Murder Trail

CHAPTER IX THE MEETING

THE alley which Bumps Jaffrey had entered was a dismal thoroughfare that gained its dim light from the grimy windows of old houses at the sides.

It was into one of these buildings that Bumps had gone; and now, half an hour after he had left Brindle’s restaurant, the gang leader was seated at a table in the corner of a large, dingy room.

The place was a speakeasy known to its patrons as Duke’s. This was in deference to the proprietor, a big, wide-faced fellow whose grinning mouth displayed a glittering array of gold teeth, and who had gained the sobriquet of “Duke.”

Away from the usual haunts of gangsters, Duke’s place was frequented only by those mobsmen who were well known to the proprietor. Hence the speakeasy was not familiar to Cliff Marsland, and it also afforded an excellent spot for Bumps Jaffrey to meet a friend unobserved.

Duke, the proprietor, was a cagey individual. He knew the manner in which mobsmen were wont to frequent a place in ever increasing numbers, until it became nothing more than a hangout for gangs, and forced the proprietor to obey the dictates of outsiders.

This was a condition that Duke did not want, because his speakeasy was doing business as neutral territory. Hence, Duke was very tactful in his methods. He had gained the services of a handful of indiscriminate rowdies who imbibed free drinks, and were always ready to eject any undesirables.

If unwanted mobsters entered Duke’s place, the strong-arm squad handled them tactfully, especially if they knew the visitors to be tough. It was easy enough to approach a gangster, and to suggest going to a place where drinks were better.

But when an unknown stranger came in, he was merely ordered to scram; and if he failed to do so, a swift bounce invariably followed.

Bumps Jaffrey, hard-faced and shrewd of eye, liked Duke’s place, because of the protection it afforded; and tonight, he had chosen it as a spot for a rendezvous. Imbibing a drink, he watched the door of the speakeasy, and his eye lighted as he saw a newcomer enter.

This man had none of the marks of the underworld. He was above medium height, well dressed, sallow in complexion. His face was intelligent and placid. He bore himself like a gentleman. There was quiet ease in his manner, and he rendered himself quite inconspicuous as he took a table.

After one drink, the stranger quietly arose and walked through a door at the rear of the room. Only two persons saw him go in that direction. One was Bumps Jaffrey; the other was Duke, the proprietor.

Both knew the identity of the stranger. He was Bart Shallock, one of the smoothest confidence men in New York, a clever crook whose activities were the despair of international detectives.

It was with Bart Shallock that Bumps Jaffrey had the appointment.

A FEW minutes after the confidence man had gone through the door, Bumps quietly arose and went in that direction. At the same moment, the door of the speakeasy opened, and a sweater-clad gangster came into the place.

This newcomer saw Bumps Jaffrey going into the back room. He also observed Duke’s watchful eye following the gang leader.

The sweatered man sidled into a chair at a corner table. It was there that Duke spied him. The proprietor came across the room with a challenging air.

“Hey, you!” he demanded. “What’re you doin’ in here? Why’d you come to this place?”

“This is a speak, ain’t it?” came the response, in a gruff tone.

“Sure it is,” admitted Duke, with a sour-grinned flash of his gold molars. “But it ain’t open to the public.”

“I ain’t the public,” growled the newcomer. “Get me a drink an’ make it snappy!”

Duke’s big paw shot out and gripped the gangster’s sweatered shoulder. With a powerful heave, Duke yanked the man to his feet. He intended to throw the intruder into the alley; and as a preliminary action, he shot a swift punch with his free hand.

The blow never landed. From his crouching position, the sweatered gangster straightened and tilted his head away from Duke’s sweeping fist. The proprietor missed his punch, and the gangster countered with a short upper-cut that landed on Duke’s jaw. Down went the big man, his gold teeth flashing from his wide-open mouth.

Duke, the tough speakeasy proprietor, had been flattened with a single punch. It brought a gasp of surprise from the rowdies about the room. Then, with one accord, five men leaped forward to seize the sweatered gangster.

The first man’s head shot up as a tight fist clipped his chin. The others leaped upon the amazing fighter in hopes of bearing him to the floor. He wrested away, and sprang across the room.

They were after him again; and revolvers gleamed as the strong-arm squad came into new action. With two men down, they were taking no chances.

Their adversary was too quick for them. Seizing a chair, he swung it against the nearest man, just as the ruffian aimed his gun. Down went the armed bouncer. The man in the sweater swung the chair high above his head, and as the attackers ducked, he smashed one of the two large lights that illuminated the room.

Turning, he used the chair to whack the arm of another man who was ready with a gun; and before the others could bring weapons into play, he hurled the chair with terrific force toward the second light that hung from the ceiling. A pop and the sound of glass clattering in the darkness. Then the spats of flame from revolvers as the strong-arm men fired at the spot where their adversary had been.

The front door banged, and in response the men surged in that direction, confident that the sweatered man had fled. Two of them reached the alley, but they could see no sign of the man they wanted. When they came back, they found a candle burning. Duke was groggily inserting a bulb in one of the light sockets.

“Did you get him, boys?” questioned the proprietor.

“Naw,” responded one of the bouncers. “He scrammed. We was too late to nab him.”

“Yeah? Well, it was bum stuff usin’ them rods. The coppers might come in on us. I told youse guys always to lay off the shootin’.”

Duke finished his task with the bulb, and went to the second socket. When the speakeasy was again thoroughly illuminated, the proprietor went to the back room and ascended a flight of stairs. He stopped at a door on the second floor, and knocked. An anxious voice came from within:

“That you, Duke?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the fireworks?”

“We had to get rid of a tough guy, Bumps. He’s gone now. Scrammed when it got too hot for him.”

“All O.K., now?”

“Looks that way, Bumps. Not enough trouble to bring the coppers.”

“O.K., Duke.”

Duke went downstairs, growling to himself. He was sorry that the intruder had escaped. A killing meant nothing to Duke, and since gun play had taken place in his speakeasy, he would have preferred a dead body to an escaped trouble-maker. However, all was quiet, and Duke gave no more thought to matters upstairs.

HAD Duke remained in that upper hall, he would have witnessed a surprising sight. A huddled figure emerged from the darkness. The sweatered gangster stood before the door where Duke had been.

The man had not gone out by the front door; instead, he had deceived his enemies in the dark. He had slammed the front door, and had doubled back upstairs.

Standing in the dim light of the hall, the unknown gangster began a strange transformation. He raised the bottom of his sweater, and drew forth a folded mass of black cloth. As the huddled figure drew itself erect, the cloth became a cloak, which dropped over the gangster’s shoulders.

A flattened object, appeared, and was molded into a slouch hat, which went upon the figure’s head. Black gloves slipped over white fingers.

The sweatered gangster had become The Shadow!

A low, whispered laugh shuddered from unseen lips. Stooping, the spectral form leaned close to the door of the room where Bumps Jaffrey was conferring with Bart Shallock. The buzz of voices was scarcely audible. With black-gloved fist, The Shadow knocked at the door.

“Who’s there?”

It was the questioning voice of Bumps Jaffrey.

“Duke,” came the response from the being in black. The voice was a perfect replica of Duke’s growl.

“What’s up?” questioned Bumps, from within the room.

“Nothin’” — it was Duke’s voice again — “but I’m just playin’ safe. Goin’ to switch out the light, here in the hall. So you won’t be bothered.”

“O.K., Duke.”

Out went the light. Silence reigned in the hall. Then, slowly and noiselessly, the door of the room began to open. Unseen and unheard, the tall figure of The Shadow moved through the space!

By turning out the light in the hall, The Shadow had prevented any glow from that direction. Now he was entering a dimly lighted room where Bumps Jaffrey and Bart Shallock were seated at a table in the corner.

Both were engaged in conversation; the single light extended from the wall beside their table. Neither glanced in the direction of the door. Hence they did not see the spectral form as it made its arrival.

The Shadow did not linger. The door closed behind him. His tall shape moved across the room like an apparition. He reached a spot where a second table was located, and there merged with the darkness of the wall. Completely invisible, The Shadow listened to the words that passed between gang leader and confidence man.

“I’M not kicking,” Bumps was saying. “I’m just wondering, that’s all, Bart. I’ve got the gang watching this guy Venturi, but he’s sitting still at the Dexter Hotel, and there’s nothing doing. I thought we were set for action.”

“Plans were changed for the first job, Bumps,” replied Bart Shallock, in a suave voice. “You’ll be in on the second.”

“You mean the first job has been pulled?”

“Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“Crix swung it himself.” Bumps Jaffrey whistled.

“Say, Bart,” was his comment, “this bozo Crix must be an ace. I can’t figure him.”

“You’re not supposed to figure him, Bumps. I don’t even know who he is myself.”

“You’ve seen him, though.”

“Of course. But Crix is the only name he gave me.”

“This lay bothers me, Bart,” said Bumps, in an uneasy tone. “I don’t quite get it. If Crix was after Venturi, why didn’t he get Venturi?”

“Bumps,” returned Bart, “I don’t know the details myself; but I’m going to tell you all I do know. Crix said it would be all right. He will need you shortly, and he knows that you are capable. So I’m going to explain all that’s necessary.”

“Shoot.”

“Well,” continued Shallock, “this fellow Crix dropped in to see me more than a month ago. He had me guessing from the minute he began to talk. He knew plenty about me — enough to make a lot of trouble; and when it developed that he was offering me a proposition, I listened.

“He asked me if I had ever heard of Victor Venturi. Of course, I said I had. Crix told me that he had been to Europe, and that he had learned Venturi was tied up with some big proposition. That sounded logical; Venturi used to be a pretty important man in Italian politics. An undercover agent — now retired.

“Crix said that Venturi would come to America on secret business — something involving plenty of money — and that by covering Venturi, we could come in on the dough. Crix wanted me to have a mob ready, and to keep some one like you watching Venturi. That’s how it started.

“But after that, Crix discovered something new. Venturi is here on business, yes — but Venturi is the blind. The real negotiations for money were turned over to another man!”

“Then we’ve got on the trail of the wrong guy!” exclaimed Bumps Jaffrey, in a disgusted tone.

“Yes” — Bart Shallock weighed his answer — “and no. Crix has found the right man. He is handling the job. But if Venturi finds out that matters are going sour, he will step in and make trouble. Venturi is the safety man, Bumps. It’s our job to eliminate him so that Crix can do his work.”

“That’s different.”

“Crix came in to see me to-day,” continued Bart. “He ran into trouble on the first job. He made a getaway, but it was close. He doesn’t intend to take chances. He wants Venturi covered; he wants men ready to help him on the next job.”

“I get you, Bart.”

“So it’s up to you to be ready, Bumps. Keep covering Venturi. Keep watching any one who is interested in what he does. Be ready for quick orders.”

“Right.”

Bart Shallock drew a roll of bills from his pocket. He counted off some notes of large denomination.

“Ten grand, Bumps,” said the confidence man. “That’s just the beginning. Satisfied?”

“You bet!” exclaimed Bumps Jaffrey.

Bart Shallock arose. Without further word, he walked from the room.

A few minutes later, Bumps Jaffrey followed. Confidence man and gang leader had completed their conference.

BLACKNESS stirred on the other side of the room. The figure of The Shadow came into view. Tall, spectral, like a living ghost, the mysterious form of darkness stood in the center of the deserted room. The low, whispered laugh of The Shadow raised sinister echoes. The black-garbed phantom followed the path that the others had taken. At the bottom of the stairs, a gloved hand turned the knob of the door that led into the speakeasy. There were only two men there now — Duke and another. They were engaged in conversation. Unobserved, The Shadow stepped into the big room. Gliding along the wall, his figure moved like a living silhouette until it reached the outer door, where it mysteriously disappeared. Neither Duke nor the other man caught a glimpse of the weird form.

A soft laugh reverberated through the alleyway. Then The Shadow was lost in the darkness. Tonight, The Shadow had learned the name by which the supercrook was known — the odd name which Harry Vincent had learned about, but had not heard.

Crix! That was the soubriquet of the man The Shadow wanted — the stranger who had dropped from the dirigible Munchen. His real identity was unknown even to Bart Shallock, his chief lieutenant.

The Shadow was dealing with a supercrook — a man whose ways were mysterious, whose very person was obscure. The Shadow had not learned where Crix might be; but he had learned the name of the man Crix had ordered watched.

Victor Venturi — one time secret agent for the Italian government — now here in New York at the Dexter Hotel. That was all the clew The Shadow needed. Crix was watching Venturi. The Shadow would watch Venturi also.

Two hunters after the same quarry; but one hunter would be watching for the other. Through their mutual interest in the affairs of Victor Venturi, a meeting between Crix and The Shadow would be inevitable. And the Dexter Hotel would be the scene. That fact, The Shadow knew.

The Shadow always knows!