Murder Marsh

CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW’S CLUE

“REMEMBER, Squeezer” — Luke Zoman’s first words came in a warning tone — “I’m letting you in on something just to prove it’s real. We was pals before I went to the big house; but this was something I didn’t wise you to even then.”

“Spill it, Luke,” nodded Squeezer.

“What’s more” — Luke’s tone was savage — “it had a lot to do with why I went up the river. The bulls would never have got me if they hadn’t been tipped off. That picture in your mitt is the reason why I was in stir.”

“You mean the house?”

“I mean the guy that lives in it.” Luke laughed. “I should say the guy that used to live in it. Thaddeus Culeth. That was his moniker. The smoothest crook in the business — and the dirtiest. He’s dead now” — Luke tossed the clippings on the table — “and there’ll be no more double-crossing from him. He kept his mug shut while he lived; he died without squawking to nobody.”

“What was his game?” queried Squeezer.

“His game?” snarled Luke. “Double-crossing. The real game was ours. Mine and — but never mind the names of the other guys. I ain’t telling them to nobody.”

Luke paused to lick his dry, puffy lips. He fingered the clippings on the table. He laid them in a little stack; then clutched the letter that he was holding.

“There was six of us,” stated Luke, “and we pulled some big jobs. Cracking banks, pulling blackmail, working other rackets that made dough. And old Thaddeus Culeth was the brains of the outfit. Living there in his old house, like he wanted to be away from the world.”

“In the middle of a lake, eh?” questioned Squeezer, tapping the blackened foreground of the photograph.

“That’s no lake,” corrected Luke. “It’s a swamp. The only ways to get at it are from an old road that cuts through from the right and another road that goes across the swamp. Hits the edge of the high ground, that second road does.

“Well, we used to sneak in and out of Thaddeus Culeth’s place. We brought in the swag. He held it. That old geezer hatched up new jobs. Sent us out on them. And all the while, he was stowing away the gravy. Wanted a million before he made the big cut.

“We was saps. We fell for the game. Then came the double cross. A job went wrong. One of our outfit got bumped. We didn’t figure nothing phony until a second job was queered. Another guy was rubbed out. That left four of us.”

“Was Culeth in back of it?”

“Sure. We figured that after the second job went blooey. So Jimmy” — Luke caught himself — “one of us says he’d go and talk to Culeth. He did. We was to hear from him later. We didn’t.”

“You mean Culeth got him?”

“That’s the way it looked. There was only three of us left. We began to do some tall figuring. It wasn’t safe to walk in and see the guy no longer. We couldn’t squeal on him. It would have put us out of luck and he was too well covered. He could have cleared himself.”

“What did you do?”

“We stayed away. Separated. That’s when I came to New York. We decided to meet later on and spring a surprise on the old double-crosser.”

“Why didn’t you gang the place?”

“That joint?” Luke snorted as he pointed to the photograph. “Say — old Culeth was too smart for that. He had three strong-arm boys in the house. A lot of dogs around the place. There was a secret tunnel we used to use. We figured he’d plugged that after Jimmy — after the one guy went in to call for a show-down.

“No. We decided to lay low for a while. We knew Culeth for what he was. A miser. We knew he’d be hanging on to the dough. But he was foxier than we thought — Culeth was.”

“How?”

“HE found out where two of us was. Tipped off the bulls to both of us. That’s how they happened to grab me here in New York. Judge Claris sent me to the big house. Ten years — it got cut to six.”

“And the other guy?”

“He got a worse deal than I did. They nabbed him for murder. He’s doing life out in Joliet.”

“But you said there was three.”

“Yeah” Luke Zoman leered. “Three of us left. Two of us went in stir. But the third guy didn’t. He was sitting pretty. Culeth couldn’t get him.”

“Why not?”

“Because Culeth didn’t know him!” Luke’s voice rang with triumph. “He belonged to the outfit, but he had never been in to see Culeth. He was our ace in the hole.”

“Did he go after the dough?”

“No. That was where he was foxy.” Again Luke crinkled the letter. “Here’s how he figured it, Squeezer. There was two of us left to split. Me and this one guy Culeth didn’t know. So this fellow — the ace — decides to wait a while.

“He was counting on me coming out of the big house. But he was counting on something else. Thaddeus Culeth was an old gazebo. He wasn’t due to live many years more. So this boy waits. He doesn’t show his hand. That keeps Culeth worried. Then this comes along.”

Luke picked up the first clipping. It was an item from a small-town paper stating that Thaddeus Culeth, well-known citizen, had been stricken with paralysis. The next clipping spoke of Culeth’s grave condition.

The third stated that Thaddeus Culeth had died.

Luke took the clippings and tore them to pieces. He dropped them in an ash tray and applied a match.

While the bits of newspaper were burning, the ex-convict opened the letter that he had been holding.

“This was waiting for me,” he stated. “General delivery; I got it this afternoon. It had the picture and the clippings along with it.”

“From the ace?”

“Yeah. He’s in the town of Rensdale, where the old house is located. They’ve been going over Thaddeus Culeth’s estate. Only the house and a few thousand bucks. That’s all.”

“Then the dough is still safe?”

“You bet it is. In the old house. Now you see why this old pal of mine — the ace — was smart. He’s been playing straight for the last six years. He’s an educated guy — and he knows how to make the most of it. All he’s got to do is step in and pick up the gravy.”

“Are you going to help him?”

“Me?” Luke laughed. “Say — I ain’t showing my map nowhere near the town of Rensdale. Do you think I want to queer the game? This fellow is a real ace — a square shooter — and when he grabs that million, I’ll get my half.”

“I get you. Nobody knows the ace is a crook, eh?”

“And nobody suspects it. He could get away with anything — murder included. Maybe he’ll have to; but he’ll get that dough.”

“But if somebody wises up that there’s dough in the old house—”

“He’ll beat them to it. He’ll be on the ground. Listen, Squeezer: Thaddeus Culeth never talked to anybody — not even to his servants. There was a guy named Twindell worked for him; maybe Twindell suspected that Culeth was pulling some funny business, but it’s a sure bet that he didn’t have the real low-down.

“Twindell could be bought, maybe. Or maybe he’s just as dumb as he looks. There won’t be much trouble from him. If he knows nothing, all right. If he knows something, he’ll be scared to talk.”

“What about relatives?”

“The only one was Culeth’s son — young Austin. He and the old man had a fight, back before Thaddeus Culeth double-crossed us. The kid cleared out. Went abroad. Died in Africa of the fever. The guy that’s coming in for the estate is a distant relative — young fellow named Hector Lundig — who never saw Thaddeus Culeth.”

“Where did you get this dope?”

“Here in the letter.” With these words, Luke tore the message and dropped the pieces in the ash tray. He set fire to them as he had the clippings. He watched the letter burn to ashes.

The conversation between the two crooks had been a brisk one. The pause that followed seemed long.

Luke Zoman crumpled the ashes that had represented clippings and letter. He shook them into a wastebasket and wiped his hands with a grimy handkerchief.

LUKE ZOMAN had drawn the shade at the window. The act had seemed an unnecessary precaution at the time. Yet events outside of the Hotel Spartan were proving that the deed was one of some importance.

The window of Room 306 opened on the rear alleyway. From the darkness below, a strange, squidgy sound was marking the ascent of a living form.

A blackened shape loomed beside the locked window. It clung batlike to the surface of the brick. A hand freed itself from a rubber suction cup. Deft fingers pressed against the window sash — upward. The sash did not move.

A blackened wedge of thin steel was thrust between the portions of the sash. The lock gave noiselessly.

The steel disappeared; the hand pressed the sash silently upward. No breeze was stirring; the strange hand from the darkness raised the window to its full extent.

Fingers lifted the bottom of the shade the fraction of an inch. Burning eyes peered into the lighted room.

Keen ears listened. The Shadow had arrived; knowing the location of every room in this old hotel, he had chosen the window of Room 306.

“One million dollars,” Luke Zoman was saying. “Half of it mine. I can count on the guy that’s getting it. One hundred grand to you, Squeezer, if you help me rub out Judge Claris. Are you on?”

Squeezer was staring at the photograph on the desk. There was something about Thaddeus Culeth’s old house that impressed him. Luke Zoman’s story sounded good.

“I’m on,” spoke Squeezer. “Ready when you say the word.”

“To-night, then,” returned Luke. “Your mob is here. Pick the guys you want. Pay ‘em off on the way.”

Squeezer considered. He was standing near the table. Again, he glanced at the picture of the old house in which Thaddeus Culeth had lived.

“One hundred grand,” prompted Luke. “You’ve got the dough to pay your mob. I know you don’t keep no bank account. Those gorillas of yours don’t know where Judge Claris lives. They’ll think we’re busting into some millionaire’s house.”

“But the get-away—”

“Every body scrams. You and me together. We can get to Mexico before they trace us.”

“You’re sure about this pal of yours?”

“Say — I told you he was an ace. What do you think he sent me the letter for? He’s been waiting for me to get out of stir.”

“All right.” Squeezer’s tone was firm. “Stick here, Luke. I’ll call the mob. They’re just down the hall.”

Squeezer stepped toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob. Luke was watching him with eager, gleaming eyes. Ten seconds more and this room would be thronged with mobsmen, ready for orders.

Then came a sound that made both Luke and Squeezer turn in alarm.

A HAND had plucked the bottom of the window shade. With a snap, the blind went springing upward.

At the same instant, blackness seemed to surge in from the night. As the two crooks wheeled, they saw that blackness take the shape of a living form — a being cloaked in black. Burning eyes peered from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Looming automatics held the startled crooks at bay.

The Shadow had heard the plans to slay Judge Claris. He had learned that the plot lay only between these two men. He had resolved to forestall crime at its beginning — before Squeezer could assemble his band of mobsmen.

“The Shadow!”

The gasp came from Squeezer’s pale lips. A whispered laugh was The Shadow’s answer. Stark terror seized Squeezer Dyson as he stared into the muzzles of the automatics. The rat-faced crook saw that Luke Zoman was standing sullen; but he could not copy his companion’s example. Luke — six years in stir — had not learned of The Shadow’s prowess as had Squeezer.

Death. Squeezer feared it. The Shadow was a relentless foe to crime. He gave no quarter to murderers.

Squeezer knew that The Shadow had heard mention of killing Judge Claris. To The Shadow, those who planned murder were the same as murderers. At heart, Squeezer Dyson was yellow. Like a rat, he thought that squealing could save his skin.

“Don’t shoot!” pleaded Squeezer, as he faced the menace of those burning eyes. “I’ll tell — I’ll tell everything. It — it means a million bucks if you don’t kill me—”

A vicious snarl came from Luke Zoman. His secret on the point of betrayal, the man became a fiend.

Like a flash, he pulled the unexpected — the one course that could stop Squeezer Dyson’s plea. With a sudden leap, Luke hurled himself upon The Shadow.

The black-garbed master did not fire. He wanted to hear Squeezer talk. He knew that a shot would bring the yellow mobleader’s crew. Ready for Luke’s attack, despite its unexpectedness, The Shadow delivered a terrific swing with his left-hand automatic. The blow was aimed for Luke Zoman’s skull.

Blind luck saved the ex-convict. Luke thrust a hand upward. Pure chance enabled him to grip The Shadow’s wrist. With amazing strength, Luke stopped the downward swing and shot his free hand toward The Shadow’s throat. His surge sent the cloaked fighter up against the window.

For an instant, it appeared as though Luke was going to precipitate his foeman through the opening. Only by a quick twist did The Shadow avert that catastrophe. Dropping his left automatic, he wrenched free of Luke’s grasp and went sprawling into a corner of the room.

Luke pounced upon the gun. Quick as a cat, he gained the weapon and brought it up to aim. Seeing Luke’s action, Squeezer Dyson came to life and shot a hand to his pocket to pull a revolver. He thought that he and Luke had The Shadow on the spot. But neither reckoned with The Shadow’s skill at quick recovery.

THE SHADOW had dropped one automatic that he might use his hand to stay his fall. With that free hand, he caught the pipes of a radiator in the corner. With a powerful twist, he pulled his body up from the floor; his right hand, swinging into view, brought the muzzle of its automatic squarely toward Luke Zoman.

A burst of flame spat from The Shadow’s gun before Luke could press the trigger of the weapon which he had seized from the floor. With the roar from The Shadow’s automatic, Luke crumpled. The Shadow did not pause to fire a second shot. Still twisting, he swung his aim toward Squeezer Dyson.

The rat-faced mobleader had completed the draw. He fired a first quick shot. The bullet clanged against the radiator, inches from The Shadow’s shoulder. Then came a second burst from the automatic.

Squeezer, like Luke, slumped to the floor.

Again, The Shadow gave no heed to the man whom he had dropped. Rising, he sprang to the door of the room. He yanked the barrier open. Automatic in hand, he was face to face with a mobsman who had hastened to the hall at the sound of gunfire. The dim light of the dingy corridor showed revolvers flashing as these gorillas recognized the arch-enemy of gangdom.

Searing bullets whistled from The Shadow’s automatic. One gangster dropped. Another staggered.

Others dropped to cover, firing as they sought to avoid The Shadow’s shots. Bullets chipped wood from the doorway where The Shadow, framed in spectral outline, was standing his ground.

Footsteps on the stairs. New shots, fired from the gloom, were directed not at The Shadow but at the snarling mobsmen. Another crook fell. Cliff Marsland had found opportunity to slide in through the back passage of the old hotel. He had come to aid The Shadow.

Squeezer’s gorillas had retreated, leaving their trio of fallen comrades in the hall. They had slammed doors to serve as barricades. With a hissed command for Cliff to stand guard, The Shadow stepped back into the room where he had felled Luke Zoman and Squeezer Dyson.

Gasping on the floor, Squeezer stared upward. He still feared death. He tried to cough out words that he thought would bring him mercy. With an effort, he pointed to the table in the corner. The gesture was his last. Squeezer Dyson collapsed, dead.

The Shadow turned to the table. He plucked up the photograph that lay there. He fixed his burning eyes on Luke Zoman. The ex-convict was on hands and knees. His wavering fingers were clutching at the automatic that lay beside him.

“Speak.” The Shadow’s voice came in a sinister tone. “Tell of the crime that you have plotted.”

THE threat of death lay in that weird whisper; yet Luke Zoman remained defiant. His fingers had gripped the solid steel of the automatic handle. With hatred glaring on his face, the ex-convict sank to his left elbow. His bloated lips spat an oath as his right hand tried to aim the automatic.

Like a figure of adamant, The Shadow stood motionless. His keen eyes sensed what was coming. Luke Zoman’s last defiant effort was too much. Before he could raise the weapon that he held, the ex-convict delivered a choking cough. He fell face forward on the floor. Like Squeezer Dyson, Luke Zoman was dead.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Cliff Marsland’s automatic barked a flashing challenge. Arriving mobsters scurried back to cover. In the room, The Shadow stooped and plucked the automatic from Luke Zoman’s nerveless fingers. Hidden lips hissed a command.

Cliff sprang into the room and turned out the light. He groped through the darkness toward the window, where he heard the sounds of metal clamping against the woodwork. An object was thrust into Cliff’s hand. The Shadow’s agent gripped a handle that was shaped like a stirrup. Holding firmly, Cliff swung himself from the window.

Stout wire, strong as cable, hummed from a reel as Cliff slid downward into the blackness of the alleyway. When Cliff released the handle, the wire sizzed upward. Then came squidgy sounds from the wall.

Police whistles. They were close at hand. Then came a whisper from the darkness. The Shadow had arrived. Sirens were whining as new whistles shrilled. Prompted by a whispered voice, Cliff plunged into darkness, following The Shadow’s lead. Doorways in deserted buildings; passages between old houses — all seemed to appear in spots where they were needed.

Blocks from the old hotel, The Shadow hissed a final command. Cliff Marsland stepped into a parked coupe. The motor responded. The Shadow’s agent drove off to safety. He was unaccompanied. The Shadow had chosen to go his own route, through the covering darkness that was his habitat.

LATER, a light clicked in a darkened room. The Shadow had reached his sanctum. The photograph of Thaddeus Culeth’s old mansion appeared beneath the glow of a bluish lamp. Keen eyes studied the picture that bore no statement regarding the location of the house.

The light clicked off. A laugh whispered weirdly through solid darkness. Hollow mirth carried a foreboding note. The Shadow had gained a clue to coming crime. Though the present balked him, the future would bring The Shadow to the mysterious house in the marsh.