The Cobra

CHAPTER XIII THE SHADOW HEARS

DAYS had passed since The Cobra had ended the nefarious career of Heater Darkin. Since then, The Cobra had struck again. His victim had been “Smokey” Bragland, head of a big gambling racket. Smokey had been shot down in one of his palatial gaming rooms, with a dozen witnesses present.

Although the public did not know it, Police Commissioner Weston had received advance notice of The Cobra’s deed. On this occasion, the hisser who spoke over the wire had not invited Weston to be present.

But The Cobra’s action had satisfied the commissioner. Smokey Bragland was an unconvicted murderer. His warranted death had brought new consternation to the underworld.

The Shadow had not appeared on this occasion. That had caused new comment in the badlands. It produced the general opinion that The Shadow had admitted his own inability to keep up with The Cobra’s prowess.

Night had come to Manhattan, and among the hordes of scumland, The Cobra was again the topic of awed conversations. At the Blue Crow — a hangout where the most disreputable of rowdies met — uncouth mobsters were speculating on The Cobra’s next victim. While they were talking, a mobster entered. It was “Duff” Berker, a member of Heater Darkin’s disbanded crew.

“Hi, Duff!” called a sweatered gangster. “We was just wonderin’ who The Cobra was goin’ to get next.”

“Don’t talk about that guy,” growled Duff. “He’s going to get the works himself, someday.”

“Yeah?” the first speaker was sarcastic. “Who from? Say — he knowed more about what Heater Darkin was doin’ than you did, I bet. Where was you that night?”

“Outside,” retorted Duff.

“I’ll bet you was,” grinned the gangster. “You oughta have been coverin’ up for Heater. Yeah — that’s where you oughta have been. Then The Cobra mighta handed you the bump, too.”

Duff Berker made no reply. He shuffled from the joint. Buzzing comments followed.

“He’s the guy could handle Heater’s old gang, Duff is.”

“You bet he could, but he’s wise enough to lay low. He ain’t goin’ to get what Heater got.”

OUTSIDE, Duff Berker was shuffling along the street. He come to an old house and entered. He went through a hall to a little back room. He entered, turned on a light and closed the door. A pay telephone was on the wall. It bore a placard: “Out of order.”

Duff picked up the receiver. He turned the mouthpiece with his other hand. A hissing sound reached his ear through the receiver.

“Fang Eleven,” reported Duff.

A hissing voice responded. Duff spoke in reply. His conversation ended, Duff twisted the mouthpiece and hung up the receiver. He shambled from the room and left the obscure house.

Duff Berker’s action was a justification of Crawler Gorgan’s theory that The Cobra had gained the services of mobsters in the underworld. More than that; it showed how The Cobra had been able to move more swiftly than The Shadow.

The Cobra’s agents were minions of the big shots whom The Cobra had eliminated. Thus had The Cobra kept exact tabs on the movements of his prospective victims!

BACK at the Blue Crow, mobsters were still talking of The Cobra. An hour passed while gangsters sipped their grog and jested.

These lesser minions of crime felt themselves to be fish too small for The Cobra’s net. At the same time, they were visibly impressed by The Cobra’s power; more so than if he had been warring on such small fry as themselves.

A sweatered, dull-faced creature shambled into the dive. Questioning eyes turned in his direction. No one recognized the newcomer, but his appearance was sufficient to grant him entrance.

This arrival slouched into a chair by a table and threw a grimy dollar bill into view. A hard-faced waiter took the money, and plunked bottle and glass upon the table. With trembling hand and bulging eyes, the newcomer tried to help himself to a drink. The effort was too much. He sprawled out on the table.

“Booze or hop?” questioned a rowdy.

The waiter raised the man’s head and stared at the grimy face with its closed eyes. He let the man’s head drop on his arm, where it rocked like a pendulum and finally became motionless. The waiter picked up the bottle and set an empty one in its place.

“Hop-head,” he said. “When dose birds get looney, they start out for a drink. When dis guy wakes up, he’ll t’ink he’s finished de bottle. Leave him lay. I’ll t’row him out when we close de joint.”

Mobsters resumed their conversation. Another man appeared. This fellow was recognized. It was Crawler Gorgan. A cigarette clung to Crawler’s pasty lips.

Slouching to a table, Crawler called for a bottle. He received it. Staring straight ahead, he poured one drink and finished it; then another.

Mobsters resumed their conversation. They paid no attention to Crawler until he had swallowed a third drink. Then, when he arose with fixed stare and moved dopily through the door, a gangster made comment:

“Looked like Crawler has been hittin’ de pipe. He won’t last long — dat guy.”

“You bet he won’t,” affirmed another. “He’ll be like that bimbo over there.”

The speaker pointed to the sweatered man who still lay sprawled upon the table. Listeners laughed. The denizens of this hangout had little regard for hop-heads.

A SHORT while later, a new arrival appeared. This was a frail little mobster, whose face showed a crafty look. His appearance brought greetings from seated mobsters. Glasses of liquor were offered to the newcomer. He licked his lips, sat down and took a drink.

“What’s doin’, Ears?” questioned a mobster.

“Yeah. Give us the lowdown,” piped another.

“If anybody knows what’s blowin’,” declared a third, “it’s Ears Findler. Come on, Ears. Let’s hear your spiel.”

“Been talkin’ about The Cobra?” questioned “Ears,” with a wise look.

“Yeah,” came the reply. “Who’s he goin’ to get next?”

“Why’re you askin’ me?” quizzed Ears. “Think I’m his pal?”

Mobsters grinned.

“Come on, Ears,” asserted one tough character. We know you ain’t wid de Cobra. We was just figurin’ maybe you had a hunch who he was after.”

“I know who’s dodgin’ him,” declared Ears, warily. “When a guy’s dodging The Cobra, it looks like he was on The Cobra’s list. That’s the way I figure it.”

“Who’s de guy?”

“King Zobell.”

Grunts of astonishment greeted this assertion. One mobster, a scar-faced individual, voiced his disbelief.

“Say,” he growled. “King Zobell is the real big shot. How’s The Cobra goin’ to get at him?”

“Don’t ask me,” retorted Ears. “I’m only tellin’ what I’ve heard — and I don’t go around listenin’ to nothin’. Here’s the lowdown.

“The Cobra knocked off Hunky Fitzler an’ Cass Rogan, didn’t he? All right — who did he get next? Deek Hundell an’ then Smokey Bragland. There’s four big shots for you. Who’s next?”

“There’s a couple of birds—”

“Yeah, but King Zobell is the best bet. I ain’t givin’ you just my own idea — I’m talkin’ what I’ve heard from guys that are in the know. I’m tellin’ you somethin’ — the big shots are duckin’ out of town. There’s only one guy willin’ to stand the gaff. That’s King Zobell.”

“Say — he’s got a half a dozen rackets, King has. He wouldn’t duck. You’re right, though, Ears. King’s the bird The Cobra oughta be out to get.”

“An’ King knows it.” Ears grinned as he gave this information. “I’ll tell you why. This is the hot stuff. Somethin’ I learned tonight. How many bodyguards has King Zobell got?”

“Two,” said a mobster. “He had Duster Corbin an’ he’s just taken on Diamond Rigler—”

“Right,” interrupted Ears, “an’ he ain’t satisfied yet. How does that hit you?”

“You mean he ain’t got enough bodies?”

“He needs another. Duster Corbin is out to find one. An’ you can bet that the guy Duster picks will be a tough egg.”

“Whew!” One mobster drew his breath. “One grand a week — that’s what King Zobell pays for a body. Say — he must be scared if he’s hiring a new one. Who do you think he’s going to get?”

“Whoever Duster Corbin picks,” returned Ears. “An’ I’m tellin’ you this — Duster ain’t goin’ to pick any guy that don’t look tough enough to give The Cobra a battle. Think that over!”

“Where’s he lookin’?”

“When I seen him,” informed Ears, “Duster was on his way down to the Nugget Club. You know that joint — over the old garage. Say — there ain’t any guy gets in there that ain’t known — an’ he’s got to have a roll on him, too.

“If Duster is lookin’ for a bird that’s in the money an’ is worth one grand a week, he’ll find him there. I don’t know who he’s goin’ to pick; but I’ll tell you this. King Zobell will have a new bodyguard by tomorrow night — an’ the reason he’s gettin’ one is because he’s scared of The Cobra.”

WITH this final reiteration of his former statements, Ears Findler polished off another drink and slouched from the Blue Crow, leaving the mobsters talking among themselves. It was a few minutes before the conversation changed; then the result came as a chance interruption.

“Take a look at de hop-head,” laughed a gangster. “He’s comin’ to.”

Eyes turned toward the neighboring table. The sprawled figure was moving. A shaky hand was reaching for the bottle. The sweatered man was staring with wild eyes, while his fingers slipped against the smooth glass.

The bottle eluded the man’s clutch. It toppled and rolled from the table. As it broke on the stone floor, a hoarse, distorted scream came from the lips of the wild-eyed man. The waiter approached and grabbed the fellow by the neck.

“Outside, bummer,” he ordered. “We don’t want no hop-heads here. Get goin’.”

The mobsters caught a glimpse of a drawn face with sharp-pointed features. Dull eyes peering from each side of a beaked nose stared at the waiter. The man staggered through the door and slouched off into the night as the waiter slammed the barrier behind him.

Boisterous laughter followed.

Had any of those mobsters trailed the departing man, however, their mirth would have changed to awe. Half a block away from the Blue Crow, the shambling dope changed his gait. His figure straightened as he paused at the entrance of an alleyway.

Beneath the fringe of a street-lamp’s glow, his distorted face changed. His hawklike visage took on a stern expression. His dull eyes seemed to brighten until they glowed with the intensity of fire.

As the visitor who had left the Blue Crow turned to merge with darkness, a sardonic laugh came from his firm, unyielding lips. That burst of repressed merriment was a sign of identity. The pretended hop-head was The Shadow!

Into the underworld, The Shadow had come to listen for information that concerned The Cobra. He had chosen the Blue Crow as a listening post. There he had gained a clew.

Duff Berker, fang of The Cobra, had left too early to hear the utterances of Ears Findler. Crawler Gorgan, undercover man for the police, had also departed before the proper moment. But The Shadow had remained. He had learned facts that only Ears Findler could have gained.

“King” Zobell feared The Cobra. That was sufficient. It gave The Shadow the inkling that he required. He could foresee The Cobra’s next stroke.

The eerie laugh trailed in the distance as The Shadow, still guised as a chance prowler, moved rapidly through the dark.