Kings Of Crime

CHAPTER XXI THE SHOTS FROM THE TOWER

SEAVIEW PIER was a mighty, man-made promontory that thrust its long projecting line a thousand feet to sea. The huge dance hall, fronting on the board walk, was flanked by broad decks. Then, after a stretch of open space, came the motion-picture palace. Beyond that lay the exposition building.

This structure filled an enlarged square space some six hundred feet from the shore. It, too, was surrounded by decks. Then the pier narrowed to a long, straight stretch of foam-swept walk. At last, it spread again to form the last outpost — the square upon which the closed submarine observation building was located.

One odd feature gave the pier a most unusual appearance. That was the eighty-foot tower that spanned the center of the open stretch between the last two buildings. This structure, a miniature of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, had been erected for the big pageant that was to close the present season. It was studded with lights, ready for its first illumination.

It was beneath this tower, in the midst of the blackness of night, that Wheels Bryant was now passing. He had made his escape. Only a hundred feet lay between him and his goal — the dark building at the end of the pier.

The big shot knew that he was hard pressed. He had hurried here from the cellar of the Club Catalina; but it had been a difficult trip through the sand beneath the board walk. With the cry out for Rufus Cruikshank, he had not risked showing himself; but had gained the level of the pier through a special ladder underneath the dance hall.

Now, glancing back toward the board walk, Wheels could see tiny men running toward the pier. He laughed. Let them come! He would be ready.

Nearing the end of the pier, Wheels uttered a short, shrill whistle. A response came from the darkness. Wheels Bryant spoke. Shifter Reeves answered.

“That you, Wheels?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Hooks? What’s happened to him? He hasn’t shown up.”

“He took the bump.”

The men were close together, now.

“We’ve got to scram, Shifter,” growled Wheels. “It’s all gone sour. They’re after me. Got the men posted?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them to be ready. I’ve got the swag.”

SHIFTER, despite his consternation at these revelations, lost no time in giving a command. His voice sounded clearly through the darkness. Then, with Wheels Bryant, he hurried to open a door in the submarine building. The two men entered a large, square chamber, illuminated only by one dim light.

Even in that faint glow, Shifter made out his companion’s countenance as he looked, for the first time upon Wheels Bryant. A startled oath came from the dope king’s lips.

“You — you’re Rufus Cruikshank.”

“Yes,” responded Wheels tersely. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s get going!”

A man approached. Shifter spoke quickly.

“Wait at the door, Zeke. The gorillas are going to mop up. When we’re ready to go, give them the sign to join us.”

Zeke nodded and went to his post. Shifter pushed his way among stacks of boating equipment. He opened a trap-door in the floor, and revealed a metal ladder. Wheels Bryant could hear the lapping of waves.

“Everything is ready,” muttered Shifter. “There’s the boat — in the submarine chamber. The tank’s half filled with water, and I’ve had it down at the bottom out of sight. Since dark, I brought it up. Climb in. We’ll open the outer gates.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not more than five or ten minutes. I’m ready to travel fast, but didn’t know we’d have to scram this quick. Two men down there. Let’s go.”

“Here’s the swag.”

Shifter seized the bag and led the way down the ladder. The men dropped into a long, lowlying speedboat. Machine guns glistened in the dim light. Shifter stowed the bag in a locker at the front.

“Open the gates,” ordered Shifter.

One of the gangster crew leaned over the side of the boat and yanked a lever attached to the steel-walled tank. There was a stir in the darkness ahead; a sharp sea breeze whistled inward as the way began to open slowly. Shifter busied himself with the motor. Wheels Bryant stared up the ladder, in an apprehensive manner.

The big shot’s action was not without cause. Up on the pier, a battle was pending. It was a fight in which the cards would be stacked against the law — an ambush set to kill unwary men.

A policeman, leading the way outward from the exposition hall, was the first to discover the trap — almost at the very moment that Wheels Bryant had gained the boat.

As his footsteps thudded along the open space, a revolver flashed from the base of the old building at the end of the pier. The officer dropped; then scrambled to his feet and ran back to spread the alarm.

He was joined by a squad of police. A sergeant ordered a new advance. Cautiously, men crept forward. New shots greeted them. One officer staggered. His companions dragged him back.

A wild cry went up. Shouts were going back along the pier. Word was being passed to the police at the rear.

“The searchlight — on the exposition building! Turn it on! Turn it on!”

Ten seconds later, a powerful searchlight cast its beam beneath the base of the tower that stood above the straight expanse of pier. Turned low, its rays reflected that ocean-moistened stretch with the vivid light of day. The walls of the closed submarine building were plain in the illumination. Yet no men were visible.

The police hesitated. They stood by the walls of the exposition building, awaiting word to attack. In that pause, Police Chief George Yates arrived on the scene, hurrying up with more men.

“Go at them!” he ordered.

A SQUAD of police advanced grimly. As they moved ahead, skulking forms came into view along the side rails of the pier around the condemned building at the end. Shots burst forth. The first policeman staggered and sprawled out. The others scattered.

Before the wounded man could rise, a gangster rose upon the rail near the end of the pier. With cool deliberation, he leveled a revolver at the helpless officer. Police Chief Yates uttered a sharp cry. No one was near enough to prevent that murder — the gunman was out of range of those who had retired.

Crack!

The sharp report was not the sound of a revolver. It was a rifle shot! It came from above, at the top of the dim eighty-foot tower.

The murderous gangster swayed. He toppled. His revolver fell from his hand, and an instant later the gunman himself followed, plunging into the ocean — a thirty-foot drop from the rail of the pier!

Who fired that shot?

Police Chief Yates stared upward through the night. Then he looked along the pier. A dozen police were surging forward. Revolver shots began to greet them. Then came the sharp, higher reports of the rifle. With each crack a gangster fell!

The ambushed men were being sniped by some one stationed in that tower! Set to prevent the advance of the police, they themselves were trapped. An amazing marksman was picking them off, dropping them, wounded, one by one!

The way was clearing now. The police, advancing steadily, seemed to be free from fire as they approached their goal. Chief Yates ordered a charge of another squad.

Hardly had the men been dispatched before the chief heard a terrified cry. The men were scattering, spreading to the sides of the pier. Yates, near the exposition building, saw the reason.

Five mobsters had come from under cover. With swift precision, they had unlimbered a machine gun. Determined to stop the police, they were turning the terrible weapon straight down the pier.

Chief Yates was directly in its path! He and a dozen of his men. They saw the menace too late to escape it!

Then came salvation. Sharp cracks sounded, but they were not the shots of the machine gun. That sharpshooter, stationed high above was perfect in his aim. His targets were the desperate, hurrying gangsters.

One man was at the machine gun. He fell, helpless.

Two others rushed to take his place. One sprawled at the sound of a rifle shot. The other gained the objective, but never started the roaring weapon. He, too, collapsed beside the machine gun.

Only two gangsters remained. One of them leaped to the gun in a frenzy. His hands clutched the air as he staggered backward. The other, forgetful of all but that menace high above, turned to point his revolver toward the top of the tower.

Before he could discharge a shot, his gesture was answered by another sharp report. The last of the gunmen fell beside his companions.

“The tower! The tower! The gun in the tower!”

The cry was passing back along the pier. It met with a response. Some one, under sudden inspiration, turned on the studded lights. A brilliant, vari-colored glow filled the night. All eyes turned toward the top.

There, beneath a glittering ball of bejeweled light, stood a silent, unmoving form. Chief Yates saw it — he also saw the rifle that the figure held.

Men were wondering as they gazed in amazement. But to Chief Yates came understanding.

He knew who this rescuer was. He knew, now, the person who was there to prevent the slaughter. The police were surging forward, but Yates could only stare upward in dumbfounded admiration.

The man in the tower was The Shadow!