Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER XI THE MESSAGE DELIVERED

EARLY the next evening, a stoop-shouldered man was sidling along a squalid street of Manhattan. There was something shifty in his gait, and his furtive footsteps seemed aimless in direction. At times, the man paused momentarily, as though suspecting that someone might be watching him.

One of these stops was near the entrance of an alleyway. Here, the man’s face came into the light of a street lamp. It was a whitened, wizened face, from which a cigarette drooped listlessly. The man paused to remove the cigarette from his mouth. He noted that the stump was unlighted. He drew a match from his pocket.

During the act of lighting the remains of his cigarette, the wizened-faced man glanced shrewdly back along the street which he had followed. Seeing no one, he threw the match away, turned suddenly, and entered the alley. So artfully did he duck out of sight that only the most careful observer would have noted the action.

Silence continued in the gloomy street; then, a few seconds after the stoop-shouldered man had disappeared, a new figure arrived in the glow of the lamplight. A tall, sinister form was momentarily revealed. Then, it, too, vanished in the darkness of the alleyway.

The Shadow was stalking his prey. Here, in New York’s bad lands, he was on the trail of a lesser gangster. Despite the care which the stoop-shouldered man had displayed, The Shadow had followed him totally unobserved.

A door opened at the side of the alley. A faint light showed as the gangster entered. The door closed and the wizened man stood in a hall that was lighted only by a turned-down gas jet. Ahead of him lay a rickety flight of steps. The gangster ascended, confident that he was free from observation. He did not see the front door slowly open before he had reached the top of the stairs.

The little gangster tapped on an upstairs door. He followed this signal with a whispered statement:

“It’s Pasty.”

“Come in,” was the response from the room beyond the door.

“Pasty” entered to find a thickset man seated by the window of a gaslighted room. The shade was drawn and the occupant was alone. Pasty, whose flour-white countenance showed the origin of his nickname, grinned as he extended an envelope and a post card.

“Here you are, Boots,” he solid. “I picked these up at the office like you told me to.”

“BOOTS” examined the post card. On the front, it bore the address of the Eastern Specialty Company, but it carried no message. The back of the card showed the picture of a New Orleans hotel.

Boots made no comment. He merely tossed the card on the table beside him. He examined the envelope. It was also addressed to the Eastern Specialty Company, and it was post-marked Daltona, Georgia. Boots dropped the envelope with the post card.

“Thanks, Pasty,” he said. “These don’t mean nothin’. Just the same, I thought you might as well get ‘em for me an’ bring ‘em here to the hideout. Nobody saw you sneakin’ in here, did they?”

Pasty shook his head.

“Nobody seen me,” he responded, “but I ain’t sure nobody wasn’t watchin’ me somewhere along the line. You know how I am, Boots. I can spot anythin’ that’s wrong before it begins. Seems to me like there was someone hangin’ around that office where you sent me. D’ya think there could’ve been any one layin’ there?”

“Up there?” quizzed Boots. “Nah! Forget it. You’re the only guy I ever sent up there. That place ain’t got nothin’ to do with the racket. I just wanted you to go up so I wouldn’t have to slide out of here. That’s all. Just so long as nobody seen you doin’ a sneak in here, it’s O.K.”

“Well,” responded Pasty, “there’s a lot of gorillas who’ve got it in for Boots Marcus. It ain’t a bad idea to be careful.”

“Well,” growled Boots, “I’m hidin’ out, ain’t I? You don’t think I’m scared, do you? The only thing is, I’m wise. Keepin’ in here saves me a lot of trouble. That’s why I use you as a go-between.

“You make a good messenger boy, Pasty. When there’s anythin’ doin’, then’s when I step out with the mob. Believe me, Pasty, there’s a lot of bozos who wouldn’t be pushin’ up posies if they’d been as wise as I am.”

“Sure enough,” agreed Pasty.

“O.K.,” responded Boots. “Scram. Stick around with the mob an’ come let me know when they’re ready to go out. Remind me then that I’ll have a letter to mail.”

“You’re a great guy, Boots,” commented Pasty. “Here the mob has a hangout half a block from your hideout, and they don’t have no idea where you’re layin’. It makes me laugh sometimes—”

“Can that hokum!” rejoined Boots, with a growl. “Your business is to do what I tell you, an’ quit thinkin’ too much. Go on, now. Scram!”

Pasty grinned and opened the door of the room. He waved a scrawny hand in parting; then closed the door.

Boots Marcus picked up the post card and the envelope.

IN the underworld, Boots Marcus was known as the tough leader of a flock of trained gorillas. He and his gang had a racket of their own — blocking the plans of would-be big shots. As a result, Boots, though fearless when at the head of his pack, considered it the part of discretion to keep away from the live spots of the bad lands.

Pasty, who cut but little figure in the underworld, was, as Boots had remarked, the gang leader’s messenger. He was the go-between who kept up contact with the mob. But of late, Boots, guarding himself more closely than usual, had given Pasty a new duty. This was the job of visiting a small, deserted office on an uptown street, to bring back any mail that might be there.

Communications to the Eastern Specialty Company were comparatively few. They were chiefly picture post cards, like the one Boots now held. On other occasions, Boots had received envelopes. These he forwarded instead of keeping.

Tonight, in conformity with his method, Boots Marcus produced a larger envelope than the one that had come by mail. Upon its face he wrote the name of Craig Kimble. He looked at the picture postcard, and used the name of the New Orleans hotel as the address on the envelope which he was inscribing. Then he inserted the letter that Pasty had brought, and sealed the large envelope.

As he completed the duty, Boots Marcus shrugged his shoulders. Opening a drawer in the table, he tossed the post card within.

After affixing a stamp, Boots placed the envelope in his pocket. He arose from his chair and walked away from the window. He glanced upward in an absent-minded fashion, and stood stock-still.

Facing him, from just within the door, Boots Marcus saw a man clad in black. Tall, weird, and imposing, this personage might have come through the floor, so unnoticed had his entrance been. A long, flowing cloak hung from the visitor’s shoulders. A broad-brimmed hat obscured his features. Only his eyes were visible as they shone with penetrating gaze.

It was not the eyes alone, however, that impressed Boots Marcus. In an outstretched, black-gloved hand, the stranger held a huge automatic. The muzzle of the weapon yawned like the entrance of a tunnel as Boots viewed it with alarm.

The gang leader never budged when he saw that he was covered. The only change that came over him was a pallor that swept his face.

For Boots Marcus, man of the underworld, knew that he was in the power of The Shadow!

IT was an axiom in the bad lands that a meeting such as this was a sure forerunner of death. Boots Marcus, engaged only in wolfish battles with others of his ilk, had felt himself somewhat immune from The Shadow’s wrath.

But it was also known that the ways of The Shadow were mysterious. He seldom gave a reason when he struck. Hence, Boots Marcus, petrified by sudden terror, felt the sign of approaching doom.

A low, soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Whatever doubt Boots had entertained regarding the identity of this phantom being were now dispelled. That laugh carried an unearthly echo.

Boots had heard talk of The Shadow’s laugh. Now he had heard the chilling tones themselves. The gang leader shuddered.

“Go back to where you were,” came The Shadow’s voice, in solemn, whispered tones. “Sit down — by the window. I have questions to ask you.”

Boots Marcus obeyed mechanically. For the first moment since he had seen The Shadow, he felt a touch of relief. The eerie whisper was fearful; but its words at least offered a chance for parley.

“I ain’t done nothin’ against you,” began Boots, in a choking, fear-tinged tone. “What d’ya got against me? I ain’t never even as much as tried to buck The Shadow—”

A repetition of the laugh curbed the plea that Boots was making. The laugh was sinister now. Its foreboding tones made Boots decide that silence was in order.

“You have recognized me.” The Shadow’s words came in a weird monotone. “That is excellent. It will enable us to terminate our business promptly.”

The Shadow was approaching the gang leader. The automatic was directly before the eyes of Boots Marcus. The hard-boiled mobster quailed. Then The Shadow’s free hand was extended.

“Give me the envelope that is in your pocket,” demanded The Shadow.

Boots fumbled for the envelope and produced it. The Shadow took it from him. The envelope disappeared beneath the black cloak.

“Now those postal cards,” added The Shadow. “The cards with which you placed the one that you received tonight.”

Boots gasped as he realized that The Shadow must have entered immediately after Pasty had departed. The Shadow had seen the post card that went in the drawer. He had seen other cards lying there.

Still fumbling, Boots produced the post cards. He handed them, in a small bunch, to The Shadow.

Holding the cards within his gloved left hand, The Shadow, with a smooth, skilled motion, spread them so they formed a wide fan. He raised his hand so that he could look at the cards, and still watch Boots Marcus.

With one glance, he noted that the addresses of the cards were identical. Turning his hand over, The Shadow viewed the reverse sides. Every one of the cards bore the picture of a hotel in a different city.

With another short note of mirth, The Shadow slipped the post cards beneath his cloak. His automatic followed. With folded arms, The Shadow faced Boots Marcus.

The gang leader gasped. The Shadow had deliberately put away his weapon! Could this be a gesture of friendliness? It seemed incredible!

IN his pocket, Boots had a revolver. He realized that it would be possible for him to draw it now. But deep in his dulled brain, the gang leader knew that he could never beat The Shadow on the draw. His only relief came from the fact that temporarily, at least, The Shadow had granted a respite.

“Who is Craig Kimble?” questioned The Shadow.

Boots Marcus hesitated. He eyed his questioner for a few moments; then responded:

“I don’t know.”

The Shadow laughed. His black right hand slipped out of view. Boots sensed the menace of the automatic. He chewed his lips nervously.

“I know the game, Marcus,” declared The Shadow coldly. “I entered that office before this mail came in. It is plain what those post cards mean. I am giving you your chance to tell all that you know. If you do not—”

The sentence ended with a laugh as The Shadow’s hand swept into view. The muzzle of an automatic pressed itself against the forehead of Boots Marcus.

“I’ll — I’ll squawk!” whined the cowed gang leader. “I ain’t goin’ to bluff you. But if I squawk, will you call it quits?”

“I make but one promise,” announced The Shadow, in his chilling whisper. “If you fail to tell me all that you know, you will die. Speak — unless you prefer death.”

Marcus cringed away. He nodded as he felt the pressure of the automatic leave his forehead. The gun disappeared. The Shadow’s arms were once more folded. The threat however, still remained. Boots stared with blinking eyes and chewing lips.

“It don’t mean nothin’ to me,” he began. “I ain’t goin’ to try to hold out on you. If Charley had told me you was mixed in this, I’d have laid off. I don’t think I’d have touched it anyway if it hadn’t been because Charley had me buffaloed—”

Boots paused, as though in final effort to keep from telling what he knew. He fancied that he saw a motion of The Shadow’s right hand. A sudden fear swept over the gang leader. If that automatic should appear again, it might mean the end of The Shadow’s patience.

“Gimme a chance!” pleaded Boots. “I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you the whole works. It’s Charley that’s to blame — not me. Charley Kistelle. I used to work with Charley before he scrammed. That was nearly a couple of years ago. I don’t know why Charley cleared out.”

“Charles Kistelle fled,” declared The Shadow coldly, “because he feared me.”

Boots nodded unconsciously. A sudden understanding told him that by betraying Kistelle, he might save his own hide. It was Kistelle whom The Shadow wanted!

“I–I’ll tell you all I know about him,” repeated Boots. “I thought that Charley” — he paused suddenly, his eyes staring — “I didn’t know that Charley was in wrong with The Shadow. I know you’re The Shadow. You’ve got me — there ain’t nothin’ I can do.

“If I had my mob with me, I could put up a scrap; but there ain’t no chance of nobody comin’ here to help me. That’s why I’m goin’ to talk. If the mob knew what was goin’ on, they’d come here to help me. But there ain’t no use—”

Boots Marcus stared directly into The Shadow’s eyes. He cringed before their gleam; but in his heart, he felt a secret elation. He knew that he could stall no longer; The Shadow’s glance told him that. But Boots, by his sudden change of tone, had accomplished something that he was sure The Shadow could not suspect.

In his brief moment of hesitation, Boots had seen the door of the room move slightly. He realized that Pasty had returned. His words of pleading had been a secret warning to the little gangster. Pasty, crafty and skulking, had taken the tip. The door was moving no longer now.

“Proceed.”

The Shadow’s single word spoke volumes. Its tone showed that further stalling would not be countenanced. Boots Marcus knew that he would suffer if he taxed The Shadow’s patience.

“I’ll come clean,” said the gang leader. “Here’s the whole lay—”

With eyes half closed, Boots began his squealer’s story. He was betraying the man whom he called a friend — Charles Kistelle; but Boots had a purpose in the action. He was doing more than attempting to save his own skin. He was holding The Shadow here until his mob arrived!