Murder Every Hour

CHAPTER X THE TRAP REVERSED

THE solitary cab had stopped on Ninety-first Street. Moving slowly past the warehouse, it had reached the place of rendezvous. Lights glimmering, motor idling, the vehicle was waiting near the curb.

Eyes were watching from the corner by the warehouse. The Shadow could see a slight area of illumination caused by the parking lights of the cab. Watching, he observed a hunched figure come shambling to the side of the taxi.

With one gloved hand, The Shadow held an earphone beneath the side brim of his hat. While he watched the man who had approached the taxi, he heard the fellow’s furtive whisper, brought by a radio hook-up:

“Who d’ya wantta see?”

The Shadow spoke into a tiny microphone. His answer was in a disguised voice that resembled Donald Powlden’s.

“Louie,” stated The Shadow. “Where is he?”

Watching, The Shadow saw the man by the taxi make a gesture toward the house. The hunched informant had spoken through the window of the cab; he had heard The Shadow’s reply from its interior.

“All right,” spoke The Shadow, in Powlden’s tone. “I’ll come on in.”

The hunched man started toward the house. He paused on the steps to look back, wondering why the door of the cab had not opened.

The Shadow, also, had turned. Moving swiftly through darkness, he reached the corner of the avenue, a few yards from his station. Past the turn, he blinked a flashlight.

Harry Vincent caught the signal from Moe’s cab. The agent pressed the switch. Around on Ninety-first Street, the empty cab began to move slowly forward. The Shadow returning rapidly to the warehouse corner, was in time to witness its departure.

Instantly, there came a hoarse cry from the steps of the house. A frantic signal from the hunched man as he saw the cab leaving. His alarm given, the fellow dived back into the house. The response to his call came from further along the street.

A glare broke from a parked touring car. The machine shot forward to meet the departing cab. Flashes of stabbing flame burst from its interior. With them came the echo-bringing rattle of machine guns, a terrifying tattoo that roared through the silent street.

The moving cab was riddled. Windows shattered; tires exploded. The taxi twisted, jounced to the curb, swung away and careened crazily across the street.

The touring car had passed the stricken vehicle; but the barrage still continued. Gunners had turned their weapons toward the rear. The taxi bounced up on the far curb and rammed squarely into a house wall.

An old, ramshackle vehicle, the taxi did a complete collapse when it hit.

Fenders and hood went spilling. Flat tired wheels rolled from their axles.

Flames burst from the motor, to envelop the old car.

THE touring car was speeding toward The Shadow’s corner, while its gunners jeered their elation at the quick havoc that they had produced. But as the car neared the avenue, a hoarse cry came from the driver.

The man at the wheel had swung a spotlight toward the wall of the old warehouse. By lucky chance, that glare had revealed a figure standing there. Outlined in the circling glow was the cloaked shape of The Shadow.

Machine gunners heard the driver’s cry. Swinging about, they sought to bring their weapons into play, while the driver, maddened by the sight of the spectral foe, wheeled the car straight for the spot where The Shadow stood.

To run down The Shadow was the driver’s hope. Leader of the murderous crew, the crook at the wheel had acted with promptitude in the emergency. If he could send The Shadow diving for cover, the “typewriter” men would have time to train their devastating guns.

The Shadow did not budge. Though the driving car was but a dozen yards distant and swinging straight for him, he chose to hold his ground. From his hidden lips came a burst of mocking laughter.

An automatic spoke from a gloved fist. A single shot, aimed with precision; The Shadow’s response to the emergency. The delivery of that bullet was a master stroke. The Shadow had fired directly toward the man behind the wheel.

The clipping bullet zizzed past the edge of the windshield. It found the body of the driver. The leader of the murder crew slumped sidewise from the wheel. His hands lost their grip.

Half a second later came the sequel that The Shadow expected. A front wheel of the touring car hit the curb. Had the driver been able to resist the jounce, the car would have hurtled onward, straight for The Shadow. But the car was driverless. The loose wheel gave when the machine took the jolt.

A machine gun began a wild rattle. Aiming late, its handlers had no chance to control it as the car careened. Bullets sprayed their marks along the white front of the warehouse, a dozen feet above The Shadow’s head.

Automatics boomed as the touring car rocketed past. The Shadow was stabbing quick shots into the huddled squad of crooks. Gunners lost their weapons. Oaths and cries sounded with the echoes of The Shadow’s shots. The touring car skidded across the street, its front wheels, twisted on a line, went up the opposite curb.

Figures sprawled to the sidewalk as the car stopped, half-tilted against a wall. Crooks lay slumped — all save one gunner who was still within the car. Over the bulwark of the door, this would-be slayer sought to bring a machine gun into play.

Vainly — he looked for signs of The Shadow against the white front of the warehouse. As the crook craned his neck forward, he heard a sound by the uplifted running board. Dropping the machine gun, he shot his arms forward toward a blackened shape that had arrived beside the car.

A blotting arm swished in the darkness. The side of an automatic thudded against the machine gunner’s capped head. The crook slumped back into the touring car. The Shadow moved away.

SPRAWLED on the sidewalk, under the glare of the twisted spotlight, was the dead form of the driver. Other crooks were stunned and wounded; but The Shadow’s aim at the murderous leader had not been a random effort.

The Shadow recognized the grimy face that the light revealed. It was that of “Togo” Mallock, a notorious figure in the badlands. A freelance killer, Togo called in henchmen only when he had special work to do.

Togo’s scattered crew were small-fry desperadoes, habitues of underworld dives who had been assembled for tonight’s duty. The leader eliminated, The Shadow could gain nothing by dealing further with the underlings.

Sirens were sounding from a distant street. Some beat-pounding patrolman must have heard the gunfire and put in a prompt alarm. The Shadow turned and swept swiftly toward the corner. Past it, he reached Moe’s cab. He whispered a quick order.

As Harry Vincent scrambled from the cab, Moe started the motor; then wheeled the car about. Harry was cutting off through an alley opposite. He had ample time to leave this vicinity on foot.

Moe headed for the corner of Ninety-second Street and followed past the warehouse. He stopped as a man sprang forward with waving arms.

It was Cliff Marsland, stalwart agent of The Shadow. As Moe stopped, Cliff turned to the front of an empty house. Another man arose beside him, a wiry, stoop-shouldered fellow. This was Hawkeye, Cliff’s companion.

Between them, The Shadow’s agents boosted a hunched figure into Moe’s cab. They had captured the fellow who had talked into the empty cab out front; grabbed him while he was cutting through to a get-away on Ninety-second Street.

“Had to sock him,” Cliff informed Moe. “He’s out. We tied him up and gagged him for good measure.”

A siren was whining from Ninety-first Street. A patrolman’s whistle shrilled from the same direction. Then, from the darkness beside Moe’s cab, the agents heard a command, delivered in a sinister whisper.

The Shadow had arrived.

Cliff and Hawkeye headed away, northward. They had a parked car ready. They could leave before a police cordon closed. The Shadow boarded Moe’s cab. The taxi driver shot into gear, then sped swiftly along the street. The Shadow, a prisoner in his clutch, was departing this area.

Five minutes later, officers were examining the wrecked taxi on Ninety-first Street. They had already inspected the crashed touring car and were awaiting arrival of an ambulance for the stunned and wounded crooks. They were surprised, however, to find the old cab without occupants.

Broken pieces of radio equipment lay within the ruins of the cab. Some parts had been scorched by flames which patrol car police had extinguished. The cops wondered what this apparatus meant.

They did not know that they had discovered the remains of a remarkable device. The Shadow had long since prepared this antiquated cab for special service. Radio-controlled, the old machine had responded to the switches which Harry Vincent had manipulated on the box in Moe’s cab.

The junky car, controlled in response to The Shadow’s signals, had rolled empty to the house on Ninety-first Street. Crooks had naturally supposed it to contain driver and passenger. The Shadow’s voice, through an amplifier, had aided in the deception.

Machine gun bullets had been wasted on the unoccupied cab. The Shadow had expected some trap; he had let the trappers reveal themselves. Then he had dealt with them after they supposed their work had been accomplished.

MOE’S cab had rolled southward. It stopped on a secluded street. The Shadow stepped forth into darkness. Over his cloaked shoulder he hoisted the limp form of the prisoner whom Cliff and Hawkeye had gained for him.

Moe waited, motor stopped and lights out, until The Shadow might return. The taxi driver could not sense the direction which The Shadow had taken. It was dark at this portion of the street. Shrouded gloom had blotted out The Shadow’s departure.

LATER came the click of a light switch. A bluish lamp glowed from the corner of a black-walled room. Beneath the flickering rays was a chair; in it, the hunched form of the informant who had become The Shadow’s prisoner.

The Shadow had carried the stunned man to this place. The prisoner was unbound and ungagged, within the walls of The Shadow’s secret sanctum. A pasty, droop-lipped face showed under the glare of the blue lamp. The Shadow’s laugh sounded from darkness beyond the focused spot.

Acquainted with the underworld, The Shadow knew the identity of this prisoner. The pasty-faced man was “Looney” Moken, a dip who had recently done time on Welfare Island after falling into the toils of the pickpocket squad.

Looney had presumably quit his light-fingered practices following his release. His new connection with Togo Mallock was an unusual wrinkle; one that interested The Shadow. He had brought Looney here, believing that the man might give information.

Looney was coming back to life. His lips twitched; his eyes opened. He blinked at the bluish glare and looked uneasy. Then he stared in terror as his ears caught the sound of a taunt from darkness. Looney knew the author of that laugh. The Shadow!

A whispered voice spoke. Its tones made Looney quake. Deep in the chair, the ex-dip licked his lips and tried to speak. His words, when they came, were plaintive.

“Don’t — don’t bump me!” gasped the hunched crook. “I’ll — I’ll squawk! I ain’t in on nothin’ I wantta be in on. Honest! It — it was Togo made me work — Togo Mallock.”

“Speak!” ordered The Shadow, in his sinister whisper. “Tell all you know.”

“I wisht I knowed more than I do,” gulped Looney, his hands shaking as they sought the arms of the chair. “But I don’t know nothin’ much. Nobody knows, except Togo. He gotta holt of me ‘long about nine o’clock tonight.”

“State Togo’s purpose,” came the whispered monotone.

“He wanted me to watch de house where dis guy Powlden lived,” explained Togo. “I didn’t wantta do it; but Togo said if I didn’t, he’d frame me wid de bulls. It woulda been back to de Island for me.

“Togo greased me wid a century. Off a big wad of mazuma he had on him. I didn’t want no century spot, so he gives me a batch of fins instead. Here’s de dough — in my pocket.”

Fumbling, Looney pulled a wad of money from his pocket. Five-dollar bills fluttered to the floor as the dip showed his anxiety to get rid of the incriminating cash. Looney had lost all urge to hold the hundred dollars that he had received from Togo.

“I seen a light in Powlden’s house,” resumed Looney, his voice showing a hoarse tremolo. “So I calls Togo, over at a restaurant on Broadway. He says to call him back in five minutes. When I does, he says de job’s all fixed.

“I gotta go to Ninety-first Street. Empty house over dere, just past Walton’s warehouse. When a guy in a cab asks for Louie, I’m to give de high sign, den beat it t’rough de back. I t’ought maybe Togo was screwy; but — he says it means anodder century for de job.

“An’ if I don’t pull it, I knows it means de Island again. Dat’s why I went dere. Honest. Togo’s down de street wid an outfit. I talks to de cab when it comes. A guy asks for Louie. I gives de high sign; but de cab starts away. So I hollers to Togo. After dat, I scram t’rough de empty house.

“Some mugs pile on me when I gets to Ninety-second Street. Dat’s all I knows until I wakes up here. Chee! If I knowed what Togo’s racket was, I’d spill de news. De way it is now, Togo will be framin’ me wid de bulls!”

Looney paused. His lips twitched. The Shadow, clear of the light, spoke in a solemn whisper:

“Togo Mallock is dead!”

LOONEY stared. Then his lips formed a weak smile. Despite the fearsome presence of The Shadow, the little dip managed to increase his grin. His eyes showed relief. It was genuine.

The Shadow knew that Looney had spoken the truth; that he had told all he knew. Looney wanted to spill more, as his appreciation for the news that Togo had died. But Looney had no further details to furnish.

“Honest,” he pleaded weakly, “I don’t have no idea who had Togo workin’ for him. Togo got dough from some big shot, or some guy dat must’ve had a wad of real coin. But Togo didn’t tell me nothin’, and dem guys wid him was just a bunch of dumb heels—”

Looney broke off abruptly. He realized that he was talking to nothingness. Only blackness showed beyond the blue light’s glare. A sudden end of tension told the little dip that The Shadow must have stepped away.

Then came a quiver of Looney’s shoulders. The prisoner sensed that The Shadow had returned. Looney stared in horror as a black-gloved hand came forth from darkness, carrying a glass tumbler filled with greenish liquid.

“Drink!” was the whispered order.

Looney trembled. Then he gripped the glass with both hands. The gloved fist withdrew. With an effort, Looney gulped down the liquid. He sank back in the chair.

Prompt drowsiness seized the hunched pickpocket. Looney’s fingers relaxed; the glass fell to the floor. Looney slumped under the effect of the quick-acting opiate.

The blue light clicked out. A laugh chilled the darkness.

TEN minutes later, Moe Shrevnitz heard the rear door of his cab come open. Looking about, the taxi driver saw Looney’s limp figure plop into the back seat. The door closed. Moe heard a whispered order. He understood.

Moe was to drive to the borders of the badlands; there to leave Looney, still doped, beside the entrance to an empty house in an obscure alleyway. The Shadow’s parting instruction remained in Moe’s cars as he drove the cab away.

“Fifteen minutes.”

That meant that Looney would be blotto for a little longer than a quarter hour. The Shadow was letting the pitiful fellow go; he wanted Looney to wake up in an isolated spot well distant from the vicinity of the sanctum.

A grim laugh sounded in the darkened street from which Moe’s cab had pulled. The Shadow had countered crime tonight; but he had gained no clue to the identity of the master crook who had sponsored Togo Mallock’s efforts.

The Shadow, however, had gained proof conclusive of Donald Powlden’s innocence. The crime worker who had planted evidence against the arrested inventor was still anxious to cover his own trail.

Anxiety on the part of an evil rogue always pleased The Shadow. That factor pointed to new encounters in the future. The Shadow would be ready.