The Creeper

CHAPTER XIII. A CASH DEAL

FIFTEEN minutes after The Shadow had given orders to Burbank, a taxi pulled up across the street from the old Hotel Santiago. The driver of the cab was Moe Shrevnitz. Called from his usual uptown stand, the hackie had been ordered here by Burbank. Moe had made the trip in ten minutes of swift travel.

His arrival was expected. A man stepped around from the curb. It was Cliff Marsland; in terse tones, Cliff gave information while Moe listened.

“Hawkeye’s not here yet,” he said, “but he’s due. When he arrives, tell him to cover the back of this old joint. There’s a way in from the back.”

While Cliff was speaking, another cab stopped a short distance behind Moe’s. From it stepped a stooped figure; that of a man with a cane, who carried a fat portfolio beneath his arm.

The keen eyes of Montague Rayne glistened as they spied Moe’s cab. Paying his own driver, Rayne hobbled forward with remarkable spryness. He reached the side of Moe’s cab and listened.

Neither Cliff nor Moe saw the intruder. Cliff was on the street side of the taxi; Moe’s attention was directed to that point. Though The Shadow’s agents were speaking in guarded tones, their words were overheard.

“It’s Jerry Kobal, all right,” Cliff was saying. “He’s in Room 508, registered as John Kane. I’ll mosey around the lobby a while, to give Hawkeye time to get here.”

“I’ll be watching for him,” returned Moe. “I’ll send him to cover the back door.”

Cliff strolled away; Moe settled back behind the wheel. At the same moment, Montague Rayne swung away from view. Muffling the clicks of his cane, he headed for the Bowery. Looking off to the right he could see the front of the old hotel, with its grimy lights interspersed with burned-out bulbs. A pleased cackle came to Rayne’s withered lips.

Though Moe Shrevnitz did not know it, his cab had been spied quite often lately by those same sharp eyes. Moe had a regular parking place near Times Square; any one who had seen his cab elsewhere might easily have had the luck to spot it at its usual stand.

Moe had figured in the quest for Myram; a proof that he was connected with the search for the scroll.

Moreover, Moe was sometimes lax in watching backward to see if his cab happened to have another on its trail. On this quick trip, he had not once glanced behind to look for followers.

Montague Rayne was hobbling to the rear of the old Hotel Santiago. Once there, he found an obscure entrance. He used it and came to the rear of the lobby.

Cliff Marsland was strolling about, killing time. While Rayne waited, Cliff went on. Rayne hobbled into the lobby, passed a sleepy clerk behind the desk and continued, unnoticed, up a stairway.

IN Room 508, Jerry Kobal was seated at a table, his typewriter set before him. The weary-faced man was working on his story; but the twitching of his face showed that he could not keep his mind to the task. Jerry was troubled, nervous; when a rap sounded at the door, he sprang about with a jolt.

“Who’s there?”

A quavering tone responded to Jerry’s sharp question. It was a kindly, friendly voice, that formed a query.

“Mr. Kane? Could I see you for a few minutes?”

“All right.”

Jerry went over and unlocked the door. He saw the bent form of Montague Rayne; he stared, puzzled, as he viewed the withered face. Then the old visitor hobbled forward. Smiling, he delivered a tired smile as he sat down in a chair and laid his portfolio on the floor beside him.

“Sorry, sir,” remarked Jerry. “I guess I’m not the Mr. Kane you came to see.”

“No?” Rayne chortled the question. “Did I say that I had come here to see Mr. Kane?”

“That’s what you said, sir.”

“I was wrong. I came to find Mr. Kobal. Jerry Kobal.”

At mention of his own name, Jerry twitched nervously. A hunted expression showed on his face; then faded as he heard another senile cackle come from the lips of his doddering visitor. This fellow could offer no trouble, Jerry decided. The ex-crook closed the door and locked it.

“All right,” he acknowledged gruffly. “I’m Jerry Kobal. What’s on your mind, grandpop?”

“Sit down.” Rayne’s tone, though high-pitched, showed firmness. “I have a proposition that may interest you, Kobal. Tell me: what about the parchment scroll you have in your possession? How did you acquire it?”

Jerry stared, startled; then shook his head.

“You’re not a dick,” he decided, “and you don’t look like a crook. An old chap like you ought to be on the level. Say — who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Rayne. Montague Rayne. I have only recently arrived in New York. Come, come, Kobal; tell me about the scroll. Be honest with me.”

“You want the whole story?”

“From the beginning.”

“All right.” Jerry’s face showed determination. “I’ll come clean. I’ve been wishing that I could find somebody who might believe what I’ve got to say; and you look like you might be the man, Mr. Rayne.”

“I shall believe you, Kobal. I can always tell when a man speaks the truth.”

Jerry paced the room. He paused and faced his visitor; then spoke frankly.

“I WAS a crook once,” he said. “I was in stir; now that I’m clear of the Big House, I don’t want to go back. I was living in a little apartment, Mr. Rayne, writing out some of my experiences. I felt my own story might do good work — might steer other fellows away from crime — help them to keep straight.”

Rayne nodded. His face showed a beaming smile. Jerry felt more at ease. He resumed.

“Last night,” he detailed, “who barged in on me but Slugger Haskew, a crook I used to know. He was wounded — almost dying — and he told me if I didn’t work with him, he’d bring the cops in on us. That would have implicated me in whatever job Slugger had been doing.

“I pretended that I’d work with him. He gave me the scroll. It’s in Latin — I could recognize some of the words, even though I couldn’t translate them— and it must be important. Because Slugger wanted me to pass it on to a crook called The Creeper.

“He told me to head for a hotel called the Alcadia, an old joint north of here. He said I’d know The Creeper when I heard him — by the fellow’s footsteps. Slugger was to call, after I’d gone, and put The Creeper wise to where I was.”

Jerry stopped. For a moment, he eyed Rayne suspiciously, wondering if this visitor might be The Creeper, despite the fact that he had come without making that strange tread of which Slugger had spoken. Then, disarmed by Rayne’s friendliness, Jerry continued.

“I didn’t go to the Alcadia,” he affirmed. “I didn’t want anything to do with murderers. I’ve gone straight, Mr. Rayne, and I’m going to stay straight. I came here instead — here to the Santiago. I’ve been wondering what to do ever since — whether I should call the police or not. Honestly, I’ve been in a stew!

I don’t think the cops would believe me, even if I did hand over the scroll. If I could only—”

“Let me see the scroll,” crackled the seated visitor. “I should like to examine it.”

Jerry nodded. He produced the bloodstained document from his typewriter case. Rayne received it and studied the inscription closely. His smile betokened satisfaction; then his eyes narrowed as he asked:

“Did you make a copy of this?”

Jerry produced a typewritten sheet and gave it promptly to his visitor. His voice was frank as he explained:

“That’s the only copy, Mr. Rayne. I simply made it for my own protection, in case of emergency. I hit it off on the machine to-day; but I made no carbon. What’s more, I don’t remember half of it. Just a lot of Latin to me.”

RAYNE reached for his portfolio. Opening it, he dipped his hand inside and produced an envelope.

From this, he removed a stack of bank notes. Jerry stared, goggle-eyed, at sight of the currency. Rayne counted off a sheaf of notes and held them in his right hand.

“Here is five thousand dollars,” he declared. “My price for the purchase of the scroll. Will you accept it?”

Jerry reached for the money; then stopped.

“Only if you’re on the level,” he decided, grasping the scroll that Rayne had placed on the arm of the chair. “No crooked business for me, Mr. Rayne, no matter how much jack you’re willing to ante.”

“You are honest,” commended Rayne, with a satisfied nod. “Very well, Kobal; I can assure you that this is honest money. This scroll belonged to a friend of mine” — quietly, Rayne reached out and took the parchment from Jerry’s hand — ”to an old friend, who trusted me. He is dead, poor Bigelow.” Sadly, Rayne’s head shook, while his mild quaver softened. “He is dead; and the scroll was stolen from him.

“Gladly would he have placed it in my hands. You have done a noble service, Kobal, in reclaiming the scroll from thieves. I am wealthy; it is as a reward for your honesty that I am offering you this money.”

The hand with the bills stretched forward, trembling. Jerry Kobal was impressed with the belief that Rayne’s offer was genuine. The ex-crook’s hesitation ended. He clutched the money gladly.

“Five thousand bucks!” he exclaimed. “Say — this gives me a swell break, Mr. Rayne! I appreciate your generosity; and if there’s anything else—”

“There is,” crackled the visitor, with a smile. “One important condition, Kobal. You are to leave town to-night. Travel far — so far that none of your old associates will find you. Moreover, you are to say nothing about this transaction. It must remain an absolute secret!”

“Trust me,” grinned Jerry. “I’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes. Now that you’ve staked me, I can get somewhere. It’s a tough uphill grind for a fellow after he’s been in stir. But with cash — honest cash — for a start, I’ve got the chance I’ve wanted.”

Montague Rayne was rising. Jerry helped him to his feet. The wrinkled-faced visitor thrust the scroll into his portfolio. He started toward the door; Jerry hurried ahead and unlocked it. Rayne offered a trembling hand in parting; Jerry received it and returned the visitor’s clasp.

Pocketing his money — cash which he felt was fairly earned — Jerry Kobal watched the huddled figure of Montague Rayne go hobbling down the hall. He heard a last cackle of pleased satisfaction. Closing the door, the ex-crook began to pack his few effects, in preparation for the distant trip that his benefactor had ordered.

A quick transaction had been accomplished. The missing scroll had been bought, paid for and delivered; again it had changed hands, this time without violence. All within a brief span of time while agents of The Shadow, stationed outside the Hotel Santiago, were still awaiting the arrival of their cloaked chief!