Murder Marsh

CHAPTER I. FROM THE PAST

TRAFFIC was light on the East Side elevated. When the three-car local stopped at a dimly lighted station, a lone passenger stepped to the warped boards of the platform. The train rumbled away while the man was shuffling slowly toward the turnstile exit.

The night was warm, yet the passenger wore an overcoat, with collar turned up around his neck. He peered suspiciously back and forth as he shambled toward the steps that led to the street. He pulled the front of his grimy hat farther down upon his forehead.

Though the evening was young, this suspicious man encountered few passers as he reached the street.

The thoroughfare beneath the elevated was almost deserted. It gloom, its cracked, dirty paving, the heavy pillars of the elevated structure — all had the effect of thinning traffic in the street.

As for pedestrians, they could find but little of interest in the dilapidated, poorly lighted stores that lined the sides of this forgotten street. A good spot for a holdup, it lured only those who might have been in the game themselves. Shambling figures, who paused to lurk by blackened building fronts, were the only ones that the man from the elevated spied.

This was to his liking. Clutching the front of his coat, he scruffed along beside the curb. As he reached a corner, he paused, looked about; then hastily crossed the side street and resumed his shuffling gait beneath the fringe of the elevated structure.

AT the second corner, the suspicious man stopped in front of a dingy brick building. Several stories in height, this edifice loomed above the smaller houses that surrounded it. Apparently, it had once been well-kept; at present, it showed signs of disrepair. Despite the shading of night, its tall front revealed cracks and patches of crumbling corner bricks.

The muffled man was not interested in a survey of the building. His suspicious eyes noted the sign that hung above the entrance to the place:

Satisfied, the arrival edged close to the building and peered through a grimy plate-glass window. Inside, he saw a dingy lobby, where half a dozen men were slouched about in battered chairs. He observed a hard-faced clerk standing behind a cracked desk of imitation marble. The observer grunted.

This was the place that he sought. The way was clear. For his inspection had satisfied himself that none of the slouchers in the lobby were stool pigeons or detectives. The Hotel Spartan was noted as a rendezvous for mobsters who were in the money and who were not at odds with the law. Those whom the muffled man had seen, appeared to be natural habitues of the place.

Dropping his slouch, the muffled man entered the hotel. He walked boldly across the lobby, staring straight ahead as he approached the desk. His hand, however, still held his coat collar closed. Reaching his objective, the newcomer growled a few words to the clerk, who nodded and pointed toward the stairs.

“He’s waiting for you,” informed the clerk. “Go on up. Room 306.”

The muffled man needed no further statement. He stalked quickly toward the stairs and tramped upward on the frayed carpeting. A few of the loungers glanced curiously at his departing figure. Then his arrival seemed to be forgotten.

Yet among the nondescript group assembled in the lobby of the Hotel Spartan, there was one who had closely watched the muffled man. This fellow had a firm, square face that marked him as different from the usual gangster type. His features lacked the coarseness so prevalent in the underworld.

It was his air of self-assurance that enabled this individual to frequent such places as the Hotel Spartan.

As he arose and strolled through the lobby, his eyes showed a steely glint as they turned toward staring mobsmen. That firm gaze was sufficient. No one would have thought of challenging its steady-faced owner.

Moreover, the loungers in the lobby recognized the man. He was Cliff Marsland, known in the underworld as a mobster de luxe. He was no ordinary gorilla. He was capable enough to head a mob of his own; but Cliff was noted because he preferred to work as lieutenant to big-shots. His presence in the Hotel Spartan was not unusual. This was a natural place for a man of his ilk to form contact with those who might need his valued services.

Cliff Marsland had another calling — one that he kept secret. Leaving the Hotel Spartan, he strolled a few blocks and entered an old drug store. In a phone booth, he made a call. A quiet voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Marsland,” informed Cliff. “Report on Luke Zoman. Man answering his description came into the Hotel Spartan. Clerk sent him up to 306. Room occupied by Squeezer Dyson.”

“Report received,” came Burbank’s voice. “Follow plan as given.”

“Instructions received.”

When Cliff Marsland left the drug store, he took a side street. He was heading for an alleyway in back of the Hotel Spartan. There he could be in readiness for what might follow. For Cliff had performed his secret duty — one that was sure to produce results. Through Burbank, Cliff Marsland had reported to The Shadow.

Unknown to associates in the underworld, Cliff Marsland was an agent of the mysterious master whose power was feared by men of evil. Scourge of the badlands, The Shadow, strange being of the night, was ever ready to battle against fiends of crime. His blackgloved finger seemed to feel the pulse-throbs of trouble in the underworld. His secret records held the names of criminals whose affairs needed watching.

Cliff Marsland’s report had proven that one of these was Luke Zoman.

CLIFF had made a good conjecture when he had picked the muffled man as Luke Zoman. Up in Room 306, the arrival had removed his coat and hat. In the light of a dingy room, his features showed a pug nose and a scarred cheek. These and his bloated, puffy lips marked him as the man The Shadow wanted.

Seated with Luke Zoman was a shrewd, rat-faced fellow: “Squeezer” Dyson. Crafty worker of crime, Squeezer made his headquarters at the Hotel Spartan. He was a crook who had mobsters at his bidding.

He was also one whose cleverness in cooking up alibis had kept him square with the law.

“You look kind of scared, Squeezer,” Luke Zoman was commenting. “Maybe you don’t like it because I dropped in here. You wasn’t that way in the old days, Squeezer.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Squeezer, gruffly. “But I’ve learned plenty, Luke, since you went up to the big house. It ain’t a bad idea to stand in with the bulls. That’s the way I play it nowadays.”

“I get you. A guy like me — just out of stir — ain’t a welcome visitor. Well, don’t get cold feet, Squeezer. I didn’t come down here with no brass band. There wasn’t nobody saw me except some of those mugs in the lobby. I figured they was all right.”

“They ought to be, Luke. Some of them belong to my mob. The rest of the boys are in rooms on this floor. I don’t take no chances, Luke. If any phony guys was down in that lobby, some of my mob would have tipped me off.”

“You got a mob, eh?” Luke chuckled. “Different from six years ago, when I took my trip up the river. That’s great, Squeezer. You’re just the bird I want to see.”

“Yeah?” Squeezer shifted uneasily. “Whatta you figuring on pulling, Luke?”

“You know.” Luke rose to his feet and stalked across the room. “There’s a bimbo I’m going to get — and I need a pack of gorillas to do it.”

“Judge Claris?”

“Yeah. Judge Claris.” Luke snarled the name with venom. “He put me in stir and he’s going to pay for it. Him and anybody that happens to be around. I want a mob that’s ready to back me up — gorillas who can scram for cover. You and your outfit are the bunch I need.”

“Forget it, Luke,” argued Squeezer. “What’s the good? You won’t get nothin’ out of it but trouble.”

“I’ll take the trouble.”

“The bulls will be laying for you. Don’t forget — you threatened Claris when he put you in stir. You said you’d get him when you came out. Maybe—”

“That don’t mean nothing, Squeezer. Every judge gets threats like that. I went on good behavior in the big house. I’m supposed to be reformed. Claris ain’t thinking about me. The bulls have forgotten the threats I made. Six years is a long time, Squeezer.”

“Maybe you’re right about the bulls, Luke. But there’s one guy ain’t going to forget the threats you made.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Shadow.”

Luke Zoman stopped short. He stared coldly at Squeezer. He seemed to detect awe on his companion’s ratlike face. Then, with a disdainful leer, Luke delivered a harsh guffaw.

“The Shadow!” he snorted. “Say — it wasn’t The Shadow who put me in stir. What does he know about me?”

“He knows plenty about everybody,” retorted Squeezer. “Say — there’s been times when you guys in the big house was safer than us birds that was out. The Shadow’s been smearing some mighty sweet rackets while you was in stir.”

“So it’s him you’re scared of, eh? Going to let me down? An old pal of mine” — Luke’s tone was sarcastic — “but you ain’t pal enough to help me get even with that mug Claris, that ought to have been rubbed out six years ago.”

“Listen, Luke.” Squeezer’s eyes flashed angrily as the rat-faced mobleader came to his feet. “I ain’t lost any of my nerve. I’m still a pal of yours. I’m willing to back you even if your ideas are goofy.

“But it ain’t good sense for me to help you bump Claris. It means I’ve got to scram along with you. I got enough dough to pay off my mob for helping me. I got enough to scram along with you. But where’s the gravy? I can grab off dough here in New York, but nowhere else.

“If there was cash in bumping Claris, I’d chance it. But he’s got nothing in his house. It’s just an idea of getting even — and it leaves us flat at the finish. That’s why I’m arguing with you.”

“Talking like yourself now, Squeezer,” declared Luke, with a grin. “That’s what I wanted to hear. So if there was dough at the end of the trail, you’d be with me?”

“Sure thing, Luke.”

“Well, the dough will be there. Go through with this along with me. Scram when I scram. Stick close, like a pal. There’ll be plenty in it for you.”

“How much is plenty?”

“One hundred grand!”

SQUEEZER DYSON stared. His face showed his incredulity. An offer of one hundred thousand dollars, coming from a man just out of Sing Sing, was more than he could understand.

Luke Zoman grinned. “One hundred grand,” he repeated. “That’s what I’ll pay you, Squeezer. That’s how much I’m willing to cough up to get even with Judge Claris. Are you on?”

“For a hundred grand?” Squeezer laughed hoarsely. “Say — I’d bump a whole jury along with a judge to get hold of that dough. Sure — I’m with you — only—”

“Only what?”

“Where’s the dough coming from?”

“Is that all you want to know?”

“That’s all!”

“You’re with me if I put you wise?”

“I’m with you — and the mob, too.”

A leer showed on Luke Zoman’s face as the ex-convict stalked to the window. Luke made sure the sash was locked. He lowered the shade clear to the bottom. He beckoned Squeezer Dyson toward a little table in the corner. From his pocket Luke pulled out an envelope.

A letter slid from the frayed end of the envelope. With it came three or four small newspaper clippings; also an object that looked like a white card, about the size of a postal. This object was the first that Luke picked up. He turned it over as he handed it to Squeezer. The rat-faced mobleader stared.

The picture was that of an oddly shaped mansion that stood upon a raised mound that looked like an island in a blackened sea. Beyond the building was sloping land that raised to a ridge of wooded mountains.

“That’s where the dough is coming from,” asserted Luke Zoman. “Half a million — all mine — waiting in that house. What’s more, I don’t make a move to get it; yet it’s in the bag, Squeezer — and a hundred grand is yours, if you stick with me on this Claris deal.”

Squeezer Dyson was staring at the picture. His face showed interest; also doubt. Luke Zoman leered. He saw that his companion was ready to be convinced.

“You want the low-down, eh?” quizzed Luke. “Well listen, pal, and I’ll hand it to you. Take a good look at that picture, bo. It means a hundred grand to you.”

While Squeezer, half nodding, sat staring at the picture, Luke picked up the clippings and the letter. He threw a suspicious glance toward the door; satisfied that no one was listening, the ex-convict began the explanation that was to convince his pal.