Master of Death

CHAPTER XV. MINIONS OF THE FIEND

AT the moment when Lamont Cranston was leaving the home of Holbrook Edkins, Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was entering the side door of an old garage in northern Manhattan. Tonight, Cliff expected important developments.

He had come to this spot with Punks Gumbert. Cliff and the mealy-mouthed gangster were to meet Duke Scurley in the garage, which served as a rendezvous for the racketeer’s mob.

Fortunately, they had arrived ahead of Duke and his gang. That had given Cliff time to saunter out to a cigar store and buy a pack of cigarettes. At the store, he had also telephoned to Burbank.

Cliff was thinking of the call that he had made. He had been able to inform Burbank of but one potent fact: Duke Scurley intended to put someone on the spot. The mob — with Cliff as a member — was going out from the rendezvous. They would pick up some victim and take the unfortunate man for a ride which would end, without doubt, at the spot where Duke Scurley deposited all his victims.

Where was the place? Cliff had not yet been able to learn. He knew that Burbank would relay his message to The Shadow, but Cliff felt the information would be of doubtful value. Before The Shadow could reach this old garage, the mob would be on its way.

This unfortunate situation was due to Punks Gumbert. The scrawny gangster had said nothing about the evening’s work until he and Cliff had neared the rendezvous. It was the first time that Cliff had heard of the garage as a meeting place.

All that Cliff could hope for was a break that might enable him to trace the course from the garage to the final destination, and there pick up some clew that might prove useful to The Shadow.

Hazy forms showed within the garage when Cliff entered. Duke Scurley and his gangsters had arrived. A growled voice spoke from a corner. Cliff recognized Scurley’s tones and approached.

“Hello, Marsland,” greeted Duke. “Come over here. I want to talk with you.”

Cliff joined the racketeer. Duke Scurley was a big, heavy fellow, whose huge bulk was easily recognized, although his face was not visible to Marsland.

“We’re going on a big job,” said Duke, in a low tone. “Out to get a guy that thinks he’s wise. Punks tells me you handle a gat better than any one else in the crew. Got a rod all set?”

“Two of them,” returned Cliff.

“Good,” declared Duke. “We’re going to grab this phony when he don’t expect it, see? That’s why I’m counting on whether you’re ready on the job. Let’s see you pull the rods.”

Cliff responded. In quick fashion, he produced both his automatics and thrust their barrels toward Duke Scurley. The big racketeer laughed approvingly.

“Say,” he remarked. “You handle them guns like they were .22s, instead of .45s. Boy! What gats! You’re the first bird I’ve had in my outfit that carried smoke wagons the size of them. Let’s see one.”

Cliff lowered one automatic. He handed the other to Duke Scurley. The racketeer weighted it, turned the barrel toward Cliff Marsland; then, with a quick jab, thrust the muzzle against the body of The Shadow’s agent.

“Drop that other rod!” he ordered. “Drop it! You’re the guy we’re going to get!”

CLIFF’S response was a quick twist that carried him away from the gun which Duke Scurley held. At the same time, Cliff swung his right hand upward to open fire on the astonished racketeer. He would have turned the tables on Duke Scurley, but for the actions of two members of the mob.

These ruffians had edged forward while Cliff’s back had been toward them. They fell upon Cliff, and gripped his arm. Cliff’s hand went up as his finger pressed the trigger. The bullet shot within three inches of Duke Scurley’s head. Then Cliff, the automatic wrenched from his hand, went down beneath the two men who had attacked him.

Other mobsters added the weight of numbers. While Duke Scurley cursed, Cliff was stretched upon the floor and belts were fastened about his arms and legs. Punks Gumbert, joining the others, supplied a gag which prevented Cliff from making any outcry.

The circling beam of a flashlight showed Cliff Marsland helpless. Duke Scurley, speaking from above, spat oaths as he derided the man who had been so suddenly taken prisoner.

“Thought you’d pull a fast one, eh?” he demanded. “Well, you slipped, smart guy! I thought there was something phony when you joined up with my mob. You ain’t an ordinary gorilla like the rest of the crew.

“I put the clamps to Punks Gumbert, see? Asked him what the idea was — bringing you into the outfit. He figured you thought it was fun to put guys on the spot. Told me he’d said something to you about the way we do it.

“So I figured we’d show you. We’ve got rid of double-crossers before this, and you looked like another good one. Maybe you’ve been wondering about what happens to the guys we take for a ride. Well, you’re going to find out.”

Chuckling harshly, Duke ordered his men to put Cliff into an old touring car. The mobsters set forth.

There were half a dozen in the crew, and they had a battered sedan in addition to the tottering car. Both automobiles pulled out of the garage on their trip of death.

Cliff Marsland, flattened on the floor of the touring car, accepted his lot grimly. He realized that he had overplayed his game. This was the result. Duke Scurley had chosen him as the victim for whom someone would pay a thousand dollars.

Cliff knew that he would learn the destination where he passed to other hands. He realized, also, that his journey would not end there. The fate that lay beyond! Speculation on that subject was not enjoyable.

Worst of all, Cliff felt sure that he could expect no aid. He had fallen into a simple trap. Instead of being present to see an unknown victim sent on his mysterious way, he himself was going, without any possibility of getting further word to The Shadow.

Cliff had assured Burbank that all would be well. When he had made the telephone call, Cliff had held no doubt about that fact. These altered circumstances had proven totally unexpected. Yet, with it all, Cliff Marsland retained his nerve.

Danger was part of The Shadow’s service. Often, in the past, Cliff had gained miraculous escapes. Yet he had never lulled himself with the thought that all adventures would have a happy outcome. In fact, Cliff had always resigned himself to an adventurous career with violent death as its inevitable termination.

THE touring car was swerving corners. Duke Scurley himself was driving it. The sedan was following in the rear. The gang leader was taking a roundabout course to the junction point where he would pass Cliff Marsland into hands more terrible than his own.

Cliff had no idea of which way the car was heading. He felt sure that they were still in northern Manhattan and that the transfer place would not be far away. That surmise proved to be correct. The touring car slackened its speed as it struck a narrow street.

The swerve threw Cliff’s chin against the footrest on the floor. It was a brutal blow; the gangsters laughed as they saw their victim take the bump. To Cliff Marsland, however, the jolt meant good fortune. It gave him the chance he wanted. As he moved his head from the spot where it had struck, he felt the gag loosen between his teeth.

Working grimly, Cliff forced the bandage down upon his chin. He was afraid to tug at the straps which bound him; such action might be noted by the gangsters.

As the touring car came to a stop, Cliff gripped the gag between his teeth so that its looseness would not be observed.

The mobsters clambered from the touring car. They carried Cliff Marsland along the sidewalk and deposited him in a narrow alleyway. One of the gangsters added a derisive kick as an afterthought. He turned to follow his companion.

“Cheese it!” Cliff heard the first mobster whisper. “There’s a car just pulled up — see it? — Over there near the corner.”

“Some guy parking,” came the reply. “He’s got the lights out. Come on — we’ll sneak back with Duke.”

Evidently Duke Scurley had also noticed the car. Cliff heard the gang leader’s growl at the end of the alley.

Duke was giving instructions to his men.

“Punks has sneaked over to see who’s in the car,” he stated. “Wait till he gets back. We’ll scram after we’re sure everything’s O.K.”

Tense silence followed. Then Cliff heard someone slouch up through the darkness. He heard a voice — Punks Gumbert was reporting in a low tone.

“Say, Duke!” The scrawny mobster’s tone was awed. “There ain’t nobody in that car! Honest, there ain’t!”

“Are you goofy?” questioned Duke. “No guy could have got out of there. You started off before the car was stopped.”

A sudden elation seized Cliff Marsland. He knew the situation. The person who had come in that car was The Shadow!

In the midst of his sudden exhilaration, a rapid succession of thoughts gave Cliff an understanding that he had not gained before. This was the neighborhood in which Doctor Rupert Sayre’s car had been discovered. The Shadow had linked it with Cliff’s own report of an abandoned district where Duke Scurley stowed his victims.

The Shadow had come after receiving word from Burbank!

New ideas swept through Cliff’s brain. The Shadow was here to see what happened to the man whom Duke Scurley left. The Shadow had not learned that Cliff Marsland, his own agent, was the victim.

Hence The Shadow was not here to wage war with Duke Scurley’s mob; he was here to watch after they had departed!

“We’ll slide along,” came Duke’s new growl. “That guy must have gone in some house before you got up there, Punks.”

Cliff Marsland grinned. When Duke and his crew departed, The Shadow would arrive. Cliff knew, that the phantom figure was close at hand, unseen by the watching mobsters. As soon as Duke was gone, Cliff could whisper out his plight. The Shadow would hear.

“Come on,” decided Duke. “Back to the car. Let’s scram away from this place.”

FOOTSTEPS sounded as the gangsters moved away. Cliff listened for The Shadow’s approach; he also waited for the cars to start away, figuring that The Shadow would be cautious until they had departed.

Then, of a sudden, two men arrived. Coming like vultures, they swooped upon Cliff’s body and raised it from the alleyway. Cliff realized instantly who this pair must be. They were the mysterious men who carried away Duke Scurley’s victims!

There was no time for waiting now. Duke and his men were at the cars; The Shadow was advancing somewhere close at hand; in the interim, Cliff would be gone and The Shadow would be none the wiser.

“Help!” shouted Cliff. “This is Marsland — Cliff Marsland! They’ve got me…”

A loud oath came from beyond the alley. Duke Scurley had been loitering by the car. Cliff’s cry was bringing him before The Shadow!

“Help—”

Cliff’s final shout ended. A hand clapped a saturated cloth to Cliff’s nostrils. A powerful anesthetic took immediate effect. Amid a whirlwind of scattered ideas. Cliff heard distant shouts. He felt himself being rushed down the alley by the men who bore him.

The minions of the fiend were carrying away their victim. Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was being swept away from the spot where he had hoped for aid. Eric Veldon’s mechanical men were performing the order of their evil chief.