The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER V THE SWIFT SEQUENCE

TO Tinker Furris, hope was ended. Like others of his ilk, he had bragged that he did not fear The Shadow. But when the crisis had arrived, Tinker, like those same others, found his courage gone.

Through his terrified brain ran a medley of thoughts. Hawkeye’s warning of “Tapper’s” fears. Tinker wished now that he had heeded them. The merciless gaze of The Shadow told him of his folly.

No chance to pull a gun. No courage even to plead. Such was Tinker’s state. On the floor lay the incriminating necklace. The Shadow had him with the goods. Tinker could see no out.

Then came the unexpected break. While Tinker crouched helpless, a beam of light broke suddenly from the door of the room. Meeting the glare of Tinker’s shaking torch, it placed The Shadow between two paths of illumination.

Tinker saw The Shadow wheel to meet some new enemy. As the cloaked figure turned, a sharp cry came from the door. It was Cliff Marsland’s voice. Cliff’s light went out on the instant. Tinker, alone, saw all that followed.

The Shadow’s automatic barked as Cliff dived into the room. A bullet whistled through the outer door. An instant later, Cliff, with automatic of his own, delivered a point-blank answer toward the shape that Tinker’s light revealed.

The Shadow staggered. Tinker, amazed, came up to his feet and pulled his revolver. He saw The Shadow slumping to the floor; but before his gun was drawn, the automatic blazed again. Wounded, The Shadow was keeping up the fire.

A bullet zimmed past Tinker’s ear. In response to a cry from Cliff, Tinker sprang toward the outer door. A second shot missed him by inches only. Tinker’s light was no longer on The Shadow. Cliff, firing as he backed from the inner room, was following.

As they reached the storeroom, Cliff turned boldly and steadied his light back into the office. Tinker caught a glimpse of The Shadow rising. He saw the black form swing behind the open door of the safe. Then came a fierce, gibing laugh. An automatic boomed; its slug sizzled hot past Cliff Marsland’s ear.

Quickly, Cliff extinguished his light and grabbed Tinker. He dragged the crook toward the hall. They were on the stairway before Tinker, stampeded, could object.

“The sparklers!” cried Tinker. “Say, Cliff, that swag—”

“Too late!” put in Cliff, tersely. “I clipped him; but he’s not through. Listen!”

Again the chilling laugh. Defiant as a wounded tiger in his lair, The Shadow was inviting the enemy to return. Tinker groaned.

“No chance now,” he admitted. “Back of that safe door, he’s got a bead on us. Say, Cliff, maybe if we waited—”

“What for? The bulls?”

Tinker came to his senses. Instinctively, he started up the stairs. He realized that the fusillade must have been heard. Police were probably already on their way.

Again came The Shadow’s laugh. Cliff, following Tinker up the steps; gave a pleased grunt.

“Let him hold the bag,” he said. “That’s the stunt, Tinker! The bulls, finding The Shadow at the opened safe. Catching him with the goods.”

“Oke,” agreed Tinker, with a nervous laugh. “Come on! Scram! Here’s the window.”

The two dropped to the fence and headed down an alleyway just as sounds of police whistles came to their ears. They were making a getaway, with sufficient time to escape the law.

BACK in Cobleton’s little office, a soft laugh made an eerie whisper. With tiny flashlight glimmering, The Shadow stepped from behind the opened door of the safe. There was reason for his mirth. Aided by Cliff Marsland, The Shadow had played a deceptive game.

Cliff had come equipped with an automatic that contained blank cartridges. His point-blank shot had brought a faked stagger from The Shadow. Tinker Furris had been fooled. The crook had given Cliff full credit for clipping The Shadow.

In return, The Shadow had utilized real slugs. He had relied upon master marksmanship, purposely missing his human targets by inches only. Unscathed by Cliff’s phony shots, he was ready for the next stage of the game.

The flashlight showed the suitcase that Cliff had dropped by the door. Stooping above it, The Shadow drew the folds of his cloak over his head. Cloak and slouch hat dropped into the suitcase. Extinguishing his flashlight, The Shadow stepped to the wall and pressed a switch.

The office light came on. It revealed a remarkable transformation. Instead of a figure garbed in black, The Shadow had taken on the guise of a thug. He seemed to have lost in stature. Almost chunky, he was attired in dark trousers, jerseylike sweater, and bandanna handkerchief which served as a mask.

The black garments had gone into the suitcase. The Shadow moved swiftly to the safe; there he picked up jewel cases and placed them in the bag. Closing the suitcase, he moved toward the storeroom.

The shrills of whistles had penetrated here. A distant siren came faintly to The Shadow’s ears. Men were pounding at the doors of the hock shop, front and back. The Shadow laughed.

As he advanced into the hall, The Shadow heard the rear door shatter. Harsh voices called; then two officers came pounding in from the rear. The Shadow stepped back into the darkened storeroom. The policemen swung past as they spied the lighted office.

The cops were holding revolvers. They paused when they arrived at the opened safe. Then they turned as they heard a jeering guffaw. They stared into the muzzle of a glittering revolver, held by the sweatered gorilla. The Shadow had followed them into the office.

“Heave dem rods in here!” rasped The Shadow. “No funny stuff, coppers! I’ll drill youse guys—”

CAUGHT with revolvers lowered, the officers complied. They flung their weapons toward their captor.

The Shadow kicked the guns into the storeroom. He exhibited the bag.

“De swag’s in here,” he jeered, in crook fashion. “Tell Joe Cardona dis is where he shoulda come tonight. So long, saps. Dey’ll be lettin’ youse out soon.”

Dropping the suitcase, The Shadow reached out and slammed the door. He locked it from the storeroom side, picked up the bag of swag and headed for the hall. Voices reached his ears. Again, The Shadow paused.

“Be ready with the squad, Townley,” some one was saying. “I’ll look up the officers who entered.”

“Very well, inspector,” came the reply.

A grin appeared on The Shadow’s disguised face. Inspector Egglestone had arrived. He had passed Detective Townley, who had evidently arrived at the back door to cover after the bluecoats had entered.

Two men went past the door of the storeroom, then paused. A hall light replaced the glimmer of torches. The Shadow saw Inspector Egglestone; close behind him was Clyde Burke, reporter for the Classic.

“Maybe they went in there, inspector.”

Clyde offered the suggestion. Egglestone, tall and sour-faced, wheeled toward him.

“I don’t need any advice from you, Burke,” he announced. “Because Cardona is fool enough to give you leeway is no reason why I should. You’re lucky enough to be on this trip, without—”

Egglestone paused. Burke was staring past him, toward the door of the storeroom. Turning, the sour-faced inspector found himself confronted by the sweatered figure of The Shadow. He saw the leering lips that showed beneath the bandanna mask.

Egglestone stared at the muzzle of the revolver. Dully, he heard pounding sounds from far within the storeroom. The imprisoned officers were calling for aid.

“Hello, dere, Inspector!” came the harsh tone of The Shadow’s disguised voice. “Just youse and a news hound, hey? Dat’s soft! I don’t need dis gat.”

With a contemptuous gesture, the pretended crook thrust the revolver out of sight, beneath his sweater. He gestured with the suitcase.

“Old Cobleton will go cuckoo,” sneered The Shadow. “Say, dese sparklers I took will fence for thoity grand! Listen to dem mugs poundin’ away, inspector. Funny, ain’t it—”

EGGLESTONE’S hand was creeping to his coat pocket. With a sudden move, the inspector yanked a stub-nosed revolver and came springing forward upon the sweatered foe. Clyde Burke, staring, saw the mobster swing.

A clipping fist took the inspector cleanly on the jaw. Egglestone went backward; his opening fingers lost their hold on the gun. With a raucous laugh, The Shadow kicked the weapon into the storeroom.

“Out o’ de way, boob!” he ordered, thrusting Clyde Burke against the wall. “Dis ain’t your lookout! Give de inspector me regards when he wakes up.”

With a contemptuous leer toward the sprawled form of Egglestone, The Shadow turned toward the stairs.

At that instant, Townley appeared from the rear of the hall. The detective yanked a gun; the fake crook was quicker. Out came the revolver from his sweater. Three rapid-fire shots went zizzing just above Townley’s head. The detective ducked to the floor.

Those shots came from above the banister as The Shadow headed toward the second floor. Wheeling at the top, he hurled back words to Clyde Burke.

“De commissioner’s a dub,” was the jeer, “yankin’ Joe Cardona off de job! Put dat in de poipers, bozo!”

Townley had reached the foot of the stairs. He was just in time to see the sweatered figure dart away from the top of the steps. Townley fired two wild shots; then drew a police whistle and blew it.

Bluecoats were already heading in from the back entrance. The front door suddenly came open. A withered-faced man — old Cobleton — entered with a flood of policemen. Inspector Egglestone was coming to his feet, half-dazed. Detective Townley took temporary command.

“Upstairs!” he bellowed. “Follow him! Outside, some of you, to cut him off!”

Cops responded. A trio dashed upstairs. They found an opened window at the rear; this was the exit that Cliff and Tinker had chosen. They shouted the news below. Arriving police formed a spreading cordon. Searchers went to work. But the procedure was too late.

The Shadow had made quick passage across the roof of the adjoining garage. He had scaled the roof of a house beyond; nearly a block away, he had dropped through a skylight to descend within an empty building.

A lone cop spied the sweatered figure as it appeared from an alleyway. The officer leveled a gun; then The Shadow, hurtling upon him, sent the weapon flying through the air. The officer sprawled as a quick wrench twisted his forearm. With this display of jujutsu, The Shadow headed away toward safety.

Two blocks away, he spied a waiting cab. Reaching his objective, The Shadow entered the vehicle. A hissed word to the driver.

Moe Shrevnitz grinned behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb. Police whistles shrilled as officers, coming from another street, spied the moving taxi.

Another hiss from The Shadow. Inside the cab, he was removing the bandanna mask and peeling away the sweater. These garments went into the bag at his feet. His twisted smile was gone when he opened the cab window to meet the faces of officers who had brought Moe to a stop.

THE policemen saw the head and shoulders of a placid-faced man attired in evening clothes. They heard a voice that spoke in even, modulated tones as The Shadow inquired the meaning of the excitement.

“This ain’t the guy,” growled one.

“That’s just what I was going to tell you,” put in Moe, with a shrewd glance toward his passenger. “This fare’s from Brooklyn. I’m taking him up to the Waldorf.”

“An important reception, officer,” declared The Shadow, briskly. “I am already late.”

“All right,” agreed the cop. Then, to Moe. “What was the idea stopping down the block?”

“Heard a siren,” returned Moe, promptly. “Thought the patrol wagon was coming along. Drew up to the curb. That’s all.”

“Move ahead. Next time you’re coming in from Brooklyn, stick to the avenues. You’ll make, better time.”

“I’ll remember it, officer.”

The cab pulled away. Moe nodded at a new command from The Shadow. He swung around the block while The Shadow was busy with the suitcase.

Just beyond the fringe of the beleaguered area, Moe spied a patrolman on a beat. He pulled over to the curb. He saw The Shadow alight. Tall, in evening clothes, there was something pompous in his manner as he approached the officer.

Moe caught snatches of conversation. He saw the patrolman salute. Then The Shadow stepped to the cab, drew out the suitcase and tendered it to the bluecoat. Another salute; The Shadow stepped aboard and Moe drove away.

Bundling garments, The Shadow placed them on the seat beside him and indulged in a soft laugh. Moe nodded as he heard a new destination given.

BACK at the rifled hock shop, Inspector Egglestone was talking to old Cobleton. The owner of the place lived a block away. The excitement had brought him to the scene. In his little office, Cobleton lay slumped in a chair.

“Can you give us any clues?” Egglestone was demanding. “Have any suspicious characters come in here lately?”

“You ask me for clues?” questioned Cobleton. “When you found the man here and let him get away? Why ask me?”

Egglestone scowled. Clyde Burke grinned. The inspector noted the reporter’s action. He wheeled.

“Feeling smart, eh?” he questioned, sourly. “Well, it’s the last time any news hawk goes the rounds with me! Guess you’ll do some panning in that lousy sheet of yours. Just because that crook got a break—”

Egglestone stopped. A policeman had entered, carrying a suitcase. Egglestone opened the bag and stared at an assortment of boxes.

Old Cobleton, springing forward with a happy cry, pawed into the suitcase. As he opened boxes, glimmering jewelry came into the light. Cobleton was elated.

“My gems!” he shouted. “My gems! All here!”

“Where did you get them?” questioned Egglestone turning to the cop.

“From Commissioner Barth,” returned the officer. “He came up in a taxi and handed me this bag. Told me to bring it here. I moved in off my beat on account of it being the commissioner’s order.”

“Get that, Burke?” questioned Egglestone, turning to the reporter. “There’s your story. Police commissioner recovers the stolen gems. Don’t forget; it was my case—”

“How about getting the commissioner’s angle?”

“Good!” Egglestone nodded and picked up the telephone. “I’ll call headquarters.”

Three minutes later, Egglestone laid down the phone with a puzzled air. He turned to the patrolman who had brought in the suitcase.

“Are you sure that was the commissioner?” he questioned. “Did he identify himself?”

“He said he was the commissioner. He was wearing a full-dress suit.”

“Do you know the commissioner by sight?”

“No. I did think it was kind of funny, him being in a taxi.”

“That wasn’t the commissioner,” declared Egglestone, with a scowl. “The commissioner just called in from Long Island. He and Cardona went out there on a tip. Expected trouble at the home of Tobias Wolfenson. They found the house closed. Wolfenson is in Florida.”

“Say, Burke” — Egglestone wheeled suddenly to the reporter — “you’d better stick to the fact that the gems were recovered. Get me? That crook knew I had him trapped. Surrendered the swag to a patrolman so he could make a getaway.”

He drew Clyde over toward the safe and added a comment that the reporter alone could hear.

“My case,” he said. “Remember that. You’ve got your facts. We have the stuff back — inside half an hour. Gems worth fifty thousand.”

“About the crook,” put in Clyde. “Sweater or evening dress — which was he wearing?”

“Either one. Better make it a sweater.”

“Why not both?”

“Say — what’re you trying to do? Stick to the facts. I’ll tell you how to write this story.”

“You don’t need to. I’ve got my story.”

With a grin, Clyde Burke turned on his heel and strode from the little office, leaving Inspector Egglestone fuming. Leaving the pawnshop, Clyde waved his way past bluecoats and detectives and reached a cigar store two blocks away. He put in a call to Burbank. His grin increased.

ONE hour later found Clyde at a typewriter in the city room of the New York Classic. He was finishing his usual police column, which covered his investigations in the underworld.

Inside stuff that would pass the desk, the moment that the night editor stepped out. He was leaving now. Clyde grinned and finished the column. He turned it over to an uncritical assistant editor, who gave a glance and sent the pages to the copy desk.

Clyde chuckled as he donned his hat and strolled from the city room. He had scooped the town. Tomorrow’s column would be verbal dynamite, thanks to The Shadow.