The Creeper

CHAPTER XIV. THE CREEPER’S THRUST

AT the very time when Jerry Kobal was congratulating himself upon the acquisition of five thousand dollars, his name was being discussed by two members of The Creeper’s clan. One was Zimmer Funson; the other, his right bower, Hal. The two were seated in the bookie’s living room at the Hotel Parkview.

“No line yet on Jerry Kobal?” was Zimmer’s query. “Say, Hal, I thought you could come through with something. You did a good job locating Dopey Delvin.”

“That was luck, Zimmer,” returned Hal, with a shake of his head. “It’s tougher, finding Jerry. You’re sure you’ve got the right dope about him?”

“Straight from The Creeper. This guy Slugger knew him and slipped him the scroll. Jerry was supposed to have headed for the Hotel Alcadia; but he didn’t. He’s pulled some double cross.”

“Sure he’s not at the Alcadia?”

“It’s been covered. Not by us; but by some other bunch. Well, we’ve got the only lead; we know that Jerry Kobal used to play the races once in a while, after he came out of stir. We’d know him if we saw him.”

“That’s enough, isn’t it, Zimmer? Give the guy time; he’ll bob up. That’s why I left Wally and Steve down at Townley’s.”

“You told me that Jerry Kobal owes Townley some dough.”

“Sure! Fifty bucks.”

“So you left Wally and Steve there. That’s a hot one. The guy won’t blow into a joint where he owes dough.”

“You’re wrong, Zimmer. This guy Kobal pays his debts. Townley told Wally that he always shows up when he’s flush.”

“Maybe it’s a good hunch, Hal. Say — Townley doesn’t know that you fellows are hooked up with me, does he?”

“Not a chance of it.”

“All right. Slide on down there and stick with the others.”

SO far, the henchmen of The Creeper had made no guess as to Jerry Kobal’s whereabouts. It had taken agents of The Shadow to track the crook who had gone straight. They were still arrayed about the Hotel Santiago. Hawkeye had just arrived; he was covering the alley at the back.

Hawkeye’s lateness, however, had produced a doublefold result. Not only had Montague Rayne gained a chance to enter; the old hobbler had also found opportunity to leave by that unwatched rear exit. Cliff, occasionally entering the lobby, had not spied Rayne either coming or going; nor had the clerk, still dozing behind his desk.

Hawkeye was close beside the rear door when he heard a whisper in the darkness. It was The Shadow, again arrived upon the field which his aids were guarding. Hawkeye slid aside; The Shadow moved inward toward the lobby. He stopped to watch, as a man came down the stairs and walked over to the desk.

“Checking out, Mr. Kane?” came the voice of the awakened clerk.

A nod from Jerry Kobal, as the ex-crook placed his typewriter on the floor. The Shadow moved back to the exit. His whisper to Hawkeye was a sharp one. The little spotter skidded away, heading around the block to contact Moe Shrevnitz in the cab.

The Shadow waited. From the outer exit, he caught a glimpse of Jerry Kobal, strolling toward the front door of the hotel. Jerry’s bill was paid; he was on his way. The Shadow swiftly took the course that Hawkeye had followed.

Arriving out front, Jerry looked about, intending to start toward the elevated. At that moment, Moe’s cab wheeled up; the driver delivered a friendly grin at the man who had come from the hotel.

“Taxi?”

Jerry nodded. He entered the cab. He ordered Moe to take him to the Pennsylvania Station. The cab pulled away. At the same moment, Cliff Marsland hailed a chance cab that had swung in from the Bowery. Climbing aboard, he spoke to the driver.

“See that hack?” queried Cliff, pointing out Moe’s cab. “Tail it, bud. I want to talk to the guy that’s riding in it. It means a fin for you, if you don’t lose the guy.”

“All right by me,” laughed the driver.

At that moment, another figure swung aboard the cab. The door closed almost automatically. Cliff looked up to see a blotting shape that settled down beside him. A low whisper followed. The Shadow was riding along with Cliff. Hawkeye had passed The Shadow’s order along to the others. No longer needed for the present expedition, the little spotter had been left behind.

MOE’S cab proved easy to follow. Small wonder; for he was obeying The Shadow’s order. Hawkeye had given Moe the tip to pick up Jerry; then to make it easy for Cliff to trail him in another cab. Usually, The Shadow used Moe’s taxi as a trailer; to-night he had reversed the procedure. As a passenger in Moe’s cab, Jerry was under complete surveillance.

Up ahead, Moe had reached an avenue. He was driving at comfortable speed, eyeing his passenger through the mirror. He saw Jerry staring at the fronts of some dilapidated buildings. Suddenly, as they neared a lighted cigar store, the passenger gave an order.

“Stop here a minute.”

Moe applied the brakes. He thought that Jerry was going in for cigarettes; for the fellow, alighting, told him to wait. But as Moe watched the front of the cigar store, he saw Jerry go through to a door at the rear. Looking up, Moe saw lighted windows with drawn blinds on the second floor. He knew the place.

The second cab had arrived. The Shadow emerged while Cliff was passing the driver the promised five spot. The second taxi sped away. Cliff came up to Moe’s cab; he could hear the hackie reporting to The Shadow in the darkness.

“He went through the cigar store,” Moe informed. “He must be going upstairs, to a joint run by a bookie named Townley. The saps place bets there; Townley has some slot machines—”

The Shadow’s hissed whisper ended Moe’s wandering report. It was Cliff who promptly added more important details.

“I know the place,” said Cliff. “Maybe I can crash the gate. There’s another way out, though, from the house next door, in case the cops stage a raid.”

Whispered orders in the dark. Both Cliff and Moe caught a glimpse of The Shadow’s weaving cloak; then their chief was lost in the darkness of darkened store-fronts as he headed swiftly toward the corner, to round it and reach the rear of the row of buildings.

Cliff gave obedience to an order just received; he sauntered into the cigar store. Moe, in turn, pulled his cab ahead and swung around the corner to park on the side street.

Passing the cigar counter, Cliff went to the door at the rear of the store. He stepped into a back room; a sallow-faced lookout challenged him and asked his name. Cliff gave it.

“I better see Townley,” the watcher said. “Stick here until I come back.”

He opened a doorway and clattered up a flight of stairs. Cliff waited, deciding it was best to play safe.

He had met Townley in the past; the bookie would probably grant him prompt admittance. So Townley would have — but for events that were breaking at that very moment.

JERRY KOBAL had reached the upstairs joint. He had found Townley behind a counter and was talking to the bookie. Townley was a wise-faced fellow; coatless, he was sporting vest and derby hat, while he chewed the end of a black stogy.

“I owe you fifty, Townley,” reminded Jerry, in a confidential tone. “Sorry I couldn’t dig it up before. Here it is, old sock. Thanks for allowing me credit.”

He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and thrust it across the counter. Townley nodded his thanks; he said something that Jerry could not catch because of the clatter of slot machines. There were a dozen of these along the wall; all were in use, with other players waiting for their turn.

Jerry leaned forward. As he did, something poked his ribs. Wheeling, startled, he saw himself surrounded by a trio. They were Zimmer’s touts: Wally, looming lanky; Steve, squatty and sneering; Hal, his gold teeth glistening as he delivered an ugly leer. It was Hal who formed the center of the three. His fist held the gun that was jabbed against Jerry’s side.

“We got something to talk about,” informed Hal. “Outside. Open that other door for us, Townley. We’ll take care of this rat!”

Jerry’s face had begun a twitching; suddenly the motion stopped. He knew that these fellows, despite their toughness, were not experienced gunmen. They might be quick on the trigger; but they lacked the technique of those who were accustomed to inviting a victim for a one-way ride.

“Why don’t you talk here?” queried Jerry. “Nobody’s going to hear us, with all that clatter.”

“All right,” snarled Hal, “have it that way. What did you do with that paper Slugger slipped you? Got it on you?”

“Easy, boys,” cautioned Townley, from behind the counter. “I don’t want this joint shot up. You didn’t tell me you was going to hand a guy the works. Talk to ‘em, Tom.”

The last remark was addressed to the lookout who had come up to inform Townley that Cliff wanted admittance. But before Tom could join in the protest, Hal snarled an order. Wally and Steve hoisted bulging guns within their pockets. Townley and his lookout stood rigid.

“Slip me the paper,” ordered Hal, his tone venomous. “This rod’s got a hair trigger. I’m yanking it, if you don’t come across! I’m giving you five seconds!”

JERRY realized instantly that the tout meant business. In one quick flash, he pictured himself on the floor, his body riddled with bullets from an emptied gun. When fellows like Hal started shooting, they kept on until the hammer clicked. Such was the way with inexperienced killers. Jerry had to talk — and talk fast.

“The scroll,” he said, quickly, “I haven’t got it. I sold it to a fellow to-night.”

“Sold it?” snarled Hal.

“Yes,” returned Jerry. “For five grand. I steered away from the Hotel Alcadia, figuring the bulls might be there. Slugger looked like he’d been in a bad jam. So I went to the Santiago instead. Slugger was supposed to pass that along. Guess he croaked before he had a chance.”

The quick bluff had momentary effect. Jerry followed it up rapidly.

“The guy that came was an old gent,” he stated. “I thought he must be the fellow Slugger told to meet me. He put up the dough; I slipped him the scroll—”

“Yeah?” inserted Hal. “And what was his name?”

“Montague Rayne.”

Jerry gave the name involuntarily. He had time to think of no other. Under stress, he had realized that a moment’s hesitation would mean instant death. He realized, also, that Hal might know something about that old fellow who had brought the cash. To give the right name seemed the only out.

“Montague Rayne,” repeated Hal, with a sneer. “I’ll remember it; but you won’t. It’s curtains for you, now that you’ve spilled what you know. If—”

Twisting away from the revolver muzzle, Jerry made a dive for Hal’s gun arm. As he did, he was conscious of a fierce, terrifying sound that suddenly filled the room. It was a mighty laugh, a vivid crescendo of mockery that came from a far door beyond the counter.

It was that weird mockery, not Jerry’s twist, that threw Hal off balance. The would-be murderer swung toward the direction of the sound. So did Steve and Wally as they heard the fierce challenge that rang out above the hubbub of the room.

Townley and Tom stared rigid; at the same instant, the slot machine players stopped their clatter and swung about in wild astonishment.

Before them stood The Shadow. He had uncovered the emergency exit; he had arrived to encounter men of crime. His timely appearance had saved Jerry Kobal; but it had placed The Shadow himself in a position of instant danger. The habitues of Townley’s dive — many of them— were hardened ruffians.

Denizens of the badlands, these rogues were sworn enemies of The Shadow.

Zimmer Funson’s three touts were not all with whom The Shadow had to deal. Of two dozen players gathered about the slot machines, fully half were thugs who had chanced to choose this hangout. Lined along the inner wall of the big room, they raised a huge cry as they dropped for cover, yanking revolvers as they dived.

Massed strength had offset the surprise of The Shadow’s entry. Snarling thugs were ready to give battle, glad of the chance that had brought their arch-enemy into their temporary domain.