The Cobra

CHAPTER X AGAIN THE COBRA

THE SHADOW had chosen to enter Old Growdy’s by the second floor because of the presence of the loose police cordon. From Cliff Marsland’s brief report, The Shadow knew that any hiding place of wealth would doubtless be below ground. Hence his cautious course — rendered so because police were in the offing — was headed in that direction.

The cordon which caused The Shadow to exert caution had a directly opposite effect upon two others who were already in the house. Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Joe Cardona had begun a rapid investigation.

While The Shadow was coming in the second-story window, Weston and Cardona were descending a flight of steps that they found leading to the basement. They had spent several minutes on the ground floor before discovering these stairs; Weston was eager to proceed downward.

The commissioner’s flashlight was blazing its path to the darkened cellar. Cardona, close behind, was whispering a protest against Weston’s speed: one that the commissioner did not choose to heed.

“Come along, Cardona,” ordered Weston, briskly. “I’ll handle the light; you be ready with the whistle. We can take care of ourselves if there’s trouble below.”

Weston was handling a revolver as he spoke. Cardona also had a gun in readiness. There was no arguing with the commissioner. Cardona kept pace with him as they reached the cellar.

A passage stretched off to the right. It showed a door, opened inward. Weston moved forward and reached the door. He turned off his flashlight and gripped Cardona’s arm.

A light showed dimly as the two peered past the doorway. It came from the right. This doorway was the entrance to a second passage that led in that direction. Beyond was an illuminated room. Weston and Cardona could hear voices, but no one was in sight.

“Move up to the door,” whispered Weston. “We’ll cover them in there.”

Cardona nodded.

Near the door, the commissioner paused. Then, with Cardona, he began to edge forward. He whispered instructions; Cardona began to nod in reply. Suddenly both men stopped short as a footstep clicked behind them. Nudging muzzles of revolvers pressed into their ribs.

“I got ‘em!” snarled a rough voice. “Drop them gats, youse mugs, before I plug you!”

INSTINCTIVELY, Weston and Cardona let their revolvers fall. Their hands came up in response to the menace from in back. At the same time, a grinning, hard-faced man popped into view beyond the door.

Joe Cardona knew him. It was Heater Darkin.

The big shot held a revolver with which he covered Weston and Cardona from in front. His grin turned to a fang-like laugh as he ordered the prisoners to move into the room.

The scene that greeted commissioner and detective was a strange one. This room, buried below the level of the street, was fitted like an office. Quivering in a chair behind a battered, flat-topped desk, was an old man with white whiskers, whose eyes showed fear.

It was Old Growdy.

Cornered by one wall was a trembling young man whose hands were upward. He was covered by a gangster, who was also watching Old Growdy. This prisoner was evidently Old Growdy’s secretary.

As Cardona and Weston backed against the wall at Heater Darkin’s order, they saw the man who had covered them from the passage. He was a two-gun mobster who flourished his gats in businesslike fashion.

“Cover them, Luke,” ordered Darkin.

The two-gun gorilla obeyed. Heater Darkin chuckled. Pocketing his own revolver, he strolled across the room and seated himself on the desk. He laughed in contemptuous fashion.

“Visitors, eh?” he scoffed. “Joe Cardona — the smart dick — and say! Well, if it ain’t the police commissioner!”

Heater’s eyes hardened.

“Come here to make trouble, eh?” he snarled. “Well, you’ll see it — but you won’t make it. You know who I am. They call me Heater Darkin. I’m the boy that gives the heat. I’ll let you watch me hand it.

“Dumb clucks! Coming down those steps with a flashlight. Luke here saw the flash. That’s why I stuck him behind the door in the passage — just to trap you guys. If there’s any more of you, it’ll be bad for them. I’ve got another guy laying out there for any more smart mugs.”

Heater laughed raucously. Then, continuing to relish this situation that had brought the police commissioner and the ace detective into this predicament, he again became loquacious.

“I guess Old Growdy suspected trouble,” he scoffed. “Sent word out and you came down here to see what was the matter. Well — there’s one thing Old Whiskers kept to himself. That was his own private entrance to this place.

“That door you just came through has a steel front. It was locked and Old Growdy and this bird Tomkins, his secretary, were here in this room. Going over accounts. Safe behind a steel door — and very safe because of that other way out — over there.”

Heater Darkin pointed to a panel at the side of the room. Weston and Cardona could see that it might be the entrance to a secret passage.

“You guessed it,” jeered Darkin. “An underground passage that leads a block away. If you’ve got any smart cops waiting outside, it won’t do them any good.

“I learned about that passage. I brought my crew in from the other end. I got a guy waiting back where we came in.

“Do you know what’s coming off here? I’ll tell you. I’m going take Old Growdy’s swag out through that passage.

“What’s more, nobody’s going to stay around to squawk. Old Growdy gets the works — and so does Tomkins. Maybe you two get it, too. Maybe you’ll go along with me. But there’s no shooting coming until Old Whiskers coughs up the mazuma.”

WHEELING, Heater turned to Eliaphas Growdy. The old man trembled as he saw the viciousness of the crook’s gaze.

“What about it?” demanded Heater, “Where do you keep the dough?”

“I have nothing,” protested Growdy. “Nothing of value—”

“Listen.” Heater’s tone was hard. “Just because two mugs blew in here, don’t think you’ve got a chance. You saw what happened to them. That’s why I opened the steel door; just to nab any smart eggs who might come around. If any more show up, I’ll get them too. Come on! Squawk!”

“I shall tell you nothing,” quavered Old Growdy. “If you intend to kill me, why should I speak?”

“So that’s it?” Heater laughed in ugly fashion. “No use to talk? We’ll see.”

Striding past the desk, Heater reached to the floor. With one hand he seized both of Growdy’s legs. He gave a twist that sent the old man revolving in his swivel chair. The turn ended as Heater plopped Growdy’s feet squarely on the desk.

“Look at those old shoes!” scoffed Heater. “Saving every penny, you old miser. Well, Whisker Face, here go the boots.”

Roughly, the crook tore the shoes from Growdy’s feet. The old man’s toes showed through holes in the ends of his socks. Again, Heater laughed.

“That makes it simple,” he asserted. “All set. Here’s where I give the heat. Ever have your toes singed, Old Whiskers?”

Bringing his left arm down on Growdy’s ankles, Heater produced a matchbox. He held it in his left hand. He extracted a match with his right. He lighted the match. He brought the flame close to the old man’s toes and held it there.

Old Growdy began to writhe as the match went out.

“Want more?” snarled Heater, as he struck another match. “Want more? Or are you going to squawk?”

Old Growdy tried to squirm away. He was helpless. He shrieked as the second match approached his toes. He was clasping his hands in agony, swaying back and forth in the swivel chair, while Heater watched him gloatingly.

WESTON and Cardona stood helpless. The commissioner was wild with repressed fury at sight of this preliminary torture. Cardona was grim. Yet neither could make a move, in the face of the two revolvers that covered them.

Biting his lips, Commissioner Weston turned his head away as the second match went out. He knew that this first torture was but a taste of what was to come. Heater had not commenced to work. He was bringing out a third match, ready to strike it.

Futilely, Weston stared toward the panel on the opposite side of the room, as though expecting aid from that quarter. The commissioner, alone, was gazing toward the secret exit. Hence he was the only person to witness the surprising occurrence that took place there.

With a slight click, the panel slid open. Framed before a dim background stood the most fantastically garbed man that Weston had ever seen. Clad from head to foot in a wrinkled brown jersey, this tall arrival was masked by a hood that covered his head.

Part of the brown garment, the hood was painted in fantastic fashion. Circles of dull white; tapering lines below them — these gave the head the exact appearance of a cobra’s hood, with a topping bulge above it.

A gasp came from the lips of Commissioner Ralph Weston. Into this scene of terror had come the man whose promise had brought Weston and Cardona to this place.

The man at the panel was The Cobra!