The Creeper

CHAPTER XI. THE NEXT LINK

SEVEN blocks from The Bowery stood an old house that had once been a pretentious residence. This building had been converted into a second-rate apartment house. The first floor consisted of tiny suites that had been fashioned from larger rooms.

In one of these tiny apartments a weary-faced man was sitting at a plain table, picking out the keys on a tiny, old-style portable typewriter.

Several pages of finished manuscript lay at one side of the typewriter; on the other, a sheaf of blank sheets. Except for chair and table, the room was devoid of furnishings. There were a few dishes stacked in the corner kitchenette; beside them, a box of crackers and a few opened sardine cans. Within the adjoining bedroom was a ramshackle couch, topped by a ragged overcoat and flabby felt hat.

Apparently, the occupant of this apartment lived in extreme simplicity; but his surroundings did not seem to trouble him. He was fully concentrated upon his work at the typewriter. If he held any contact with the outside world, it could only have been by means of a telephone which was perched upon a stack of directories in the corner.

A bell buzzed. Not the telephone; this signal indicated some one at the front door. The weary-faced man looked up, his face alarmed. He hesitated; the buzz was repeated.

Going to the door, he pressed a button to admit the visitor through the front door. Then he opened the door of the apartment and peered out into the hall.

An angle of the wall blocked the weary man’s view. But he could hear some one approaching. Clumsy, faltering footsteps were punctuated by heavy groans. Wondering, the weary man waited.

A huge, bulky figure bulged into view. The man at the apartment door saw an ugly face that showed distorted agony; he observed that the arrival was pressing his left hand against a spot below his right shoulder. Big, grimy fingers were stained with blood that dripped with every ooze.

“Slugger!” gasped the weary-faced man. “Slugger Haskew!”

“You — you’re Jerry Kobal.” Slugger stared groggily as he spoke. “Jerry Kobal. Thought — thought I’d find you here. Lemme in, Jerry. I got somethin’ dat I got to tell youse.”

Jerry hesitated. His lips twitched; then, pitiful of the big mauler’s plight, he decided to let Slugger enter.

He stepped aside; Slugger staggered through the doorway.

Jerry closed the door and tried to guide the crippled killer to the couch in the bedroom. Slugger pushed him aside with his free right hand. He chose the chair instead. Jerry produced a glass of water from the kitchenette. Slugger gulped the liquid. It revived him for the moment.

“Listen, Jerry,” he growled, “I’m t’rough! I got mine! I’m t’rough! Youse was de only guy I could get to, see? Beef told me onct dat you was livin’ here — widout no name on de door — just dat you was livin’ in dis apartment—”

SLUGGER sank wearily; then, with an ugly snarl, he straightened up and glared toward Jerry. Shoving his big right hand beneath his coat, the mauler pulled out a crumpled parchment. It was the Latin scroll.

One corner of the document was smeared with blood; but none of the wording had been obliterated.

“You gotta take dis, see?” Slugger was harsh as he spoke. “Scram outta here. I’m gonna croak, so dat don’t matter. Don’t leave nothin’ dat will put de cops wise. Dey’ll t’ink dis is my hide-out. Get it?”

Jerry began to shake his head.

“Can’t do it, Slugger,” he stated. “I’ve gone straight. No more dirty work for me. Right now, I’m writing out my own story. I’ve got enough cash to see me through until I sell it. All about the rackets that I’m through with — what I went through while I was in the Big House—”

“Can dat mush!” growled Slugger. “Youse is wid me. Savvy? If you t’ink you ain’t—”

The big man came half up from the chair. He still had stamina for combat. Jerry winced as he saw the mauler raise a bludgeonlike fist. Even though wounded, Slugger would be a formidable antagonist.

“I’ll get you to a sawbones, Slugger,” pleaded Jerry. “This telephone is still connected, even though it isn’t mine. I’m through with crooked stuff; but I’m willing to call a doc who isn’t too particular about his patients. If—”

“Lay off,” growled Slugger. “I don’t want to see no croaker. I’m t’rough, I tell you! Kickin’ in! You’re doin’ what I tell you, Jerry.” With a thrust, Slugger shoved his right hand in his pocket and yanked out his .38, to aim the weapon at his companion.

“You’re doin’ what I tell you — an’ if you ain’t, dis gat goes off! Dat will bring de cops here” — Slugger’s distorted grin was vicious — “bring de cops here, dat’s what it’ll do.”

Jerry’s eyes gleamed suddenly. The fellow nodded and motioned for Slugger to lower the revolver.

“I’m with you, Slugger,” announced Jerry, his face betraying a wise look that the dying mauler did not notice. “Give me that paper. While I’m packing up, you tell me what I’m to do.”

He clutched the scroll, rolled it and thrust it in his pocket. He hurriedly shoved the typewriter in its case and began to gather up the pages of his manuscript, with the blank sheets as well. He rolled them, bound them with a rubber band and thrust them in his other pocket.

Slugger was speaking, his eyes half closed, his voice almost a groan. His words, however, were plain.

“Go to dat old hotel — you know de joint — de place dey call de Alcadia. Stick dere, Jerry. Wait until some guy comes to see you. A guy called De Creeper—”

“The Creeper?”

“Dat’s it. Give him de paper dat I handed you.”

“How will he know I’m there, Slugger?”

“Don’t worry about dat. Leave dat to me. Scram outta here, in a hurry. Got dat paper, Jerry?”

“I’ve got it.” Jerry was in the bedroom, donning hat and overcoat. “Hotel Alcadia. Wait there for The Creeper. How’ll I know him, though, Slugger?”

“When youse hear him,” replied Slugger, groaning. “You’ll know it’s him. De way he walks — wid a creep — dat’s why dey call him De Creeper. He’s a big shot — dat’s what he is—”

JERRY KOBAL had gathered his few belongings. With a sad shake of his head, he clapped Slugger on the back. Pockets bulging, typewriter case in hand, he hurried from the apartment. In his haste to reach the front door, he did not notice the trail of bloodstains on the floor of the dim hall.

Outside, Jerry hastened to the nearest corner. Turning it, he kept on, getting away from this dangerous vicinity. His weary face was serious as he headed for the subway. For Jerry had gained sudden fear of the consequences that might follow, had he remained with Slugger Haskew. He was confident that the big mauler had been engaged in murderous activities.

One minute after Jerry Kobal had turned the corner, a form appeared beneath the lamplight of the street above. The glow showed a fleeting trace of a cloaked figure. Keen eyes spied another blood mark on the sidewalk. The Shadow was closing in on Slugger’s trail.

Blending with darkness, he crossed the street. His flashlight glimmered to locate a dull red spot near the front of the old building that was now an apartment house.

In Jerry Kobal’s untidy apartment, Slugger Haskew was still seated in the chair. His breathing, coming in long heaves, stopped tensely. His eyes opened; the murderer looked about. He saw that Jerry was gone.

Half snarling, half groaning, Slugger twisted himself from the chair. He staggered to the corner, slumped to the floor; then grasped the telephone with his right fist. He withdrew his left hand from his wound, changed his grip on the telephone and clumsily dialed a number with his right forefinger.

A voice responded over the wire. It was Nick Curlin. Groggily, Slugger spoke, coughing his harsh words into the mouthpiece of the telephone.

“Dis is Slugger,” he informed. “I–I got clipped! I’m t’rough, Nicky… Yeah. T’rough… Sure, I got de paper. Off of Dopey… Yeah, I bumped de mug… No, I ain’t got de paper here…

“I slipped it to anodder guy… Wot’s his name? Is he wise? Sure dis guy is. Jerry Kobal. Dat’s who I slipped de paper to… Yeah, Jerry Kobal… Yeah, I told him to be at de Alcadia. To wait for De Creeper…

“You better close dat gym of yours, Nick… Better take it on de lam… De Shadow’s in dis. He’s de guy dat plugged me…”

The receiver clicked at the other end of the wire. Slugger did not hear it. His eyes were glazed and staring. He had slumped back against the wall, still gripping the telephone. Talking, he managed to make his voice coherent as he numbly repeated details.

As Slugger gasped, the door of the apartment opened. A blackened form appeared upon the threshold.

The Shadow had reached the end of the trail that Slugger’s blood had left for him.

“I RUBBED out Dopey,” Slugger was repeating. “Rubbed out de guy. But De Shadow got me — got me before I could slip de paper to De Creeper. Yeah. You hear me? It was De Shadow—”

Slugger paused, apparently expecting a reply through the receiver. Then, with none coming, he resumed his final repetition.

“I slipped de paper to Jerry. Yeah, to Jerry Kobal. He — he’s holdin’ it for De Creeper. Dat’s wot Jerry’s doin’—like I told him. He — he’ll be dere at de hotel — dat’s where he’ll be. I told Jerry to go dere—”

Slugger’s voice ended with a hoarse sigh. His head sank back against the wall with a thud. The telephone fell from his clutch and tumbled to the floor.

The Shadow swished forward and plucked up the rolling instrument. He spoke, his voice a simulation of Slugger’s gasp. There was no response; the line was dead.

Gasping, Slugger had opened his eyes at the sound of a voice that seemed to be his own. His glazed optics spied The Shadow; his bloated lips spat a snarl as he tried to raise his body. Fists clenching, Slugger wanted to begin a new fray. His effort was tremendous; but it carried him no distance. Slugger’s head rose a dozen inches from the wall; then thudded back.

Blood gushed from the killer’s wound. The snarling murderer rolled sidewise, his hoarse challenge ending.

Big arms sprawled helplessly. The bruiser’s form became motionless. Slugger Haskew was dead. A murderer had paid the penalty for crime.

THE SHADOW studied the dead form. Calmly, he hung up the receiver of the telephone; then made a brief search of Slugger’s body, to make certain that the killer had actually passed along the scroll, as he had orated in those final, maudlin words. That done, The Shadow left the apartment and headed out into the night.

A whispered laugh sounded in outer darkness. It carried no mirth; but again its tone was prophetic. A new trail led ahead; one that would be beset with the presence of an insidious foeman, bound for the same goal — an enemy whose title The Shadow had heard from Slugger’s dying lips.

The Creeper, worker of evil; he was the antagonist with whom The Shadow must deal. His hand, The Shadow realized, had come early into the game. The Creeper had sought the same spoils: that scroll within the ebony casket, the precious document that had created a chain of violent death.

Myram first; then Dopey. Both murdered. Both had been thieves; but Dopey had proven vicious enough to kill, as well as steal. Next, Slugger, a murderer. He had killed Dopey; he had sought to slay The Shadow; instead he had received a crippling wound. Slugger’s subsequent efforts to evade pursuit had cost him his life. He, too, was dead.

Three trails, all ended. Again, a hunt must be begun. A fourth man had gained the lost scroll — an ex-crook named Jerry Kobal. His was the trail that The Shadow must next gain. Somewhere in Manhattan — at some hotel, the name not mentioned in Slugger’s repeated statements over the dead wire — there Jerry Kobal might be found.

New moves for The Shadow and his agents. A scouring search for Jerry Kobal, in hope that he could be discovered before The Creeper found him. Well did The Shadow know that Slugger must have passed his message through before the line went dead. The killer had been talking to some one who had hung up, once he had gained the facts he needed.

The Creeper would know where to look for Jerry Kobal. This time the odds were with the master of crime. Yet The Shadow would search, unceasingly. Sometimes circumstances changed the odds, as they had to-night, when the cloaked fighter had been trapped between Slugger and The Creeper.

Such was The Shadow’s hope; and it had chance for realization. For Jerry Kobal, the new factor in the chase, was to have his say before this game was through.