The Creeper

CHAPTER XIX. THE CREEPER’S GOAL

STREWN papers were lying beneath the light of a table lamp. These were pages of a copied code list, checked with pencil marks. Upon one sheet were the top words that began the special vocabulary needed for the decoding of the Latin scroll. The first column read:

The column could be read no further. The rest of that code list was covered by a sheet of parchment, the Latin scroll itself. Upon the parchment lay a piece of paper which bore written words, selected — with their English equivalents — from the code list. Nine words formed the group:

Old Bigelow Doyd had been crafty. In preparing his secret message, he had not trusted to an ordinary code. Such, had it been prematurely discovered, would have encouraged persons to decipher it. To guard his secret, the old man had simply taken a random sentence from a Latin textbook. He had given nine words arbitrary meanings in English — meanings that corresponded with a short sentence of his own formation.

From a Latin vocabulary, he had prepared a list of a few hundred words; many of them with significant meanings, such as acerbus for house; adhuc for wealth; adsum for jewels. Interspersed through the long list were his nine important words, each in its proper place alphabetically.

A finder of the scroll could learn nothing from that sentence taken out of a chance proverb. Reggie Spaylor had heard Montague Rayne pronounce the usual translation, from Latin into English. The sentence had lacked significance.

Nor could a holder of the code lists gain results by trying to shift words about. From hundreds of words that served as blinds, no one could have hoped to pick out the ones that were needed to make an actual message. No one, not even the keenest of cryptographers. Only by holding both the scroll and a copy of the code list could any one gain the message.

HERE lay scroll and code list; one upon the other. They were in the light of The Creeper’s lair. The nine important words had been checked into a list of their own. Upon another sheet of paper were inscribed both sentences, formed in The Creeper’s own handwriting. The ciphered message stated:

Many hands had held that valued scroll; some without knowledge of its existence; others without realization of its high value. Myram had possessed the casket with the scroll still hidden; so had Dopey.

Slugger had gained the scroll itself. All three of those possessors were dead.

Then Jerry Kobal’s hands had held the scroll; next, it had been gripped by the long, clutching fingers of Montague Rayne; after that, it had come into the grasp of Reggie Spaylor. Of those three, two had been slated to die; but only one of the trio had met with doom.

Rick Parrin had served merely as a carrier, to bring the scroll to The Creeper. As Rick had been previously informed, The Creeper had gained a copy of the code list. Possessed of the scroll, the message deciphered, The Creeper was making prompt plans to follow up his gain.

ONE conference was under way in Rick Parrin’s office. The fake sales promoter had deliberately called his pretended salesmen together for an eleven o’clock conference; he had signed for all of them when they had come into the lobby of the Dolban Building. To-morrow, Rick intended to send these fellows on the road; there would be no more conferences. Hence he felt safe in bringing them past the gate for this last meeting. Late visitors to the Dolban Building were not infrequent. Rick felt that he had aroused no suspicion.

“I’ve heard from The Creeper,” announced Rick. “The swag is in the old avenue bank. That could mean only one place — the old Criterion Trust company building. It’s on Sixth Avenue; and it was sold about two years ago, when the Criterion Trust moved.

“The entrances are boarded up. They will be open, though, when we get there. The Creeper has fixed that; and he has left the rest to me. One entrance is on a side street; that’s the spot we’ll pick.

“Carning, you go to the Elite Garage and get that truck I’ve stored there — the one that’s supposed to belong to the Acme Food Products Corporation. It has their name on it; but we have the licenses and the keys.

“I’d send you, Gus, but you were up there to-day, getting that car with the salesman’s box on the back. You go along with Carning, though, and wait outside the garage until he comes out with the big truck. Drive to the side door of the old bank building and wait there for the swag. I’m taking the rest of the fellows in with me.”

“How about the swag?” inquired one of the salesmen. “Are there enough of us to move it?”

“There’ll be others there,” assured Rick. “But we’re not going in until after midnight. Half-past twelve is the zero hour. Remember that, Carning — and you, Gus. Don’t show up before twelve thirty.”

AT the very time of Rick’s conference, another meeting was taking place in Zimmer Funson’s headquarters. Five ravenous touts — Zimmer’s total outfit — were consuming the remains of a sumptuous spread that the bookie had provided. They were grinning as they enjoyed the buffet banquet, for Zimmer seemed pleased with them to-night.

“We finished one good job,” announced Zimmer. “That was quick work out on Long Island. So we’re going in for another. We’ll cover things again. All we’ve got to do is look out for a truck-load of swag. We’ll follow it with two cars.”

MEANWHILE, two men were alighting from an old roadster, under the shelter of the Sixth Avenue elevated. One was Nick Curlin, short-set and waddly. The other was a beefy-faced husky, the fellow who had been Slugger Haskew’s sparring partner, the night that Reggie Spaylor had been at the old gym.

Nick and his husky companion took to the sidewalk while an elevated train roared above them. They passed the front entrance of a grimy, granite-fronted building. Nick paused long enough to note the name of the Criterion Trust Company, carved above the door. Beneath it, in small figures, was the street number. That, however, meant nothing to Nick Curlin.

The walkers turned the corner and arrived at a set-in space where the side of the old bank joined the back wall. Using a flashlight cautiously, Nick pointed out a boarded entrance. He chuckled.

“That will be easy, Kayo,” he told his companion. “When we bring the rest of the boys here, we’ll ease that boarding off without making a rip.”

“It’ll be a pipe,” agreed “Kayo.” “Chee! I could yank dat junk off’n dere myself, widout nobody to help me. Gimme de word, Nick, an’ I’ll—”

“Not now, Kayo. We’re not due here until twelve-fifteen. What’s more, we’re all in on the deal.”

“You’re de boss, Nick. Just de same, dat door looks so soft, I’m wonderin’ if maybe some bozos haven’t been in de joint already. Dem nails don’t look like much.”

“Who’d be cracking an empty bank, Kayo?” Nick laughed as he spoke. “Let me tell you something; the guy who stowed his swag here was smart. A joint like this is the last place anybody would bust into.”

A sudden growl from Kayo. A warning.

“Douse de glim, Nick. Quick!”

Nick complied. Kayo moved around the darkened cul-de-sac; stabbing the walls with his fists. He came back toward Nick, still growling.

“What’s the matter, Kayo? Did you hear something?”

“T’ought I did, Nick. But if dere was a guy here, he’s gone. Say — do you t’ink—”

“The Creeper?” Nick chuckled as he edged Kayo out toward the sidewalk. “It’s likely. He’s smart enough to look over the lay himself. Forget it, Kayo; let’s scram back to the car and round up the rest of the bunch. We’re not due back here for an hour yet.”

DOWN at headquarters, Clyde Burke strolled in to find Acting Inspector Cardona at his desk. The ace studied the reporter rather sourly; then rubbed his chin when Clyde asked him what he was doing here so late.

“I guess I don’t mind telling you, Burke,” decided Cardona, at last. “It was a crank call that I got, an hour ago. The fellow said he’d call me later.”

“Did he call?”

“Yeah; just now. Another stall. Told me to wait until after midnight. He’ll be calling any time between twelve and one.”

“And you’re waiting?”

“Why not? Sometimes those crank calls mean something. They’re worth a bet.”

“You’re a sucker, Joe.”

Laughing, Clyde Burke strolled out, apparently highly amused. But his chuckles ended as soon as he was out of Cardona’s earshot. Soon after that, Clyde put in a call to Burbank. As an agent of The Shadow, he was reporting that Cardona had fallen in with plans.

What was up, Clyde could not guess. His recent duties had been special ones; he had not been called upon to work with other agents. Usually, the whereabouts of The Shadow was a mystery to Clyde Burke. To-night, the location of Harry Vincent, Cliff Marsland and the others was quite as great a puzzle.

Somehow, The Shadow expected to use Joe Cardona. That much, Clyde had guessed. But how — where — or why — those points were complete perplexities. Clyde knew that The Shadow was seeking combat with a supercrook known as The Creeper; but it seemed impossible that such an issue could be forced within the near future.

Clyde Burke, though he did not know it, was echoing the very thoughts that were in the mind of The Creeper. That hidden criminal knew that The Shadow was his foe; but The Creeper, despite his precautions, did not think that combat could possibly be due to-night.

The Creeper’s belief was well-founded. Success had marked his recent endeavors. He had gained the Latin scroll intact and had learned its riddle. Success seemed due to his plans of evil — success that would bring The Creeper millions in illicit gain!

The Creeper, master of murder, had found his goal. The Shadow, his one antagonist, had not moved to prevent the fiend from reaching it.