Spoils of the Shadow

CHAPTER XIII NEW CRIME BREWS

For several days following his second meeting with The Shadow, Mark Tyrell behaved himself with the utmost caution. He feared that he might be under surveillance; hence he planned his course so that The Shadow — if spying — would suppose that Tyrell had renounced his career of crime.

The schemer was never at home in the evenings. When calls came in from Slug Bracken or Pug Halfin, Wellington answered them with the simple statement that his master was out. Toward Harry Vincent, Tyrell also preserved a new attitude. He told Harry, on the occasions when the young man telephoned, that he was planning some promotion work. He added that a job might be open and that he would notify Harry later.

On certain evenings, Tyrell accompanied Doris Munson to society affairs. On others, he paid visits, alone, to men of high repute. Among them were such friends as Sebastian Dutton, Rudolph Brockthorpe and Hubert Bexler.

None of these men had regained their stolen treasures. The police were still looking for the pilfered valuables. Powers Jordan had not returned from Atlantic City. Tyrell saw significance in these facts. He knew that he was practically under parole; that The Shadow was waiting to make sure that he had reformed.

The Shadow, in the past, had dealt with other crooks who masked their evil under a gloss of social status. The majority of such had been weaklings by nature — men who had turned to crime to make up for spendthrift losses. Others had been ex-criminals who had found the upper crust more to their liking than the underworld. Mark Tyrell, however, belonged to neither of those groups.

A polished gentleman, a man capable of high earnings through honest practices, Tyrell had swung to crime as another man might have taken up another business. The Shadow had recognized that fact. By blocking Tyrell’s course of crime, he had shown the suave schemer the uselessness of evil effort.

Yet Tyrell had refused to learn his lesson. Still, he had seen the advantage of keeping up the pretence that he was in accord with The Shadow’s view. Thus a new evening found him in his apartment at the Esplanade, smiling archly as he thought of the cunning game which he had managed and contemplating new crime that lay ahead.

The telephone was ringing. Tyrell pushed Wellington aside and answered the call. He heard the gruff voice of Slug Bracken. Tyrell responded in a suave tone.

“All ready to see you,” he remarked. “Pug, too… You know where… With the stuff… Yes, tell Foon Koo I’ll be there… No, I haven’t seen him… Right. Mum to the gorillas.”

One minute after Tyrell hung up the telephone, there was another ring. This call was from Harry Vincent. Tyrell’s voice was an easy purr as the crook spoke to the secret agent of The Shadow.

“Not ready yet, Vincent,” stated Tyrell. “Where are you? I see… At the Metrolite… Good. Suppose you stay there… Yes, I may have some word within the hour… Yes, I’ll call you from here, and you can come over to see me… Yes, it looks like a good opportunity.”

Handing up the receiver, Tyrell summoned Wellington. As the servant aided him with hat and coat, Tyrell issued a non-committal command.

“The taxi trick to-night,” he said. “Get ready, Wellington. After you come back here, tell any one that calls up that I’ll be back later. Get any messages.”

“Very well, sir.”

TWENTY minutes later, Mark Tyrell was riding northward in a cab. It was the third vehicle that he had taken since his departure from the Esplanade. The taxi stunt had shown that no one was on his trail; Tyrell, however, had switched cabs later on as an additional precaution.

The cab reached its destination — a dilapidated block on the upper East Side. Tyrell paid the driver; he strolled along past various houses. He came to an old building that had a passage beside it. Tyrell headed into the darkened walk.

He found a door and gripped the knob. Pressing firmly, Tyrell unscrewed the knob from the handle. His thumb found a button where the knob had been. Tyrell gave four quick presses; then screwed the knob back in place.

When Tyrell twisted the knob lightly, the door opened.

Ascending a short flight of steps, Tyrell groped his way through the darkened first floor; then took a stairway upward. Boards creaked beneath his feet — the house was an old one — but Tyrell kept on through the darkness. He had followed a twisting course on the first floor; the second story was like a labyrinth. Blocking walls and doorways forced Tyrell to thread his path through various rooms until he found a stairway to the third floor.

At the top of this flight, he again performed maneuvers in the darkness until a final barricade stopped further passage. This door opened as Tyrell tapped. The visitor stepped into a dimly lighted anteroom that had no windows. There was a door, however, in the opposite wall.

The man who had opened the door was the dwarfish Chinaman, Foon Koo. The room had two other occupants: Slug Bracken and Pug Halfin. Tyrell’s mobleaders were seated in broken chairs. They growled a greeting as the smooth crook entered.

“Hello,” greeted Tyrell, in a suave tone. “I guess you chaps are wondering when I intend to get busy. Well, I’ll answer that to begin with. To-night.”

“Jordan’s?” questioned Slug.

“No,” returned Tyrell. “Jordan’s is out.”

“Are we going to fence the swag, then?” inquired Pug.

“No,” answered Tyrell. “Open the inner door, Foon Koo.”

The Chinaman obeyed. He clicked a light switch. Tyrell motioned to the gangleaders. He followed Foon Koo into another room, larger than the one they were leaving. The others came along at Tyrell’s heels.

The light showed an array of objects. A folded tapestry, a pair of metal-paneled screens, a green-jeweled Buddha and an inlaid throne — these were the supposed treasures that the following mobleaders viewed.

“The swag,” remarked Tyrell. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Plenty,” stated Pug Halfin.

“If you know how to fence it,” added Slug Bracken.

“It looks mighty good,” observed Tyrell. “Yes, mighty good for what it is — a load of junk.”

“Junk?” questioned Prig.

“That’s right,” asserted Tyrell. “An imitation tapestry, a pair of brass screens, a gold plated statue with green glass instead of emeralds — and last of all, a fake throne built by some cabinetmaker.”

“You mean this stuff is phony?”

“Yes. Every bit of it. That’s why I called the game off.”

“But it’s the stuff we kited—”

“I know it. But somebody took the real treasures ahead of us.”

“Who?” The question came simultaneously from both mobleaders.

“The Shadow,” answered Tyrell, quietly.

THE statement brought stares from the two mobleaders. Slug Bracken was totally disconcerted. He had thought that Tyrell’s schemes were beyond The Shadow’s range of action. To Pug Halfin, however, the news of The Shadow’s success against crime brought up potent recollections.

Pug remembered that first night at the Paragon Hotel. Apprehensions that had gripped him then came back with sudden force. Pug had been present when The Shadow had outwitted Tyrell. He feared The Shadow because of his own experience.

“We’re beginning over again,” announced Tyrell, in his most convincing tone. “We can forget this junk. After all, the real loss is mine. I have one job in mind — set for to-night — that will equalize our failures.”

“But if The Shadow’s on your trail,” protested Pug, “you’re goin’ to hit more trouble. If he knows—”

“The Shadow knows nothing about my present plans.”

“But The Shadow is smart. Don’t forget that he—”

“I forget nothing, Pug. I hope that your memory is as good as mine; I also hope that you will be wise enough to talk as little as I do.”

Pug was silent.

“For one thing,” reminded Tyrell, “remember that I prefer a .38 to a .45.”

This thrust hit home. It made Pug remember his own blunder at the Paragon. Slug Bracken and Foon Koo, however, did not catch the remark. Slug had stepped forward to examine the false treasures. The Chinaman, still acting as guardian, had moved along with him. Tyrell advanced to join them. Pug Halfin followed.

“Forget this stuff,” ordered the schemer, tapping his knuckles against a panel of the brass screen. “I’m playing a close game on account of The Shadow. I’m going to engineer a robbery to-night that will have all New York talking. Did you ever hear of Westbury Grolier?”

“The bird that owns all them Texas oil wells?” questioned Pug. “Sure. Who ain’t heard of him?”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Yeah. In a big joint over on Madison Avenue. The place looks like a jail.”

“It resembles a huge mausoleum,” corrected Tyrell. “Particularly the side wing, which has no windows at all.

“That’s the private museum in which Grolier keeps his rare art treasures; it contains a collection of jeweled relics that is worth a million dollars for the gems alone.”

“But how’s anybody goin’ to crack the joint?”

“I am informed that there is one vulnerable point to the relic room, namely, the roof. It has a barred skylight that could be opened. After that — a twenty foot drop to the floor.”

“Who’s going to make that?”

“Foon Koo.”

Pug Halfin had been questioning Tyrell. It was Slug Bracken’s turn to interpose.

“Say!” exclaimed Slug. “That’s a sure bet. Foon Koo could get to that roof, easy. If any guy can wiggle in past that skylight, he’s the one.”

“But after he’s in,” inserted Pug, “how’s he goin’ to get out with the swag?”

“By letting us in,” declared Tyrell. “There is a suitable entrance at the rear of Grolier’s home. We shall have the entire crew ready. It will mean a fight; but it will be worth it.”

“Only one trouble with the crew,” objected Slug. “That outfit hanging around on Madison Avenue — it won’t look so good.”

“I have allowed for that,” stated Tyrell. “You will be posted in cars close by. Vincent and I shall be on the street, strolling along in evening clothes. When we receive Foon Koo’s signal, we shall make our entry. Unless we return, it will be your cue to follow.”

“That’ll work,” approved Slug.

“Foon Koo will hasten away before the robbery,” added Tyrell. “He will come back here. Have the men equipped with bags. Stow the relics in the touring car. You two will come here; and deliver the goods to Foon Koo.”

“Right,” growled Slug.

Foon Koo was nodding. He had listened intently to all that Tyrell had said. He spoke for himself.

“Foon Koo ready,” announced the dwarfish Chinaman. “He likee jobee. You watchee him do it. Keepee stuff here when they bring. Me savvy.”

“As soon as the relics are here,” reminded Tyrell, addressing Foon Koo, “set the trap. If any birds fly into this nest, we’ll pluck their feathers. Come on down. You chaps never had a look at the cellar since Foon Koo finished rigging it.”

FOON KOO led the way as the four men descended. Catlike, the Chinaman seemed able to see in the dark. On the ground floor, they reached a flight of stone steps. At last, they stopped before a solid wall.

“Turn on the inside light,” ordered Tyrell.

Foon Koo pressed a switch. The men found themselves staring through a broad, low pane of glass that was set in the wall. Inside, they observed a lighted cell, with a traplike opening in the ceiling. The floor of the cell was heavily padded.

“What’s the idea?” questioned Pug.

“Traps all through the house,” explained Tyrell. “Only Foon Koo knows where they are. They all end in chutes that will send a person sliding into this cellar.

“The glass is bullet proof. The door is down here” — he clicked a bar in the darkness beneath the window — “and there are loopholes on each side of the window. If any one lands in this trap, we can look him over; then let him out or finish him, as we prefer.”

“You mean we’ve been walkin’ over them traps?”

“Certainly. But Foon Koo did not have them working after he received your signal. That’s why we have the button under the door knob. Come along, men. It’s time to get started. You two assemble the mob. Open the traps when we leave, Foon Koo. Then head for Grolier’s house on Madison Avenue.”

ONE hour later, Harry Vincent received a telephone call in his room at the Metrolite Hotel. It was from Mark Tyrell, ordering him to come at once to the Esplanade. Harry put in a prompt report call to Burbank. He simply stated that he was going out and added that he would supply further information later.

In compliance to a request that Tyrell had made, Harry hastily donned evening clothes. He descended to the lobby and walked to the street. Before he could hail a taxi, a man stepped forward. It was Tyrell, also wearing full dress.

“Come along, Vincent,” ordered the shrewd crook, urging Harry away from the hotel entrance. “You and I have some work to do. I came over here to save you the trouble of going to the Esplanade.”

A cab was approaching. Tyrell called to the driver. The cab stopped and the two men entered. Harry’s only choice was to go with Tyrell. He knew that crime was in the wind; the proof came when Tyrell whispered, in the darkness of the cab:

“Are you armed?”

“Yes,” responded Harry.

“Good,” said Tyrell.

Harry’s companion gave the driver an address on Madison Avenue. Harry’s last chance to get word through to The Shadow was ended. He knew that he must accompany Mark Tyrell and be prepared for what might occur.

WHILE Harry was with Mark Tyrell, another agent of The Shadow was also becoming a part to impending plans. In the back room of an underworld dive, Cliff Marsland was listening to instructions given by Slug Bracken. The mobleader had assembled his crew. Half of the men were to remain with him; the rest were to meet Pug Halfin.

Hand in coat pocket, Cliff was busy with the stump of a lead pencil. He was writing brief information upon the top sheet of a little pad. As Slug gave the order to move, Cliff arose with the mobsmen and shuffled out through the door.

As they passed through a room where hoodlums were making merry, Cliff tore off the top sheet of the pad and quickly wadded it. Unnoticed by his companions, he flipped the paper pellet beneath a table where a young man was slouched, apparently half asleep.

As the mobsters passed, this individual plopped his foot upon the wadded paper. When the crew had left, he stooped and gathered in Cliff’s note. Lighting a cigarette, he sauntered from the dive.

This man was Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Classic. He was an occasional visitor to dives of the sort where Slug Bracken had assembled his mob. Out in the street, Clyde strolled a short distance; then quickened his steps in the direction of an avenue where an elevated structure loomed overhead.

Entering a second-rate drug store, Clyde Burke found a dilapidated telephone booth. Inside this pigeon-hole, he unfolded the wadded note and called a number. A quiet voice came over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Burke calling,” responded Clyde.

“Report,” ordered Burbank.

“Marsland going with mob,” reported Clyde. “Two parties to be formed. Ready to enter home of Westbury Grolier, on Madison Avenue. Robbery intended.”

“Report received,” came Burbank’s response.

Where Harry Vincent had been forestalled, Cliff Marsland had succeeded. Through Clyde Burke, he had relayed word to Burbank. Information concerning the coming crime would soon reach The Shadow!