Kings Of Crime

CHAPTER XIII A MAN AT BAY

THE summer season at Seaview City had reached its height. Gay crowds thronged the board walk. The Club Catalina was doing great business.

It was here that a tall, furtive man appeared early in the evening, to take his place at an obscure table. He seemed possessed of a desire to keep out of the light, this man. He had good reason. He was none other than Herbert Carpenter.

The escaped convict had come to Seaview City with definite intent. Despite the fact that he had been arrested and convicted in this resort, he figured that it afforded him comparative security. Even if any one had looked for him, he was disguised well enough to avoid detection.

Last night, Carpenter had visited his cottage. There, he had found only the children — asleep — and in care of an elderly woman whom Jerry Stevens had provided. Carpenter had not lingered long. He knew that Madge must be in the hospital.

Carpenter’s path to Seaview City had been a circuitous one. First he had visited the town where he had his small savings account. He had drawn the money, and mailed some of it to Jerry Stevens in New York, keeping enough to finance himself for a short time in Seaview City.

But in his heart, Carpenter knew that misery and poverty were here. Those funds had amounted to only a few hundred dollars; the amount that he had sent to Jerry was only enough to enable the brother-in-law to bluff along until more cash was forthcoming.

Money! He must have it! That was why Herbert Carpenter had come here — to learn if Big Tom Bagshawe was around. It would be easier to reach the gambling king than it would be to approach the others. Big Tom would have to come through — if he hesitated, Carpenter would force the issue.

Observant, Carpenter noticed well-dressed folk ascending the stairway. He knew the significance. The gambling joint was opened again. Evidently it was running strong.

Carpenter smiled grimly. That meant that money would be available; yet he knew the risk of walking openly into the place upstairs. There he would be questioned; perhaps his identity would be discovered.

A waiter was standing near the table. Carpenter signaled to the fellow. The waiter came forward. Carpenter nudged his thumb toward the stairway.

“Wheels going again?” he asked, in a low tone.

The waiter grinned.

“Sure,” he said. “They opened up several weeks ago. No trouble any more.”

“How does that happen? I thought there had been a clean-up here in Seaview City.”

“That was early in the season, sir. Lots of crooks around here, then. After the clean-up, everything was nice and quiet. Too quiet for good business. So they eased up, sir. Leaving the first-class places alone—”

Carpenter understood. The crime kings were again operating, beginning as before, with profits from Big Tom Bagshawe as a starter.

Shifter Reeves was unquestionably through — dope had gone the voyage with blackmail. But Hooks Borglund still remained. He was the king whom Wheels Bryant was holding in reserve. His work would be the wind-up!

TO Herbert Carpenter, this new knowledge was the final word of faithlessness. Money was again entering Wheels Bryant’s coffers; yet the hidden ace had utterly neglected the man who had taken the rap!

“Waiter,” said Carpenter, in a low voice, “how can I get up to the roulette game? Do I have to see the manager?”

“No,” was the response. “I can fix it. Maybe—”

Carpenter caught the tone. He brought out a ten-dollar bill. The waiter pocketed the money.

“Wait here,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Howard Seabrook,” responded Carpenter.

The waiter walked away. He returned with a card that bore the manager’s initials. It was made out to Howard Seabrook. There was a line for the bearer’s signature.

“Just put your name on there,” whispered the waiter. “If they want to question you, verify it.”

Carpenter nodded. He walked from the Club Catalina and strolled along the board walk, until he reached the Hotel Pavilion.

In an obscure corner of the lobby, Carpenter viewed the throngs of passing guests.

Old thoughts of blackmail came to his mind. Here, with the season drawing to a close, the wealthiest of visitors were present. But Carpenter knew that his game was ended. Not only that — he felt a strange distaste for crime. He had learned that it did not pay.

Paradoxically, Carpenter had no qualms about accepting funds. He felt that a share of the crime kings’ spoils belonged to him. He had contributed to their coffers. He had taken the rap.

A pay-off — that was what he wanted! Then he would be through. Out of the country — South America — freedom — a new start!

He pictured himself, far away, rejoined by Madge and the children. That was his goal. To reach it, he must play a bold stroke, and gain some of the spoils that belonged to him. As he dwelt upon these thoughts, Carpenter experienced another urge. Vengeance!

If only he were free to deal with Wheels Bryant and the others as they deserved! Double-crossers — four of them! Carpenter’s lips tightened in disdain.

A bell boy was approaching. Carpenter shrank back in his chair. He feared that the attendant might be looking for Howard Seabrook. Instead, the boy walked past and stopped at a chair where an elderly gentleman was seated.

“You are Mr. Phineas Twambley?” the boy asked.

“Yes,” replied the old gentleman, in a quavering voice.

“A call for you, sir.”

Phineas Twambley arose. Herbert Carpenter watched him curiously. The old man was a strange figure. His stooping shoulders seemed to rely upon the gold-headed cane which his clawlike hand clutched. His face was smooth and benign — a countenance that reflected a life of gentle mildness.

Voices came to Herbert Carpenter’s ears as the old man tottered away. The blackmailer listened intently. Two people were speaking close beside him.

“Nice old fellow — that man Twambley.”

“Yes — a smile for everybody.”

“Worth a lot of money—”

“Carries plenty with him. Look! He’s tipping the boy five dollars!”

Herbert Carpenter was thoughtful. What soft pickings that man would be!

The escaped convict grated his teeth. Crime again! His mind reverted constantly to it.

There was a reason. It was his one alternative. If he had money, he could be secure enough to fight those double-crossers!

THROUGH the chaos of thoughts, Carpenter realized his mission. He fingered the card that was in his pocket. He had the entree to Big Tom’s. He must go there tonight — go to demand a show-down.

Rising, he walked inconspicuously through the lobby, and waited at the row of elevators. A car arrived and discharged its passengers. Carpenter entered. The operator was waiting for another passenger, looking along the lobby. A few moments later, Phineas Twambley hobbled into the car.

Up went the elevator. It stopped at the ninth floor. Carpenter had given that number. He started to walk forth, but stopped as he saw the old man move forward. Carpenter gave Twambley the right of way.

Along the hall they went, Carpenter strolling in the wake of the benign old man. Phineas Twambley unlocked the door of 928 and entered a darkened room.

Carpenter watched him. He saw the old man turn on the light. He realized that Twambley was alone!

Carpenter’s room was 930, adjoining 928. He entered and went to a desk in the corner. There, from the back of the drawer, Carpenter produced a stub-nosed revolver and made sure that it was loaded. He looked from the window — toward the board walk, with its gleaming lights — to the Club Catalina, beyond.

He was ready now to meet Big Tom Bagshawe!

But as he turned toward the door, Herbert Carpenter hesitated. Acting upon a sudden thought, he extinguished the light and stood in darkness. He reflected upon his present situation.

He was an escaped convict, going to meet a man who had doubled-crossed him. Danger lay ahead.

What if he should fail? Suppose Big Tom might manage to stall? What then?

Alone, a fugitive from justice, with funds virtually exhausted, what could he do? Nothing. Crime, the alternative? He did not want it, yet why should he avoid it?

Prison yawned if he should be recognized. Why not take another chance — an easier way? Gain funds by bloodless crime; be able to provide his family with the money that was needed; then attack his four enemies from ambush!

ACTING upon impulse, Herbert Carpenter stole from the room, across the hall. His hand touched the knob of the door that led to 928.

Had that door been locked, Carpenter might have desisted from his newly formed plan. But the door was not locked. It moved at Carpenter’s touch.

Opening the door a few inches, the ex-convict saw that he was located near an alcove in the corner of the room. Only a small portion of 928 was in view. A light gleamed upon a writing desk opposite.

Evidently Phineas Twambley was resting. This would be easy. Surprise the old man alone. Make him hand over whatever money he had. Flee from Seaview City.

Drawing his revolver, Carpenter advanced. He reached the corner of the alcove. In the gloomy light beyond he saw the foot of a large bed. He peered everywhere, and saw no sign of old Twambley.

His surmise must have been correct. The old man was on that bed, hidden from view by the high footboard.

Carpenter crept on. He reached the foot of the bed, by the nearer side. He stared. There was no one on the bed. Phineas Twambley was missing.

While Carpenter paused, he heard a strange sound. It was a low, whispered laugh, a shuddering, creepy laugh that seemed to fill the entire room with a ghastly echo. Wheeling, in bewilderment, Herbert Carpenter faced the outer door. There, he saw the person who had laughed.

A tall form clad in black was standing by the door. Garbed in flowing cloak and slouch hat, a weird personage was watching Carpenter with eyes that gleamed amid the gloom. A gasp of recognition came from Carpenter’s parched lips.

He had seen that apparition before — back on that terrible night when he had gone to blackmail Morton! Well did Herbert Carpenter, crook de luxe, know the identity of that terrible figure.

The Shadow!

The gleaming eyes were focused upon the man who had come to rob. Below those eyes was the muzzle of an automatic. Trapped, unable to escape, Herbert Carpenter dropped the revolver which he held. His hands rose weakly above his head.

He had come here to hold an old man helpless. Instead, he, Herbert Carpenter, was at bay.

He was in the hands of The Shadow!