The Creeper

CHAPTER X. FOES IN THE DARK

AGENTS of The Shadow were on patrol. Cliff and Hawkeye, circuiting the block that housed the Mukden Cafe, were keeping up the search for Dopey; while Moe, posted near the Bowery, was the lookout at the front. The taxi driver had watched half a dozen persons who had at first struck him as suspicious; but he had decided that none could be Dopey.

The tenement building, five doors below the Chinese restaurant, was under Moe’s surveillance. To the lookout, however, that decrepit structure was simply one of a dozen that needed watching.

Several people entered or left it while Moe was watching. One was a limping peddler; another, a flannel-shirted laborer. Besides these, Moe had observed a hunched fellow who looked like a cripple; an organ grinder with a monkey; and finally an over-size newsboy, with a bagful of newspapers under his arm.

Faces had been too distant to observe. Moe had studied the gaits of these people, instead. He saw none who moved with the shuffling pace that Hawkeye had said was typical of Dopey Delvin.

Around the corner, Hawkeye had passed a battered lunch wagon. He was beyond it when he heard the door slide open; turning to look over his shoulder, the little spotter spied a slinking form that dodged into view. He watched the man shamble across the street and head for an alleyway. A street lamp showed a pasty face.

Dopey Delvin’s. Promptly, Hawkeye took up the trail. He followed into the alley. Dopey turned into the rear of the tenement house. Close behind, Hawkeye heard him shuffling up the back stairs. Still following, the spotter caught the gleam from a gas jet as some one lighted it. A door closed; a bolt creaked rustily.

Hawkeye reached the threshold of the closed door, just at the top of the stairs on the second floor. This was the room where Dopey had gone.

Darkened stairs led upward. An unlighted corridor formed a passage to the front. Hawkeye followed it, reached other stairs where one glimmering gas jet furnished illumination. He descended and went out by the front door. Peering toward the Bowery, Hawkeye saw Moe’s cab; then spied Cliff near the corner.

Moving quickly, Hawkeye met Cliff at a secluded spot. He whispered the news of his discovery. Cliff started off to call Burbank, while Hawkeye rounded the block and continued until he reached the alley.

Sliding into darkness, he chose a spot from which he could watch the lighted window that showed on the second floor. Dopey had drawn a tattered blind; Hawkeye could note nothing but the gleam of the gas light.

Ten minutes passed. Hawkeye edged back as he heard some one coming into the alley. Some big fellow, Hawkeye judged, from the sound of the man’s cumbersome footsteps.

The arrival paused near the rear of the tenement house; then entered. Hawkeye listened; he could hear footsteps on the rear stairs.

About to follow, Hawkeye was restrained by a whisper that came from several feet away. Some one else had arrived in the alley; just too late to spy the big man who had entered the building. It was The Shadow; despite the darkness, he had sensed Hawkeye’s presence.

In response to The Shadow’s sinister whisper, Hawkeye gave a quick report. He heard a slight swish in the gloom. The Shadow was entering the tenement house.

ON the second floor, Slugger Haskew was standing outside Dopey’s door. He had cautiously tried the knob, only to find that the door was bolted. Slugger was deciding the best way to deal with the barrier.

He required only a few seconds to make his choice. Backing against the far wall, the big bruiser drove forward in the darkness.

The flimsy door gave way like cardboard. Slugger’s powerful shoulder ripped bolt from door frame; the hinges held and the door swung inward. Slugger floundered half across the room; he drew up to find himself face to face with Dopey. The pasty-faced crook had popped up from a rickety couch in the corner.

Dopey’s hand shot to his pocket. Before he could pull his revolver, Slugger swung a hard punch up from the floor. His big fist caught Dopey’s chin. The pasty-faced crook jolted upward; then flopped on his back, out cold.

Slugger swung the door shut. He drew a big revolver from the pocket of his own coat. He looked about the room; saw nothing but the bed and the chair. He yanked away the mattress. Beneath it lay the prize he wanted.

With a gloating chuckle, the mauler snatched the ebony casket from its resting place. He flung it to the floor and shattered it with one terrific impact of his huge, heavy-soled foot. Breaking the box apart, he drew forth a flattened sheet of parchment, a scroll that bore an inscription that he could not read. With a grunt, Slugger thrust the prize beneath his coat.

The whole process had required less than a minute and a half; yet before Slugger had completed his work, a new arrival had reached the darkened hall at the head of the stairs. Obscured by darkness, The Shadow had stopped; he had heard the splintering of the ebony casket.

Automatic in his right hand, his left hand reaching for the door, The Shadow was moving forward. He stopped with suddenness as his ears detected a new sound. It was coming from the stairway above, descending from the third floor. An odd sound, surely descending, yet not increasing in its loudness. No footsteps — only a ghostly creeping.

THAT sound which had terrified other listeners was not impressive to The Shadow. For the first time, this cloaked master had heard The Creeper; but The Shadow’s reaction was to analyze the strange tread of that hidden approacher. He knew at once that the man in the dark must be a foe; he reasoned also that the odd illusion of the creeping was a subterfuge to puzzle listeners.

The big man who had cracked into Dopey’s room was an underling, working for this watchful chief who had chosen to wait above. The Shadow was in darkness, between the two; yet his position was the best for the moment. The Shadow knew that his own presence was unknown by either the creeping man or the husky who had smashed into Dopey’s hide-out.

The Shadow waited silently; his chance would soon be due.

It was then that a freak of circumstance intervened. Within the lighted room, Slugger was also listening to that cautious, creeping sound. He was gazing toward the door, his ugly head cocked to one side. He had no thought for Dopey; he believed that the fellow had been knocked out to stay. But Slugger was wrong in that guess.

Dopey had come to life. Blinking from the wall, he saw the mattress that Slugger had yanked from the cot. He spied the shattered box; looking up, he saw Slugger gazing at the door.

A venomous expression came over Dopey’s groggy features. Reaching in his pocket, the man who had murdered Myram drew his revolver and came unsteadily to his knees, ready to aim for the big pug who had dealt him the haymaker.

Dopey wavered. Slugger heard him shift. Turning about, the big man saw the pointing gun shaking in Dopey’s fist. Slugger hissed a snarl; he aimed his .38 and fired four quick shots, straight for Dopey’s body.

The pasty-faced killer sprawled face forward. Slugger grabbed the knob of the door and yanked the barrier inward. He sprang out into the hall.

The light from the room revealed The Shadow. In an instant, the odds had changed — even while Slugger’s shots were still echoing, while smoke still coiled from the revolver in his fist. But the glare did not pierce the darkness of the stairs.

The Shadow was still between two foes; and both were aware of his presence: Slugger, visible to The Shadow; The Creeper, still safe in darkness!

Had The Shadow hesitated for one instant, he would have been an open target for The Creeper. It was a situation that would have been hopeless for any but that cloaked avenger. Well had The Shadow guessed that the man on the stairs would prove a formidable enemy.

In this emergency, The Shadow acted with incredible speed. He chose the man whom he knew must be the less brainy of his two antagonists; the one, also, whom he could see. Springing forward, The Shadowy grappled with Slugger Haskew.

SHOTS ripped from the darkness of the stairs. The Creeper had opened fire; but his bullets were too late. The Shadow, flinging his arms about Slugger, had yanked the big bruiser sidewise. With a twist, he had turned the mauler’s bulk to serve him as a shield.

The Creeper’s fire ceased; he could not afford to shoot down Slugger, his only aid on this field of battle.

Slugger fought wildly. His swinging arms were seeking to batter down The Shadow’s clutching arms. But Slugger, despite his bulk, was staggering willy-nilly. The Shadow, fierce in combat, was heaving him backward toward the rear stairway.

The grapplers tumbled over the top step. Whirling downward together, they rolled fighting to the bottom, out of that glare wherein The Shadow might again have become The Creeper’s target!

The Shadow had taken a long chance. Even as he spun downward, still grappling, he knew that misfortune might arrive at the bottom of the fall. Twisting with a final effort, he tried to break his plunge, just as the crash arrived.

He was partially successful. Though the impact was terrific, The Shadow still retained his senses as he rolled from Slugger’s grip. Though half dazed, he realized what was going on about him. A fierce snarl in the darkness told him that Slugger had survived the fall.

A thrusting revolver muzzle jabbed The Shadow’s ribs. Mechanically, The Shadow responded. His automatic was still in his grasp; he swung it hard against the pressing arm and fired. While Slugger had momentarily hesitated; The Shadow had gained the drop. A vicious cry sounded in the blackness as Slugger rolled away.

The Shadow fired again — blindly; but his shot alarmed his wounded foe. Slugger was on his feet, diving for the rear door of the tenement house. A figure leaped in to meet him. It was Hawkeye.

Encountering the spotter, Slugger delivered a swing with one good arm and sent the little man sprawling.

When Hawkeye came to his feet, he heard Slugger clambering down the alley.

Hawkeye’s thought was of The Shadow. Dashing into the building, the spotter stumbled over the figure of his chief. Hawkeye had drawn a gun; it was good that he had done so. A flashlight gleamed from the top of the stairs. The Creeper was using it to locate his tumbled foe.

Quickly, Hawkeye opened fire. The flashlight disappeared. Bullets, whistling up from below, were something for which The Creeper had not bargained.

He was off along the second floor corridor, that foe in the dark. Off to safety, once he had descended the front stairs; for neither Cliff nor Moe was there to intercept him. As Hawkeye aided The Shadow to the alley, Moe’s cab drew up beyond it, and Cliff came hurrying from it. He and Moe had heard the muffled shots that had sounded within the building.

Cliff heard Hawkeye’s call and joined the little spotter. Then both heard a whispered order. The Shadow had steadied; drawing away from Hawkeye’s supporting grasp, he was delivering quick instructions. Cliff hurried back to the taxi; Hawkeye sped into the tenement building and dashed up to the second floor.

Three minutes later, both agents arrived near the entrance of the alley. Moe’s cab had circuited the block, with Cliff aboard; Hawkeye had entered Dopey’s room, made a quick inspection and returned.

Reports were given; Cliff told that patrolmen were entering the front of the tenement house. Hawkeye stated that Dopey was dead, the ebony box shattered and devoid of contents.

Wailing sirens from the Bowery were proof that more police were arriving. The alarm had been sounded.

The Creeper, like Slugger, had left this terrain. It was unwise for The Shadow’s agents to remain.

Speaking from darkness, he ordered them to travel away in Moe’s cab. Cliff and Hawkeye obeyed, knowing that their chief had revived.

JUST within the alleyway, pressed close against the darkened wall, The Shadow watched the taxi leave.

He heard shouts from within the tenement building; he knew that the law had arrived. The side street was devoid of traffic; it offered a way of departure for The Shadow himself. But there was a reason why he had remained.

His keen eyes were focused upon the sidewalk just outside the alley. There, The Shadow had spied a blob upon the paving — a mark that showed dark-red beneath the street light.

Moving forward, The Shadow looked beyond. Just past the curb was another crimson blot, obscure against the asphalt. Across the street, past the lunch wagon, was the entrance of another alleyway.

Gliding swiftly, The Shadow headed for that goal.

He reached the alley; his tiny flashlight glimmered upon cobblestones. The searching gleam revealed another moist spot of crimson.

It was blood — life blood, shed by a departing murderer. It showed the course that Slugger Haskew had taken. Though The Shadow did not know the identity of the big-fisted killer, he was certain that Slugger must be the one who had gained the scroll from within the ebony casket.

The flashlight’s glimmer moved ahead — through the alleyway, to an obscure street beyond. New blobs of blood showed beneath the blinking gleam. The Shadow turned left, still on the track of the wounded killer. He had passed the closing cordon of the law. His way was clear to follow Slugger Haskew.

For The Shadow had found a trail of blood; one that would show more vividly, the further he progressed.

The Creeper did not matter; he had eluded The Shadow’s toils for the present, and could wait until later.

For the present, The Shadow had a more important quest. Slugger Haskew, the murderous henchman, was the quarry that he wanted.

For Slugger held what men of crime needed — that missing scroll that told the secret of Bigelow Doyd’s wealth. Could The Shadow gain it, the purposes of evil workers would be balked. Wherever Slugger Haskew might be, there would The Shadow find him. That blobby trail of dripped blood had become a guiding line to serve the cloaked avenger of the night!