Murder Trail

CHAPTER XVII MOBSMEN PREPARE

A GROUP of men were seated in a basement room. Four were playing cards at a table. Six others, lounging about on benches by the wall, were growling among themselves as they expressed impatience at their enforced idleness.

One man, slouched in a corner, was dozing as though the tedium did not annoy him. Clad in baggy pants and heavy sweater, Cliff Marsland was playing his part as a member of Bumps Jaffrey’s newly assembled mob.

Cliff held one leg outstretched upon a bench. This leg still bothered him a trifle from the wound that he had received several months ago, when The Shadow had rescued him at the Hotel Spartan. His limp, however, had not been noticeable enough to attract comment on the part of his gangster companions.

Some one thumped Cliff on the shoulder. Looking up, Cliff saw the grinning face of Skeeter Wolfe. With apparent indifference, Cliff closed his eyes and recommenced his doze.

“Gettin’ on your nerves, Cliff?” questioned Skeeter. “Tired of waitin’ around?”

“Not much,” commented Cliff. “I don’t mind loafing when I’m getting paid for it.”

“You’ll get paid for more than loafin’, Cliff,” said Skeeter, in a confidential tone. “Leastwise, you will if we run into anythin’ like the last job. Some good boys took the bump that night, Cliff.”

“How come?”

“You ask me? I’ll give you the lowdown — an’ you’re the only guy I’d tell. The Shadow was there, Cliff. I tried to get him, but it didn’t do no good.”

“The Shadow? Humph!”

Cliff again closed his eyes. Skeeter stared with wide-open mouth. Finally, the gangster resumed his grin.

“Maybe you think The Shadow ain’t much to worry about,” said Skeeter. “All right, bozo. Have your think. I think different.”

Cliff yawned and opened his eyes. “What I want to know, Skeeter,” he said, “is where we go from here. Bumps Jaffrey has been running us all over Long Island. Where are we heading? What’s the lay?”

“That’s Jaffrey’s business,” laughed Skeeter. “But you ain’t the only one that’s wonderin’. Listen to the rest of the mob. They’re all askin’ the same.” The buzz of conversation from the assembled mobsters proved the reliability of Skeeter’s comment.

“Thursday night,” declared Cliff. “Still on the move. I wouldn’t mind meeting The Shadow and a dozen like him, Skeeter, if it would bring a little action.”

“You’d get action aplenty,” ridiculed Skeeter. “One guy like The Shadow is enough for me — an’ a crowd beside. Ps-st — here comes Bumps Jaffrey. Say — Cliff! That’s Bart Shallock with him!”

Cliff Marsland looked up and saw the form of Bumps Jaffrey entering the room. Cliff studied the man who was with the gang leader. He noted the suave look on Bart Shallock’s face. Cliff, despite his calm demeanor, felt a positive conviction that the time for action had arrived.

SINCE his introduction into Bumps Jaffrey’s crew, Cliff had gained no inkling of the gang leader’s purpose. The mob had moved from New York. Different spots on Long Island had been chosen as temporary quarters.

What was the game?

Cliff had tried to learn, without success. He had listened to the comments of the other gangsters. He had even conversed cautiously with Bumps Jaffrey whenever the chief gangster was present. To all appearances, no one — not even Bumps — knew what lay ahead.

Cliff had managed to communicate with Burbank on several occasions. Each time, he had given the location where the mob was staying. Instruction had always been the same — to preserve the utmost caution, and be ready for emergency. Cliff was positive that The Shadow knew the purpose for which Bumps Jaffrey’s mob was being held in readiness. But, obviously, there were instructions coming from some one higher up.

Was that person Bart Shallock? So Cliff had supposed; but now, as he watched Bart and Bumps talking in a corner, Cliff had a sudden hunch that Shallock was no more than an intermediary between a hidden chief and the gang leader.

Had Cliff been able to overhear the conversation, he would have known the correctness of his supposition. But Cliff was too wary to approach. Hence he did not hear the words that passed.

“All set, Bumps,” Shallock spoke.

“Crix is ready?” questioned the gang leader.

“Right,” responded Bart. “He’s given me the lay. I’m going to place you and the mob.”

“Where?”

“Southampton. Millionaire’s house out there. All set for you and me to sneak in. We’ll listen to what goes on — and the mob will be behind us.”

“Who are we going to get?”

“Crix didn’t say. We’ll know, though. He’s going to show up somehow, and we’ll know when he gets there. It looks like we’ll be after Venturi again, if I’m figuring right.”

“Don’t kid me, Bart. If Crix has given you the whole lay, spill it. I’ll keep mum.”

“I don’t know a bit more,” protested Shallock, in a sincere tone. “There’s going to be some sort of a meeting at a house near Southampton, and I’ve got the location of the spot. Crix has figured it so we can slide in. I’ve got the plan of the ground floor. We’re to listen, and we’ll get the lay.”

“All right. Ready to go?”

Bart Shallock nodded as he heard Bumps Jaffrey’s question. The gang leader turned and signaled to the gang. The mobsmen gathered around.

“We’re going on to another joint,” declared Bumps, in a noncommittal tone. “Stick together and keep quiet. We’re going to slide into a place and lay low. That’s all. And get this” — Bumps looked around with a challenging expression — “when I give the word to go, we go. Any rat that wants to squeak can try it. He’ll only try it once. Remember, they call me Bumps! I’m just reminding you. Come on.”

CLIFF MARSLAND followed with the gang. They went out the rear door of the basement. This building was an old road house on Long Island, near the Sound. There was a telephone in the protected speakeasy upstairs, and Cliff desperately wanted to get to it.

But there was no turning now. He would have to wait for a later opportunity. Skeeter Wolfe was at Cliff’s elbow. There was no chance to slip away.

Cars were waiting. Cliff clambered into an old sedan, with Skeeter still at his elbow. The cars started off. Cliff kept a close watch on the road. It was not long before he decided where they were bound for — Southampton, most likely, or beyond that.

How could he inform The Shadow? During the past few days there had been opportunities. Those had been times when there was no information to give. Now, when a report was vital, Cliff could not find the way.

He was still counting up his chances when the cars swerved from the highway, and farmed a short procession as they turned into a narrow lane.

The machines drew up beside a high hedge. Bumps Jaffrey, a flashlight in his hand, was counting noses. He spotted Cliff and Skeeter, and ordered them to alight. Soon the entire mob was gathered beside the hedge.

“Easy now,” ordered Bumps, in a gruff whisper. “Move along. Follow Bart Shallock, here.”

This was the first statement as to Bart’s identity. With Skeeter nudging him, Cliff moved along among the first gangsters. Bart Shallock was using a small flashlight to indicate the way along a narrow path that broke an opening through the hedge.

A dimly lighted mansion stood is the midst of a rolling lawn. Bart’s course was circuitous as he drew the gangsters toward a side wing, where a glow came from windows that were close to the ground. As they neared the house, Bart flicked his light in a warning to stop.

A flight of stone steps lay directly ahead. These led downward, into the lower portion of the house. Bart Shallock pointed to the steps, and spoke in a low tone to Bumps Jaffrey, who had just come up from the rear.

“Put some men in here,” ordered Bart.

Bumps picked out two gangsters, and told them to keep guard on the steps. The men dropped out of sight into convenient spaces at each side. They were firmly entrenched, and Bumps gave a grunt of approval.

Cliff Marsland appreciated the effectiveness of the position. Any one approaching the side of the house could be immediately covered by these gangsters.

BART SHALLOCK descended the steps and tried the door. It opened at his touch. He clicked his flashlight, and moved it momentarily as a sign for the others to join him. Bumps urged the mobsmen down the steps.

Cliff, still near the head of the gang, found himself in a short corridor that led from the main portion of the house into the wing. There was a room directly across the hall, and another to the left. Both doors were closed; the room at the left was apparently the one which was lighted.

“Come on.”

Bart was whispering. The mobsters crossed the hall, and Bart opened the opposite door to usher them into a dark room. When all were there, he closed the door behind him.

“Put two men at the door we just came through,” he told Bumps.

The gang leader picked out two mobsters. Cliff hoped that he would be one of the chosen pair. He was disappointed. Bart walked over, and gave the men whispered instructions.

Taking temporary command, Bart Shallock then posted the remaining men about the center of the room; flickering his light, he showed a door at the rear.

“That leads to the back room,” explained Shallock, in a voice just loud enough for all to hear. “There’s going to be some people in there later tonight. Bumps and I will be watching. You men at the hall door be ready to cut off any guy that tries to get away. The rest of you be ready to bust into the back room when Bumps and I give the call.”

As a last action, Bart Shallock went back into the hall, and opened the outer door. They could hear him speaking to the gangsters who were posted outside.

“Keep watch,” were his orders. “Nobody gets in here, see? And when trouble cuts loose inside, nobody gets out. Understand?”

A gangster’s growl came in the affirmative. Then came a cautious voice. “There’s a car comin’ up through the driveway—”

“Sh-h!” Shallock’s warning was a quick one. “Time to be ready.”

The confidence man closed the outer door, and hurried across the hall. He closed the door of the room until just a tiny crack remained open, so that the waiting gangsters could peer through. He joined Bumps Jaffrey at the door to the rear room. Here, also, Bart opened the door just a trifle.

This time, Cliff Marsland, slipping closer in the darkness, could hear what Bart Shallock said to the gang leader.

“We’re all set, Bumps,” was the confidence man’s statement. “This is the way Crix told me to fix it. He knows what’s coming off here tonight. He’ll get in through the front — like he did out at Bosworth’s, I guess. Anyhow, I’ll know when he gives the tip-off. The guy that owns this place isn’t home yet — maybe that’s him coming in by car. Anyhow, we’ll be set when we’re needed.”

“Even if we have to bump off The Shadow,” said Bumps grimly.

“Don’t worry about The Shadow,” commented Shallock. “Leave it to Crix.”

Crix!

The name flashed through Cliff Marsland’s mind. He had been on the lookout for an underworld character with an unusual name; later, Burbank had instructed him to listen constantly for word of a man named Crix.

Crix!

The man must be a supercrook. The one whom The Shadow wished to thwart.

More than ever, Cliff Marsland wanted to make his report. It was too late now. He could not possibly get away from here.

Crix was behind this job tonight. Crix plotted crime and death. Crix had a mob of a dozen men in readiness.

Death!

It might threaten Cliff himself tonight. But whatever might come, The Shadow’s agent was in readiness. He was sure that he could not count on The Shadow now. He had failed to relay news of this expedition to his mysterious chief.

But when the crisis came, Cliff would fight to the end. He would do his utmost to frustrate the evil work of Crix, even though he would have to turn his guns upon the dozen men who formed Bumps Jaffrey’s gang.

To reveal himself as the enemy of this evil crew would surely be a fatal step; yet Cliff planned that very action, in the service of The Shadow!