The Black Hush

CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW MOVES

“BURBANK speaking!”

This was the statement that came over the wire. The reply, made from a telephone booth, was uttered in the quiet voice of The Shadow.

“Report.”

“Nothing.”

There was a tinge of helpless regret in Burbank’s final word. The Shadow’s hidden agent, usually unemotional in his conversation, had realized his present inability to help.

The receiver clattered in the telephone booth where The Shadow stood. Silence followed while The Shadow planned.

Two days had passed since The Shadow’s visit to Goldy Tancred’s apartment. In that space of time, not one report of consequence had come from Burbank. Night had come once more, and with it, a new threat of unknown action by dangerous men of crime.

The door of the phone booth swung open. It was not, however, a tall black figure that emerged. Instead, the huddled form of a shifty, capped-and-sweatered gangster made its appearance.

The Shadow, master of disguise, was garbed as a ruffian of the underworld. While Burbank waited, hopeful for news tonight, The Shadow, himself, had penetrated into gangdom’s terrain.

This was the second successive night upon which The Shadow had visited the underworld. Denizens of the badlands, unaware that their common foe was among them, had accepted the disguised visitant merely as an unrecognized gangster.

Thoroughly familiar with every feature of the underworld, The Shadow was undertaking a swift and methodical process of elimination. His analysis of approaching crime had connected Goldy Tancred with the activities of some gang leader. One by one, The Shadow had visited the hang-outs where representatives of different mobs were wont to appear.

His keen eyes, obscured by the visor of a wrinkled cap, had studied the bloated faces of a score of sordid mobsmen. His sharp ears had listened for snatches of conversation. Yet the cause had been fruitless. The Shadow had learned many facts; but none of them gave evidence of a connection with the case that now needed his attention.

In the middle of a darkened alley, the shuffling figure paused and turned to descend a flight of broken stone steps. His hand pushed open a rickety door. With hunched shoulders, the visitor entered an underground den where some two dozen mobsmen were assembled beneath the glare of two large incandescents.

TOUGHENED gunmen turned toward the doorway as the newcomer appeared. They saw a grimy, square-jawed visage beneath the cap visor. Somewhat suspiciously, they accepted this stranger as one of their own ilk. Not one man present suspected that he was viewing The Shadow.

No mobsman could truthfully boast that he had ever seen the face of The Shadow. There were a few who claimed that they had seen his mysterious shape, and all descriptions agreed that The Shadow was a tall being, habitually garbed in black. Had this stoop-shouldered gangster announced his true identity, no one in this dive would have believed his words.

This was one underworld hang-out that had no exact title. Once it had been called Gorky’s Joint, in honor of its proprietor. But Gorky’s period of ownership had terminated amid a barrage of gun play that had counted him a victim. Since then, three proprietors had taken charge in turn.

The unknown gangster drifted over to a table at the side of the room. He flung a crumpled dollar bill in front of him, and a grimy-faced waiter brought in a bottle and a glass. The unknown poured out a long drink, but let the glass stand idle while he stared glumly toward the barren wall.

Drifters of the underworld were here tonight, but among them were a few who looked like regular mobsmen. The Shadow, in choosing his table, had picked a spot close by a promising pair. Now, apparently indifferent to what was going on about him, he was listening to the conversation of these gunmen.

“It’s nearly ten o’clock,” came a growl.

“Yeah,” was the reply. “Wait’ll I have another drink. I’ll be goin’ with you.”

“You’d better be. Ping ain’t the guy that’ll stand for hokum. It’s a long jump from here up to the old Windsor Theater, an’ we’ve got to do a sneak into the back alley when we finally get there—”

The conversation broke as the gangsters prepared to leave. The Shadow, however, had learned all that he needed to know. The objective of the gangsters could not be the Windsor Theater itself, for the old, closed playhouse offered no attraction to men of crime. But the mention of the alley along side was a give-away. A fashionable apartment house was located next door to the theater, and it could well be a lure to smart crooks.

THADDEUS HARMON lived in that building. New Yorkers had heard much of him during the past few weeks. A millionaire whose name was frequently in the news, Thaddeus Harmon had expressed his approval of valuable gems as an investment.

He had spoken of important purchases which he had made through diamond merchants, and it was a known fact that he had invited wealthy friends to see the collection of resplendent gems that he brought back and forth from storage vault to apartment.

Until now, The Shadow had been unable to lay his finger upon the exact type of crime which might be impending. Murder — cold and exacting — had been the toll at the Olympia Hotel. More murder — racketeering — blackmail — all these had been possibilities.

But the connection of two sullen-faced gangsters with a rendezvous in a deserted alley between the Windsor Theater and the next-door apartment was a definite clue that pointed to unusual crime.

The men had spoken of one whom they called Ping. The Shadow knew of Ping Slatterly — a gang leader who had recently dropped out of sight. The fact that these rowdies were connected with so formidable an evildoer was important. Whether or not Ping Slatterly was Goldy Tancred’s unidentified associate, it was in keeping with The Shadow’s policy to impede the progress of impending crime.

Such opportunity was here. The Shadow had gained a definite mission. With other possibilities exhausted, the investigation had tapered down to a point where almost any definite warning of crime could be regarded as a clue to Goldy Tancred’s enterprise.

The Shadow knew their destination; he had knowledge of their possible goal. Nevertheless, he could accomplish most by following them. Often, in the past, The Shadow had thwarted the schemes of malefactors by suddenly appearing in the midst of their trusted cohorts.

Once these men were clear of this dive, The Shadow could trail them with ease.

The pair had left through the door by the time The Shadow was standing on the floor. With the leisurely shamble of a purposeless mobster, The Shadow moved slowly toward the exit.

His perfect disguise now served him well. Many eyes were upon him, but none suspected him to be other than an unimportant toady of some lesser mob.

There were two stone steps up to the door. On one side was the wall; on the other, an iron rail. The Shadow reached this point. With bowed head and sullen lips, he grasped the rail.

His departure was timed to perfection. But for the intervention of chance, he would have been outside of the dive within the next few seconds.

AN unexpected occurrence stopped The Shadow’s plan. As his forward foot reached the first of the stone steps, the door of the speakeasy was flung open. A huge, broad-shouldered, beefy-faced man stood glowering into the underground dive. His bulky form blocked The Shadow’s path.

A buzz swept through the room. The newcomer was known to the assembled crowd. He was a hard-boiled gangster who went under the name of Smash Harlow; directly behind him was the stocky figure of his pal, Bozo Guckert.

Glancing downward, Smash Harlow saw the disguised figure of The Shadow. He observed a face that was tough and grimy.

In bullying fashion, Smash expressed an immediate dislike toward the person who blocked his path.

“Out of the way, dopey,” he growled. “Whatcha trying to do — hog the whole doorway?”

Guffaws came from mobsters within the dive.

“Poke him one, Smash,” came an urging cry. “He doesn’t belong in this joint, anyway.”

Smash continued to glower. When he saw that the figure before him did not move away, the bullying mobster did more than try a punch. With a quick jerk, he pulled a large revolver from his pocket, and thrust the muzzle directly toward the hawk-like nose that was before him.

Finger on the trigger, Smash was ready to shoot down this small-fry mobster who had no friends.

Then came swift action. The stoop-shouldered figure seemed to lengthen. The Shadow’s long left arm shot directly upward, and caught Smash Harlow’s wrist. As the beefy man fired, the bullet took an upward course, and crashed against the stone ceiling.

Smash Harlow had no opportunity for another voluntary action. The Shadow’s right arm had caught him now. Raised by the crouching form that wore the sweater, Smash was lifted clear from the steps.

With a terrific upward snap, his assailant threw him headlong. The big man’s body whirled as it swept over the cap which The Shadow wore. Smash Harlow’s revolver sailed from his grasp and clattered against the wall; a moment later, his bulky form landed prone upon the floor.

Bozo Guckert was drawing his revolver. He never had a chance to use it. Straightening forward with incredible swiftness, The Shadow made a sideswipe with his left fist. The blow knocked the revolver from Bozo’s hand; then with a continued motion, The Shadow’s right arm swung.

A fist like a trip hammer caught Bozo Guckert on the chin. The powerful punch lifted the mobster over the rail beside the steps. Bozo Guckert landed back downward upon a table where two gangsters were sitting. The flimsy piece of furniture crashed beneath his weight.

In the midst of the confusion, the unknown gangster who had so ably defended himself made a swift departure. Guns flashed into view. Shots were fired at the spot where The Shadow had been. The bullets of the excited mobsmen found no target other than the closing door.

Nevertheless, the chase was on. Smash Harlow and Bozo Guckert were popular in this dive. Half a dozen gangsters leaped to their feet, ready to avenge the downfall of their friends. The snarling mobsters swarmed to the exit. They reached the alley and fired pot shots in the dark as they spread out in different directions.

They could not find their man. Somehow — somewhere — he had slipped from view.

WHILE the mobsmen were hustling along the alley, the stoop-shouldered figure which The Shadow had chosen as his disguise appeared from between two buildings on another street.

Swift, stealthy and spectacular, The Shadow would readily have met his pursuers in hand-to-hand combat. But, on this occasion, he could not afford the time. The encounter with Smash Harlow and Bozo Guckert had consumed valuable minutes. The two gunmen whom The Shadow was following had gained too great a headway. There was only one course now: to make for the destination which they had named.

This offered obstacles. The Shadow, still using the pose of a shambling gangster, was forced to choose a circuitous course in order to avoid the mobsmen who were prowling in search of him. He could not afford to waste precious moments in purposeless combat.

At last, his scurrying figure appeared upon a street which bore the appearance of a respectable neighborhood. Away from the borders of the underworld, The Shadow was free to make all speed.

Stooped and hurrying, he approached a powerful coupe that was parked beside the curb.

It was then that new eyes saw the huddled figure. A challenge came from across the street, as a policeman hurried up to find out what this sweatered individual was doing beside the expensive automobile.

Quickly, The Shadow slipped within the car. His cap dropped to the floor beside him. The sweater seemed to peel itself from his body. It fell, also; and from the back of the seat came a crushed opera hat, which popped open and reached The Shadow’s head just as the officer arrived.

White hands came up and pressed against the grimy visage. They seemed to be wiping away the traces of dirt; and with it, they were forming a molding process. The action continued as the officer circled the coupe. Just as the policeman thrust a flashlight into the open window, the white hands dropped to the steering wheel of the car.

“Hey, you!” came the policeman’s growl. “What are you doing in this car—”

The officer’s challenge ended with the sight of a surprised man attired in full-dress clothes and wearing an opera hat. Questioning eyes were staring at the open-mouthed policeman.

“What is it, officer?” came a calm voice.

“Guess I made a mistake, sir,” returned the policeman. “Thought I saw a tough-looking rowdy fooling around this car. There wasn’t anybody trying to get in, was there?”

“I saw no one,” responded the gentleman at the wheel. “Perhaps if you look around a bit, you might find the man you observed.”

LAMONT CRANSTON’S lips wore a smile as his hands turned the wheel and the car pulled away. The Shadow had worn a double disguise tonight. Beneath his sweater and baggy trousers was a closely tailored full-dress suit. He was kicking off the trousers now. The officer had not seen them in the dark.

The bloated gangster face had changed to a dignified countenance as if by magic. The difference had lain partly in expression; partly in grimy make-up which had been quickly wiped away with skillful motions.

The Shadow was now playing the part of Lamont Cranston, millionaire clubman, well known in Manhattan. It was one of his most effective guises. Whirling up Fifth Avenue, The Shadow was bound for the apartment house which adjoined the old Windsor Theater.

Now, however, The Shadow’s smile was grim. Two delays: one at the dive; the other with the officer — these had obstructed his plan of action. There was no chance to overtake the mobsters who had gone on duty.

Only one possible course could be taken. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow would appear at Thaddeus Harmon’s apartment, playing the part of an unexpected guest.

That was The Shadow’s move. It was the method that he must now employ to cope with crime.