The Creeper

CHAPTER VI. DEATH INTERRUPTS

IT was after six o’clock when Harry Vincent began his lonely vigil on Roscoe Boulevard. A clouded day had brought early dusk. The Bronx streets had darkened to such extent that Harry had needed the aid of the street light to fully note the features of Montague Rayne.

In Manhattan, the gloom was even thicker, particularly upon an East Side avenue where the high steel structure of an elevated railway obscured the last glow of the darkening sky. Grimy street lamps were feeble in the increasing haze of blackness. All seemed dismal on this squalid thoroughfare.

A palefaced man was walking down the street, his eyes furtive as he looked about him. He stopped at the entrance of a dilapidated pawnshop. There he paused to stare at a darkened doorway a dozen yards below. His cautious glance ended, the palefaced man entered the hockshop.

Hardly had he done so before a grimy, sweatered figure shifted from the near-by doorway. A pasty-faced, evil-eyed rogue came shambling up to the pawnshop window. Pausing there, the fellow peered around the edge of the opened door to see the palefaced man engaged in conversation with the proprietor of the pawnshop.

A transaction was completed; the palefaced man came out. Again he failed to see the sweatered figure, for the evil-eyed observer had shifted back into the doorway. It was not until the furtive man turned a corner that the ugly spy decided to enter the pawnshop himself. He shambled through the doorway and nodded to the sallow man behind the counter.

“Hello, Soaker,” greeted the sweatered man, with an unpleasant grin. “Old paleface was in to see you again, eh? What did he soak this time?”

The man behind the counter blinked uneasily; then he held up a gold signet ring that glittered in the light.

“This is all, Dopey,” he replied. “Ten bucks is all I gave him for it.”

“Yeah? Looks like you skun the guy.” “Dopey” leaned over the counter. “Listen, Soaker. You been stallin’ me too much. This bird is unloadin’ hot stuff, ain’t he?”

“What if he is?”

“Well, you’re takin’ chances when you freeze it. Why be a sap? If you want to fence stuff, take it from guys that you know. Like me.”

“I do that, don’t I?”

“Sure. But you don’t give no breaks in return. Listen — that mug’s been in here half a dozen times, always soakin’ somethin’ new. Why wait until the bulls grab him? Why not give me the lay? Who is the mug? Where does he bunk?”

“Soaker” rubbed his chin meditatively; then nodded. He had caught Dopey’s drift. He was deciding that it was policy to play in with this small-fry crook who knew too much.

“All right, Dopey,” informed Soaker, coming from behind the counter. “I’m closing up to-night. Go ahead; do your dirty work while I’m not around. The stuff’s hot, all right. You might as well have it as the guy that’s got it. He’s a sap, anyway. Too dumb even to keep his trap shut.”

“Talked to you, did he?”

“Sure. His name’s Myram. He lives around the corner, third floor back, in the first house past the butcher shop. He used to be a butler for some millionaire.”

“That’s who he lifted the stuff from?”

“Yeah. But he don’t admit it’s hot. Says his old master gave him a lot of jewels and other junk before he died. Says he’s afraid the family wouldn’t believe it. That’s why he’s got to hock the stuff quietlike.”

Dopey snarled a contemptuous laugh. Soaker motioned him to the door; the sweatered crook sidled out and watched the pawnshop proprietor lock up.

“This guy Myram,” confided Soaker, “is living off of what he grabbed. How much more of it he’s got, I don’t know. That ain’t my business, Dopey.”

“I’ll make it mine, Soaker. An’ don’t worry about no squawk if I bring it here. From what you say about this guy Myram, he ain’t nobody that’s goin’ to squeal to the bulls.”

SOAKER shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the street. Dopey shifted off in the opposite direction. He reached the corner and stopped there. A passing rowdy paused to jab him in the ribs.

“Hello, Dopey,” grinned the tough. “Still stickin’ around here, ain’t you? Well, I don’t blame you. The harness bull on this beat don’t bother nobody much.”

“Hello, Buck,” returned Dopey, grinning sourly. “Ain’t seen you in a long time. Yeah, you’re right about the flatfoot. He’s not such a dumb copper, though. I just keep out of sight when he goes by. I know when he’s due.”

“Buck” moved away. Dopey shifted past the corner; then sneaked toward the butcher shop. The place was closed; but through the window Dopey could see a dim clock face that registered half-past six.

Dopey went up the steps of the house next door; he found the front door open and entered a gloomy, gas-lit hall.

No one was about; Dopey saw opportunity. He snaked up the stairs, passed the gloomy second floor and went up to the third. He found the room that he supposed was Myram’s. Light showed through the keyhole and beneath the door.

Dopey tried the knob. The door opened.

Swinging into the lighted room, the pasty-faced crook yanked a revolver from his pocket. His face was as evil as a rat’s as he shot a quick glance toward the far side of the room, where a tall man was closing a bureau drawer.

The fellow turned with a startled cry; then his gasp faded. Dopey grinned and closed the door behind him. He had found the man he wanted: the palefaced individual who had visited Soaker’s pawnshop.

“YOUR name’s Myram?” quizzed Dopey.

The pale man nodded as he raised his hands. Dopey saw him tremble and decided that his prey was an easy mark. With an evil grin, the pasty-faced crook flourished his revolver as he advanced. Myram backed against the wall, near the half-opened door of a closet.

“I’m a dick,” announced Dopey. “Sent here to pinch you, Myram. You got hot stuff; been freezin’ it aroun’ the corner at the hockshop, ain’t you? Come on — don’t lie about it. I’ve been watchin’ you.”

Dopey’s bluff was ludicrous; but it passed with Myram. The former butler was frightened enough to believe that this fatty intruder was actually from headquarters. Myram began to beg.

“I–I didn’t really steal anything,” he declared. “Really, it was — it was the old master who gave me the trinkets that I have been pawning. I–I am no thief.

“Can the stall,” snarled Dopey. “Listen, mug, I’m here to get the goods! That’s all. I’m goin’ to let you off, just because I’m kind of soft at times. You keep quiet about it. Savvy? An’ to-morrow you duck out of here. Because there ain’t many dicks as easy on a guy as I am. Where’s the swag? In this drawer?”

Dopey opened the drawer with one hand, as he spoke. The glitter of gold and silver caught his eye. Still covering Myram, he used his left hand to pocket the objects that lay in view. He took a pair of huge gold cuff links, each studded with a small diamond. Next, a silver statuette, part of an ornamental desk set.

Myram watched him pocket a heavy gold watch chain, an antique bracelet of the same metal; then a golden scarab that Bigelow Doyd had once brought back from Egypt. Trinkets followed; these spoils had all been clustered in a corner of the drawer. Then, fishing beneath a shirt, Dopey brought out a square, flat box of ebony.

For a moment, he was about to replace the casket, particularly because it did not rattle when he shook it.

Then the silver initials on the cover caught his eye. Dopey decided to keep the box.

“No, no!” gasped Myram. “Don’t — don’t take the casket! I–I want to keep it. Really, it is worth nothing.”

“What do you want it for then?” demanded Dopey. “It don’t belong to you, does it?”

“The old master valued it. Most highly—”

Myram paused abruptly as Dopey grinned. The palefaced butler had realized his mistake. So had Dopey.

“Thought you’d slip one past me, eh?” sneered the crook. His rat face was vicious. “Well, if your boss thought it was worth more than this joolry, you ought to have thought the same. Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. I must admit that such was my impression. The casket is made of ebony. A highly prized wood, sir. But I thought—”

“Quit thinkin’. I’m here to grab this swag, without no squawk from you.”

MYRAM’S eyes narrowed. This time it was Dopey who had made the slip. His flimsy bluff had failed; for the first time, Myram realized that this intruder was a crook. Sharply, the former servant put a question.

“Do you have a badge?”

“A what?”

“A badge. All detectives wear them.”

Dopey delivered a snarled chuckle. He had not believed that his bluff had continued to pass. He thought Myram’s question a huge joke; it increased his contempt for a man whom he regarded as easy prey.

Dopey’s guffaw, however, had an unexpected effect upon Myram. The servant straightened suddenly; then, with a hiss of anger, hurled himself upon the man with the gun.

The attack caught the crook flatfooted. For a moment, Dopey crumpled beneath the onslaught. The ebony box clattered to the carpet; Dopey tried vainly to grapple with the victim who had so suddenly become a formidable foe. He was afraid to fire, for the revolver shot might be heard below; but he did have the sudden impulse to wrest away and jab the muzzle of his gun against Myram’s ribs.

The move made Myram wilt. Feeling the gun point, Myram uttered a tightened gasp and ceased his resistance. Dopey straightened and pressed the palefaced fellow back toward the wall; then edged him into the closet.

A sudden fright seized Myram. He thrust his hands for Dopey’s throat. This time, the crook was too quick.

Lurching forward, Dopey hurled Myram into the closet and pulled the door behind him. In total darkness, he pressed the trigger of his revolver, shifting the muzzle viciously, back and forth against his victim’s body. Myram slumped with a final gasp.

The reek of powder became stifling. Dopey emerged coughing; he closed the door to hide the body of his victim. Snatching up the ebony box, he closed the bureau drawer; then darted toward the door of the room. He joggled a small table as he passed; a key fell to the floor. Dopey stopped to pick it up; a grin showed on his rattish countenance.

Gaining false nerve, the crook moved more slowly. He realized at last that the muffled shots could not have been heard. The closet door had fully covered the sharp sounds. Sneaking out into the hall, Dopey closed the door behind him and tried the key. It fitted.

Dopey locked the door and pocketed the key. He sneaked down the stairs and reached the street, unnoticed. He glanced through the butcher shop window as he passed. The clock showed fifteen minutes of seven.

Pockets filled with swag, the ebony box buried beneath his coat, Dopey had accomplished theft and murder within the span of fifteen minutes. Crime committed, he went slinking off beyond the shelter of the elevated structure.

FIVE minutes went by. A taxicab halted on the avenue, near the corner. A tall, stooped figure alighted; a cane clicked on the sidewalk. A corner light showed the hobbling form of Montague Rayne. Traveling by subway; then by cab, this searcher had arrived near his new destination.

Rayne followed the side street; his keen eyes sighted the number above the door of the lodging house wherein Myram had been murdered.

Montague Rayne approached and rang the doorbell. There was no response; he rang again and waited.

After a third attempt, he was rewarded by an answer. A sallow man in shirtsleeves opened the door and stared at the withered face of the visitor.

“Who do you want?” quizzed the lodger. “This ain’t no private home. There’s roomers here.”

“So I understand,” crackled Rayne. “I wish to see a gentleman named Myram. Where can I find him?”

“Third floor, back.” The sallow-faced man noted the visitor’s cane. “Maybe it would be tough for you, going up them steep stairs. If it’s worth two bits, I’ll roust the guy out for you.”

“Two bits?”

“Yeah. A quarter. To go up and tell Myram you’re here.”

“Here is one dollar. But I shall come up also. You may summon Myram while I am on the way.”

The sallow lodger took the dollar bill eagerly. He hurried up the stairs and reached the third floor. He was rapping at Myram’s door when he heard Rayne’s cane clicking on the stairs. The old man had made good progress following.

“Myram don’t answer,” informed the lodger. “Guess you was just too late to catch him. His light’s still burning. He must have just went out.”

“Yet he left the light on,” quavered Rayne. “That should mean that he is in.”

“Maybe he’s used up pretty near two-bits’ worth of gas. Sometimes fellows leave it burning when it’s about through. Then they sock another quarter in the meter when they come back. Say — do you want me to tell Myram you were here?”

“No. That is unnecessary. I shall return to-morrow morning.”

Rayne descended, with the lodger following. The old man hobbled from the house, back toward the avenue, apparently on his way to an elevated station. The lodger lounged back into the house; it was another man who noticed Rayne upon the street.

MOE SHREVNITZ had arrived at the corner of the avenue. Driving at swift speed, the hackie had made a record trip from the Bronx. Leaning into the back of his cab, Moe spoke to a hunched passenger who was seated on the floor.

“There goes Rayne,” informed the cab driver. “Slide after him, Hawkeye. I’ll stick here.”

A crafty-faced little man sidled from the cab. He was “Hawkeye,” another of The Shadow’s agents, who had met Moe at this spot. A clever trailer, Hawkeye had few equals at the art of sticking to a trail, once given.

He spotted Montague Rayne halfway down the block. With a grin, he decided to give the old fellow more leeway.

When Hawkeye finally slid off in pursuit, he spotted Rayne ascending the steps of an elevated station on the downtown side. Looking over his shoulder, the little spotter spied the lights of a train a few blocks back. An approaching rumble warned him that Rayne would be in time to catch the arriving local.

Hawkeye jogged swiftly on his way. He dashed up the steps, reached the upstairs station as the train was coming in and shoved a nickel in the turnstile. He reached the platform and took a quick look for Rayne.

The old man was nowhere in sight.

As the train pulled out, an uptown local stopped on the other track. A sudden light dawned on Hawkeye.

He hurried out through the station and down a dozen steps, to arrive at a low bridge that crossed the street just beneath the tracks. He realized then that the old man must have been going uptown; he had come up the steps, crossed the bridge and reached the opposite platform in time to catch the other train.

Chagrined, Hawkeye hunched his shoulder and started back toward Moe’s corner.

BEFORE Hawkeye reached the parked cab, another figure had arrived there. From darkness, Moe had heard a whispered voice: the tone of The Shadow, requesting a report. Though he could not see his questioner in the gloom beside the cab, Moe spoke, knowing positively that it was his chief. He told of seeing Rayne; and added that Hawkeye was on the trail. The Shadow moved away.

There was an alleyway in back of the old lodging house. Several minutes later, a motion occurred in the darkness of that narrow passage. Keen eyes looked upward from the depths. They spied a light burning in the rear room of the third floor. The Shadow paused to study that unceasing glow.

Then he began an upward course. His task was not difficult, for the rear wall of the crumbling building offered easy holds. Past darkened windows, gripping projecting ledges, The Shadow neared his goal. At last he arrived at Myram’s window. The sash was loose; easing it upward, The Shadow swung into the lighted room.

Tall, spectral in his cloak, the weird arrival moved to the corner near the closet. His keen gaze told him that there had been commotion here. The bed pushed back — the table askew — the bureau drawer jammed shut at an angle— these were the only indications that The Shadow needed.

He spied the closet door, approached and opened it. The glow of the gaslight showed a huddled form within.

Stepping back, The Shadow stooped and studied the face of the murdered man. He recognized that the victim must be Myram. The Shadow studied the bloodstained, bullet-riddled vest. He saw a thin bit of green cardboard projecting from the dead man’s pocket.

Drawing the card into view, The Shadow found it to be a pawn ticket, bearing the address of the place around the corner.

Further inspection gained nothing. Myram had eleven dollars in his pocket; money that Dopey had been too excited to think about. The Shadow looked elsewhere for evidence of robbery: namely, in the bureau drawer. He saw the vacant corner, the rumpled shirt. Examining the shirt beneath, he saw a square mark on its surface.

The Shadow had found where Myram had hidden the ebony box. That casket gone, he had no reason to linger further. Moving to the door of the room, he unlocked it softly with a pick; then stepped out into the hall and locked the door behind him.

Gliding down the stairs, The Shadow reached the front door and went out to the darkened street. With him, he had brought one clue: that pawn ticket that he had found in Myram’s pocket. There had been no others; evidently Myram had destroyed all that he had gained in the past. Any valuables with which that servant had parted would surely have been goods that he did not care to reclaim.

Reaching Moe’s cab, The Shadow gave a whispered order. The taxi pulled away, with Hawkeye again huddled in the back seat. He had already reported his failure to Burbank. The Shadow had ordered Moe to move at once; Hawkeye had gained no chance to tell of his lost trail.

DOUBLING to the street in back of the lodging house, The Shadow reached Lamont Cranston’s parked limousine. The big car had been parked there since quarter past six; for Stanley had received a call to come there. It was shortly after six when Stanley had gained the order; he had come promptly, and had been waiting patiently for his master to arrive.

Stanley had fancied that his master had approached the car a dozen minutes ago; but he had waited vainly for an order to leave, hence he had imagined that his guess was incorrect. This time, however, Stanley’s sudden hunch that the car had an occupant proved true. The voice of Lamont Cranston came through the speaking tube, giving the chauffeur an order to depart.

The big car rolled away; it turned up the avenue and passed the darkened pawnshop. A whispered laugh sounded within the rear of the car. Again that repressed mirth carried prophecy. The Shadow had been balked to-night, thwarted — he knew — by chance crime. But he had gained a clue that would lead him to Myram’s murderer.

Keen in intuition, The Shadow had guessed the truth; that the stolen casket had reached the hands of another who did not know its secret. A new trail had opened; one that The Shadow would follow on the morrow.