CHAPTER V THE SHADOW ON THE WALL

A FEW hours after the murder of Robert Scanlon, a man in a brown overcoat strolled from a Broadway motion-picture theater. Except for the wariness of his gaze, this individual was not unlike the other patrons who were faring forth.

No one would have suspected the man to be a murderer; yet such he was. Steve Cronin, cold-blooded and disdainful of the law, had decided to take in a movie after delivering crime.

Strolling a space with the Broadway throng, Steve picked a street and turned westward. He walked along in a manner that excited no suspicion; in fact, at one corner, he passed a policeman without gaining a single glance from the man in uniform.

Steve had decided that unless his trail had been picked up outside the Hotel Metrolite, no one could possibly be following him at present. The murderer also reasoned that any follower - had there been one - would surely have evidenced himself before now.

In the middle of a block, Steve slowed his pace and came almost to a stop near the doorway of a darkened cigar store. His head turned quickly as he glanced in both directions; then he moved quickly across the street and into the gloomy entrance of an old-fashioned apartment. He pushed a key into the lock of the main door, gave a hurried glance behind him, and entered.

Hardly had the door closed before a slight motion occurred in the dark doorway of the cigar store across the street. The gloomy blackness seemed to spread and project itself into the street.

Something flitted across the street and was absorbed by the entrance way of the old apartment house. It was as though a shadow had detached itself from one building and had passed over to the other.

All was silent in the entrance to the apartment. Then came a slight, almost imperceptible clicking in the lock. The door opened inward and cast a long, moving shadow down the dimly lighted hall.

The door swung shut, noiselessly; but its shadow remained, and then extended itself along the hall, to be lost in the darkness of the unlighted stairway. A man came down the steps, whistling; but he noticed nothing.

The strange, movable shadow reappeared in the hallway of the third floor, and formed an oddly shaped blot outside a doorway. It remained there, motionless, part of the many shadows that were there.

The door of the apartment swung suddenly open, and its shadow spread over the queer blotch of darkness, completely obscuring it.

Two men peered down the hallway. One was Steve Cronin, short and stocky, with a black mustache, and a tense, grim countenance. The other was somewhat taller - a slender man with a long, pointed nose, and shrewd, shifty eyes. The muscles of his face twitched nervously. He stepped into the hall, his thin lips forming a mirthless grin.

“There’s no one here, Steve,” growled the slender man, in an undertone.

“I just wanted to make certain sure, Croaker,” replied the other, in a smooth, low voice.

“Don’t worry, Steve,” was the answer. “You’re safe. The entry gives us two doors between us and the hall. You know me well enough, Steve. I’m no sap. There’s no listeners-in on anything that goes on here.”

“All right, Croaker. Let’s get back inside. I’ve got a lot to spill.”

The door closed. The shadowy blot reappeared on the floor. It remained there a full minute; then it twisted fantastically and moved back toward the stairs.

* * *

Within the room, the man called “Croaker” was reassuring his visitor.

“Look out that window, Steve,” he said, “three stories down into the courtyard. Not a window below us. This floor is an extension, over a storehouse. You’d need a fire ladder to come up here. Shall I shut the window?”

“Leave it open,” said Steve nervously. “We’re safe right here, and we can hear any loud noise in the street - like police whistles, for instance.”

He thrust his head from the window and satisfied himself of what his companion had said.

The lower floors were solid brick masonry, dark almost to a point of blackness. He could see the white pavement of the courtyard below.

On the other side of the court was a low one-story building; evidently an old garage. Croaker was right; only a fire ladder could scale this height.

Steve slipped into a chair in the corner of the room, just away from the window, from which he could face the door. It was at the foot of the bed, and Croaker sat on that article of furniture while he looked at his visitor.

“Well, Steve, what’s up?”

The stocky man pressed his knuckles against his mustache; then lowered his hand and spread it on his knee.

“I can trust you, Croaker?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll stick by me; even if you have to forget the rest of the gang?”

Croaker showed new nervousness. His facial twitch again became apparent. He considered the statement for a few moments; then questioned:

“You aren’t figuring a double-cross, are you, Steve?”

“What if I am?”

“I won’t go in on it.”

“You won’t? Why not?”

“Because I don’t play that kind of a game.”

“You don’t, eh? Well, I know different.”

The man on the bed leaned angrily toward his visitor. For several seconds the two men glared steadily at each other. Then Croaker’s face began to twitch, and his eyes shifted from the stare of the other man.

Steve laughed.

“Why do you think I had you watch the hotels?” he asked. “Do you think that was for the crowd? I told you it was important, but I didn’t say who wanted it done. I’ll tell you why I picked you for it, Croaker. I picked you because I’m the only man who knows what you did when the gang pulled that job in Hoboken.”

Croaker’s face began to twitch again. His eyes showed their nervous fright as he looked toward Steve.

“You ain’t saying nothing about it?” he pleaded.

“Not a word, Croaker - if you work with me now.”

A long, distorted shadow appeared on the wall at the far side of the room. It might have come from something swinging in from the window, for the light was in the corner, close by Steve’s chair. Neither of the men observed it. Both were intent in their conversation. The blackness remained motionless.

“Listen, Croaker,” said Steve. “When we slipped you that cash and those stock certificates over in Hoboken, you thought that we hadn’t had time to count them. But we had. I was the guy that did the counting. It was short when we got together to split.”

“You ain’t told anybody?”

“Nobody.”

“You ain’t going to tell?”

“Not if you stick with me this trip. I know why you keep in this room so much. You’ve still got some of those certificates here. Maybe you’ve got some swag you pinched from other jobs. But I don’t tell people all I know.”

The splotch on the wall moved away and disappeared completely. A moment later, Croaker rose from the bed and walked to the window, where he peered anxiously into the dark night. Then he returned and sat down.

“You’ve got the goods on me, Steve.”

“Maybe I have, Croaker. You’ll have the goods on me, before I’m through.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m going to tell you what I’ve done, and what I’m going to pull. I want you to go in on it.”

“What does it mean?”

“Plenty. We can both light out when we finish this. I started it; it’s up to you to put it through. It’s soft, too.”

Croaker regained his composure.

“Spill it, boy,” he said.

“Well,” said Steve, “you remember I had to keep watch on a couple of hotels for any guy that might be in from California? We talked about that when we were outside of Mickey’s place.”

“Yeah. I was afraid some guy was listening in on us.”

“I remember that. It was all bunk. You saw a big shadow on the sidewalk and got scared. When we looked around, it was only some drunk leaning against a wall.”

“Maybe he heard us.”

“What if he did? He would have watched you - not me. You didn’t get any dope on guys from California, did you?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. I found the guy I wanted.”

“What was he?”

“Fellow named Scanlon. I bumped him off tonight, over at the Metrolite Hotel.”

Croaker whistled.

“That’s why I’ve got to scram,” resumed Steve. “I made the mistake of telling him my name. But I don’t think he spilled it, or had the chance to.”

“You were a fool to do that, Steve.”

“I didn’t expect to have trouble with him. I offered him five grand for what I wanted, up in the hotel room. He wouldn’t take it. I had to get it tonight. I shoved him into the closet and pulled the rod on him.”

“How did you get away?”

“Luck. Down the fire tower. But the dicks may be after me now. I’m going West; I’ve got plenty of dough to get away.”

“That’s why I’ve got to finish the job, eh?”

Steve Cronin leaned forward in his chair.

“You’ll finish it, Croaker, and you’ll split fifty-fifty with me.”

“That’s right. Give me the dope.”

“You know who old Wang Foo is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, the Chinese guy.”

“You know what he is? He’s a fence.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that. He gets rid of plenty of stolen stuff, they say, but nobody knows how he does it.”

“That’s what I’ve found out,” said Steve triumphantly. “I picked up the news in Frisco; not from one guy - just little pieces of it from different people, until I had the whole thing doped out, just as it is.”

Croaker’s face began to twitch excitedly. He leaned forward to listen more closely.

“Every six months,” continued Steve, “a guy comes East from Frisco. Never the same guy - always a different one. Nobody knows who it’s going to be. This guy comes to New York under the orders of an old Chinaman named Wu Sun, who is the big noise of a tong in Frisco. All the guy does is go to Wang Foo and get a sealed box that he takes back to Frisco. That box carries more than just stolen goods. It has thousands in bank notes - dough from Wang Foo to the big noise out West. Tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock is the time the messenger is to appear.”

“But how does he get the box?” asked Croaker doubtfully.

“Easy,” answered Steve. “The messenger says nothing. He doesn’t even know what it’s all about. He walks in on Wang Foo, and shows the old boy a disk. It’s sort of a Chinese coin. That’s the sign. He gets the box and leaves.”

“Where is the disk, Steve?”

“That’s the trouble, Croaker. I’m sure Scanlon had it. I could see him reach in his pocket when he got nervous. We were over by the door, and he switched the light out. Then he began to sneak over toward the window. I was near the bed, and I whisked off a pillowcase and shoved it over my gun. When I came after him, he moved toward the closet. The door was open; and before he knew what was up I shoved him in, and pulled the door. Then I let him have it. Sounded loud in the closet; but I don’t think they heard it outside.”

“Why didn’t you get the disk?”

“Couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on him. I let him drop when I opened the closet door, and I went through his clothes, but it wasn’t there. It must have fallen somewhere. I didn’t have time to stay all night.”

“Then we’re out of luck.”

“Maybe not, Croaker. That’s why I’m putting you wise. You’re smart enough to figure some way on getting in there to look for it.”

“Dangerous business, Steve.”

“Well, it’s the only chance. The disk must be in the room. If you can’t get it before tomorrow, try later. I don’t know that the messenger always gets to Wang Foo’s on time.”

“I’ll do what I can, Steve.”

“All right, Croaker. I’d do it myself, only they may be looking for me. I saw the house detective when I went in the hotel. I think he knows me, and he may have spotted me. I’ve got to get out of town.”

“Why didn’t you let Scanlon get the box, Steve, and then take it from him?”

“I was afraid the chinks might be watching him after he got it. They’re a crazy bunch.”

“Maybe they’re watching him now. Maybe I’ll get nabbed.”

“Not a chance, Croaker. Your big job is to get into Room 1417 at the Metrolite, and find that disk. Wang Foo isn’t supposed to know who the messenger is until he shows up. Even if he’s a few days late, the disk will fix matters. So get on the job, and be sure to make a quick get-away after the old Chinaman gives you the box.”

Croaker did not reply. Instead he seized Steve Cronin’s wrist and pointed excitedly toward the wall, his face twitching in sudden terror.

“Look, Steve! That shadow!”

A black outline vanished suddenly as Cronin gazed in the direction indicated.

“What shadow?” asked Steve. “You’re seeing things, Croaker.”

Croaker went to the window and peered into the darkness, his eyes trying to penetrate the surrounding gloom.

“I’ve got to scram, Croaker,” said Steve.

* * *

The other man turned from the window and shrugged his shoulders. He was worried about the shadow he had seen on the wall. He was thinking that perhaps Steve’s story was a bluff. He was anxious now to get rid of this visitor, who knew too much about him.

As Steve Cronin left the apartment, Croaker stood in the doorway. He waited until his visitor was out of sight. Then, as he turned to the room, he stood petrified with sudden fear, and his twitching face held a distorted position.

For from his room came a low, mocking peal of laughter; a weird, uncanny laugh that was chilling to his heart. As he staggered into the lighted room he saw a mammoth shadow swing across the wall and melt into the black night beyond the window.

He rushed into his room and looked out into darkness. He could see nothing; the courtyard below was silent in its gloom.

Croaker stumbled to a chair and sat there, with dread in his heart; for he foresaw an unrelenting doom.

A taxi driver, waiting in his cab in the street behind the apartment house, was quite as surprised as Croaker. As the driver’s gaze chanced to fall on the wall of the building, he saw a shadow three stories up that suddenly moved downward.

But when the astonished man strained his eyes to examine the phenomenon, the moving shadow lost itself in the inkiness that obscured the lower stories of the edifice.

He had no time to leave his cab and make a closer inspection. For while he still gazed at the building across the street, a tall man with a large felt hat tapped at the window of the cab and demanded transportation.

Driving his fare to the address given, he still wondered about that mysterious shadow.

Загрузка...