The Creeper

CHAPTER IX. AIDS OF EVIL

WHILE The Shadow was engaged at Clavelock’s, a group of men were holding conference in Rick Parrin’s private office. Carning and five other listeners were intent as they heard the words of the fake sales promoter. Elbow on his glass-topped desk, Rick was handing out cold details.

“It’s the biggest job yet,” he announced. “A clean-up, if we spring it! That’s why I’ve yanked all of you in from the road. You’re all there but Gus and Eddie; they’ll be in to-morrow. The Creeper may need the lot of us before he’s through.”

Rick paused. Carning leaned forward to interject a comment.

“Clavelock’s gone out of town, Rick,” he volunteered. “I called him to-day — to ask if he’d need me again — and he said that he was going away. Now would be the time to nail one of those lists that he’s got in his safe.”

“Don’t worry about that,” chuckled Rick. “The Creeper’s got one of those lists already — or a copy of it, anyway. He told me that when he called up this evening, when I asked him about it.”

“You mean he sent somebody into Clavelock’s? While the old guy was there?”

“I guess that was his stunt. Clavelock doesn’t sit up all night, does he? I’ve told you that we’re just one part of The Creeper’s outfit. We’re salesmen.” Rick chuckled. “Salesmen who learn plenty; and who can pull strong-arm stuff, if needed. When you fellows go on the road, you look for chances that offer easy dough. But you’re supposed to be ready for the heavy work, if you’re needed.

“Well, that’s the situation right now. The Creeper doesn’t need any new opportunities. He landed one that may mean millions. It’s been tough, though, and it may get tougher. The police are looking for a fellow who bumped off a dub named Myram. We want to find the murderer ahead of the cops — that is, The Creeper does.

“He’s put men on the job, trying to guess who the murderer is. There’s no telling what may happen later. That’s why we’re being held in reserve. All right; that’s the finish for to-night. It’s after nine o’clock, so we’ll all go out together. I’ll tell the watchmen that you are all my salesmen. Late conference up here.”

The fake salesmen followed Rick from the office. They formed an assorted group; some keen and active, others more leisurely, like Carning. All, however, had been impressed by Rick’s words. His reference to other squadrons under The Creeper’s command had given them something to think about.

IN fact, while these henchmen of The Creeper were departing from their conference, another council was getting under way. This meeting was taking place in a large, three-room suite of an apartment hotel, the Parkview.

A hard-jawed, dark-faced man was the central figure; he was glowering from beneath bushy eyebrows that were topped by a bulging forehead. Many persons knew that countenance; this man was Zimmer Funson, a well-known figure among race-track bookmakers.

Zimmer was seated in a big chair, eyeing half a dozen flashily dressed loungers who stood about the room. Some were holding half-emptied glasses; others were helping themselves to sandwiches and other food that stood upon a buffet table. All, however, seemed uneasy as they listened to Zimmer’s tirade.

“Palookas, all of you!” sneered the dark-faced man. “Pass you a big job, you fall flat. Sure — you’re good around a race track, picking suckers with bank rolls and lining them up for trimmings. You’ve done a lot of that in the past. But what does that make you? Nothing but a crew of touts!”

“Don’t go too heavy on us, Zimmer,” protested a tall listener, whose lips showed a wry twist. “How about the other day, when Wally and I pulled that slick job you wanted? Keeping that fellow Batesly out at the track when he was supposed to be back at Clavelock’s?”

“Sure,” agreed a stocky man by the buffet table, evidently Wally. “Steve’s right, Zimmer. He and I had Batesly playing the ponies until he was goofy. Then we gave him a bum plug for a finish. He played the old nag on the nose and it ran fifth. Remember that, Steve?”

Wally paused to jab a teaspoon into a huge jar of caviar. He spread himself a sandwich and stared at Zimmer.

“I don’t see where you’ve got a squawk coming, boss,” added Wally. “We do what you tell us to. That’s enough, isn’t it? After all, I’m not making any fortune working for you. Nobody has seen me driving a big twin-six.”

“You’re stuffing yourself with fish eggs, aren’t you?” growled Zimmer, as Wally devoured a huge mouthful of caviar. “You have it soft, Wally, just like the rest of the bunch. You would be broke, if you weren’t working for me. Listen — all of you; you heard that crack Wally just made about not driving a twin-six. Well, I’ll tell you something.

“Find the fellow who bumped off Myram and you’ll all be riding in limousines with chauffeurs. That’s what The Creeper told me. Do you know what it will mean if we find that bird ahead of the cops? About five million bucks, or upward — maybe as high as ten million!”

FACES became eager. Conversation buzzed. Wally, chewing mechanically, looked dazed as he stared at Steve. The latter was staring at Zimmer, hardly believing the words that he had heard.

“Some cheap small-fry murdered Myram,” declared Zimmer. “Just the kind of a sneaky worker that you fellows ought to get a line on, around the pool rooms and the gambling joints on the East Side. Yet the lot of you have breezed in here to bum, all reporting nothing. That’s why I’m sore.”

Steve nodded to the others. They came to life; glasses were laid aside as the touts decided to fare forth on a new search.

Just as Steve reached the door, some one rapped on the other side. Steve opened the door to admit a sleek, black-haired fellow whose gold teeth glistened as he delivered a wide grin toward Zimmer.

“Hello, Hal,” greeted Steve. “We’re just breaking up — going out again—”

Hal brushed Steve aside. The tall fellow closed the door and watched the new arrival stride up to Zimmer Funson, who had risen from his chair.

“I got it, Zimmer!” announced Hal. “A line on the guy who bumped Myram! Landed it straight from a guy named Buck Sangree. He slipped me the inside news. Get a load of this, Zimmer.”

Hal paused triumphantly, while the others gathered around. With another grin, the gold-toothed tout delivered his story.

“Buck was going past the corner of the avenue,” he stated, “near where Myram lives. See? Well, he sees a guy he knows — a heel named Dopey Delvin. Buck wises that Dopey’s out to stage something, so he decides to watch, just wondering what the racket is.

“Dopey goes in the rooming house just past the butcher shop. Buck sees him, mind you, and waits. Pretty soon he sees Dopey come out again, hugging something beneath his coat. Dopey does a sneak in a hurry, looking around plenty. Buck knows he’s pulled something.

“To-day, Buck reads the newspapers. He doesn’t need to be a lightning calculator to figure who finished Myram. It was Dopey Delvin who staged the rubout. What’s more, Buck mentions to me where Dopey flops. He’s got a room in the second floor back of a tenement five doors west of the Mukden Cafe, that old Chinese hash-house near the Bowery. Lives there alone — using the place as a hide-out — with a soft set-up for anybody who wants to go after him. There’s a rear door from the alley into the place, and—”

HAL paused. The telephone bell was ringing. Zimmer was picking up the instrument; the others were crowding about to clap Hal on the back.

The informant looked puzzled; he had not yet learned how much lay at stake. Then came Zimmer’s growl, ordering silence.

The touts quieted. They listened while Zimmer spoke across the wire, repeating almost word for word what Hal had told him. They knew who was on the telephone: The Creeper. Anxiously they awaited the conclusion of Zimmer’s call. They saw their chief hang up.

“Who’s going on the job?” inquired Wally, eagerly. “How about me and Steve, boss? We can bump that mug Dopey and bring back whatever you want.”

“Sure, Zimmer,” agreed Steve. “With all that kale waiting, we’d take a chance on anything—”

“Never mind,” growled Zimmer. “None of you are going. The Creeper’s taking care of it. When I need any of you to start some rough stuff, I’ll call on you.”

“But what about the cut?” queried Wally. “We’ll come in on it, won’t we?”

“Everybody gets his cut,” assured Zimmer. “That’s the way The Creeper works. But he puts the right man on the right job. That’s always his system. Our part is finished; maybe there’ll be more to do later. Right now, the thing to do is keep mum. Leave it to The Creeper.”

Zimmer Funson had spoken wisely. Like Rick Parrin, the bookie knew that he was but one of The Creeper’s lieutenants. Zimmer knew that this band of his could be tough if occasion warranted; but their regular jobs were to act as come-on men. Others, more competent, would be used for such practices as murder.

SEVEN blocks from the Parkview Hotel was a low, squatty building only three stories high. The blue glare of sun-ray lamps shone from the windows of the third floor. The place was a gymnasium, favored as a training headquarters for freelance boxers and wrestlers.

On this night, a dozen such were present. A few were skipping rope; others were watching two huskies who were sparring in a corner ring.

Within a little office, Nick Curlin, the proprietor of the gymnasium, was talking to a well-dressed visitor.

Nick, fat-faced and greasy-haired, formed a contrast to his aristocratic guest. The man on the other side of the desk was none other than Reggie Spaylor, prominent amateur sportsman, well-known as a polo player.

A man of thirty-five, Reggie had the physique of an athlete; and his rugged face was a handsome one, marred only by a sharp down turn of his lips and deep wrinkles in his forehead.

It was not surprising that a man of Spaylor’s standing should frequent this gymnasium. The place was conveniently located; it served as a good spot for the amateur sportsman to limber up when engagements kept him in this part of the city. But it was evident, from conversation between Spaylor and Curlin, that this gymnasium had a special purpose other than that of training quarters.

“How about starting a stable?” Nick was inquiring. “That ought to make a better blind, Spaylor, than just having a gym. There’d be more pugs around, to cover-up the ones that are working for us.”

“It wouldn’t do,” decided Reggie. “We don’t want too many palookas hanging around. A stable would attract too much attention; and we’d have to promote some fights. The Creeper wouldn’t want it. Not at present, anyway.

“Something big is due, Nick. A clean-up. We’ll all be in the money if The Creeper manages it. It may come to-night; that is why I intend to stay here until I hear from The Creeper. If he—”

A ring of the telephone. Nick answered; then handed the instrument to Reggie. Nick listened keenly; he knew who was on the wire. The Creeper, himself, with the news that Reggie Spaylor wanted.

Finished with his call — in which he did little more than acknowledge instructions — Reggie hung up and turned to Nick.

“GO out and get Slugger Haskew,” he told Nick. “Bring him in here. The Creeper has a job that Slugger can handle.”

Nick arose and waddled from the office. Reggie watched him head for the corner where the sparring men were resting. With an evil grin upon his sour lips, the sportsman moved out of sight within the office.

He lighted a cork-tipped cigarette and sat down to await “Slugger’s” arrival.

Soon Nick returned with the huskier of the two boxers. Slugger Haskew, huge and vicious-looking, was attired in shoes and boxing trunks. He was drawing off his gloves as he entered the office; he showed a grin on his sweaty face when he spied Reggie Spaylor seated there.

“Hello, Slugger,” greeted the sour-lipped sportsman. “I want to talk to you. Close the door, Nick. Listen carefully, Slugger. There’s a job on for you to-night. You know the old Mukden Cafe, near the Bowery?”

Slugger nodded.

“Five doors west,” stated Reggie, “is an old tenement. The place has a rear entrance, from an alley. That’s the way you are to enter. Go to the room on the second floor back. You will find a man there named Dopey Delvin.”

“How’ll I know him?” queried Slugger. “Is he workin’ wid us?”

“Not a chance,” sneered Reggie. “He is the man you are to get! Hand him a haymaker as soon as you see him.”

“Wot if he ain’t the right gazebo?”

“You can think about that later. Look through the room. Find a flat black box, made of wood, with the initials ‘B. D.,’ in silver. Crack it open; take what you find in the bottom.”

“Dough?”

“No. A scroll — a piece of paper. Hand it to The Creeper.”

“He’ll be dere?”

“Yes. Outside the door. He will reach in for it. After The Creeper is gone, finish Dopey. You’ll know who he is, right enough, after you have found the black box.”

Slugger nodded. He was about to start for the door when Reggie stopped him. There were further instructions.

“If anything goes wrong,” stated Reggie, “hang on to the scroll. Go to the old Alcadia Hotel near the Bowery and take a room there. Call here and tell Nick that you are there. I’ll come myself, to get the scroll from you.

“But nothing is likely to go wrong. Not with The Creeper on hand. If you give him the scroll, keep right on going. Take it on the lam, Slugger; don’t stop until you reach Louisville. You have friends there; stick with them.”

“I’ll hear from youse after I get dere?”

“Absolutely! This will mean a nice piece of jack for you, Slugger. Ten grand, anyway — maybe a lot more. You have done jobs like this before you joined up with me. It will be just one more rub-out, so far as you are concerned.”

“Sure t’ing.”

SLUGGER left the office; Nick followed and began to chat with the men in the gym. Reggie Spaylor flattened his cigarette in an ash tray on the desk; donning a pair of gloves and picking up a cane, he strolled from the office and went through an outer door.

When he arrived on the street, he entered a cab and ordered the driver to take him to a fashionable hotel near Central Park. That address was where Reggie Spaylor lived.

Aids of The Creeper had played their part. The stage was set for coming crime, waiting only for Slugger Haskew to dress and travel to the tenement where Dopey Delvin, present possessor of the ebony casket, was in hiding.

Rick Parrin and his force of fake salesmen; Zimmer Funson, the bookie with his coterie of touts; Reggie Spaylor, silent partner in the gymnasium where boxers and wrestlers were on hand to serve as thugs — such were the lieutenants of The Creeper. A supercrook who dealt in smooth, camouflaged crime, that hidden menace had made his plans to gain the ebony casket and its precious contents.

But The Creeper did not depend entirely upon his three lieutenants, who— unknown to each other — were ever ready to pick out henchmen who would serve their evil chief. To-night, The Creeper himself intended to be present at the scene of crime, ready to grasp the telltale scroll the moment that Slugger Haskew had gained it.