form of Doctor Rupert Sayre. To this young physician, the name of Lamont Cranston meant obedience to orders. The Shadow knew that Cliff Marsland would receive attention, without question.

“Uptown, Stanley.” The order came as the chauffeur reentered the front seat of the limousine. “I shall tell you where to stop.”

“Yes, sir.”

A huge advertising clock was chiming the hour of ten as the limousine passed it near Times Square.

Taking an eastbound street, Stanley shot the car to greater speed.

A weird laugh sounded in the darkness. Another hour of action had arrived. Necessary delay had slowed The Shadow in his progress. Yet The Shadow knew that coming events might also linger.

Once again, the master of the night was hastening to block the moving trail of Marty Lunk.