The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER X. CRIME AND COUNTERCRIME

CECIL ARMSBURY was sitting in his living room. The old man who had sponsored crime was puffing at a cigar while he watched his nephew studying newspaper reports. A frown appeared on the brow of Martin Havelock, alias Duke Larrin.

“What’s the trouble?” questioned Armsbury.

“This mix-up at Bogart’s,” returned Havelock. “I don’t like the way it turned out.”

“I have read the newspapers,” commented Armsbury. “I see nothing to cause alarm. Tyler Bogart’s safe was opened and rifled. Bogart, himself, was slain.”

“But some of Brodan’s men were bumped off, too.”

“What of it? That means less to pay. Brodan got away; and so did your other two workers — Keefel and Mannick. They were important enough to have been recognized by the police had either of them remained. We know that the false panel was stolen. That is sufficient.”

“I guess so.” Havelock’s tone was thoughtful. “But I’m glad I’ve played a wary game. Brodie — Fingers — Croaker — all three are on their own. They don’t have to hear from me to go through with the next job.”

“Good strategy,” agreed Armsbury. “Your qualms, Martin, are hardly justified. Perry Trappe and Tyler Bogart each knew too much; but what they knew has perished with them. The statue of Vishnu, the panel from the Forbidden City — both have been destroyed. The police know nothing.”

Havelock nodded in agreement.

“Brisbane Calbot,” laughed Armsbury, “is the next. He has the sacred scroll from the Kaaba in Mecca. It will be stolen. He will perish — like Trappe and Bogart.”

“I guess you’re right,” decided Havelock. “Fingers and Croaker know their way. They each have a hide-out; they won’t meet again until they show up at Calbot’s.

“As for Brodie — he’s a good hand with the alibi business. He knows enough to throw the police off the track. It’s working perfectly and I’m completely out of it. Duke Larrin in New York! They probably know it down at headquarters by this time; but they haven’t got a single thing on what Duke Larrin’s doing.”

The young man arose and walked to the fireplace. He pressed the switch that produced the special elevator. He turned to his uncle.

“Seven o’clock,” announced Havelock. “I’m going down to the crypt. If any one of the outfit suspects trouble, he’ll be around to signal me.”

Cecil Armsbury nodded. He knew the emergency arrangements that Martin Havelock had made. No news would mean good news. The old man chuckled as the fireplace closed over the descending elevator. He puffed serenely at his cigar for the next few minutes. A clicking sound announced Havelock’s return.

“All well,” declared Havelock, as he stepped from the elevator. “No visitors. That means each of my men is sure of himself. The job will go through at Calbot’s tonight. The only one I was really worried about was Brodie Brodan. Those folks at Bogart’s picked off a few of his gorillas. But Brodie is too clever to let that bother him.”

MARTIN HAVELOCK’S remark indicated his assurance. He had picked Brodie Brodan as his mob-leading henchman because he felt sure that Brodie could cover up no matter what might occur. The proof that Havelock’s certainty was justified was occurring at that very time in a room at the Hotel Spartan.

Brodie Brodan, reclining in a dressing gown, was talking with Detective Joe Cardona. The ace detective was paying a second visit to the mob leader whom he had originally suspected of complicity in the affray at Perry Trappe’s.

“Still worrying about me, eh?” Brodie was questioning. “Say, Joe, you must have me heavy on your mind. Where do you get these cuckoo ideas, anyway?”

“There were two gorillas out at Bogart’s,” returned Cardona, “who were guys that used to work for you, Brodie. I recognized their mugs when I went out to look at the bodies. What were they doing out there?”

“Working for someone else,” responded Brodie, promptly. “Listen, Joe — I’m not going into details about my past. But you know me well enough to know that whenever I do anything, I do it myself.”

“With a mob at your heels.”

“I’ve got no mob. But even if I did have, I’d be with the boys, wouldn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“That settles it then. I wasn’t out on Long Island when Bogart was killed.”

Cardona eyed the heavy-browed mob leader in narrow fashion. After a short survey, the detective shrugged his shoulders.

“Guess you’re right, Brodie,” he admitted. “I haven’t been able, though, to pick anyone else that might have been in on the deal. That’s why I came to question you. Say — where were you that night?”

“At the Club Madrid,” returned Brodie. “In the office with Lobo Ruscott. Why don’t you slide up there and talk to Lobo? He’ll tell you the same.”

“I’ve seen Lobo,” growled Cardona, as he rose and turned toward the door. “Your alibi holds, Brodie.”

With this final remark, the detective strolled from the room. Brodie Brodan remained in his chair. His poker face remained the same for a full five minutes. Then his heavy brows furrowed. Reaching from his chair, Brodie picked up a telephone and called a number.

“That you, Bozo?… Yeah. This is Brodie… Ankle up here… Yeah, right away and stop off at the Black Ship on your way… Pick up Marsland if he’s around there. Yeah, that’s his usual hangout… Listen, Bozo — keep an eye out for Joe Cardona, If he’s around this hotel, stay out. Call me instead. Savvy?”

The gang leader placed the telephone aside. He leaned back in his chair and drowsed.

TWENTY minutes passed. Then came a rap at the door. Brodie awoke with a growl. The door opened and two men came in; one was Bozo Griffin; the other, Cliff Marsland. Brodie motioned his visitors to chairs.

“Listen,” declared the gang leader. “Joe Cardona was just up here. It’s the second time he’s been around. He’s trying to find something — but he hasn’t been able to crimp my alibis.

“We’ve got a job tonight — as you fellows know. I was going to take you along and let you find out about it on the way. But I’m changing that plan on account of Cardona. I’m going to let the pair of you handle the work yourself. Get me?”

Both Bozo and Cliff nodded their understanding.

“That’ll let me hang out at the Club Madrid,” continued Brodie. “Like as not Cardona’ll be up there — or have some stools mooching around the joint. When tonight’s over, Cardona won’t suspect Brodie Brodan. That’s all.”

A satisfied smile appeared on Brodie’s face. The gang leader stared approvingly at his companions; seeing that they were anxious to learn their duties, he gave them the needed information.

“Here’s the lay,” explained Brodie. “There’s a guy named Brisbane Calbot who lives in an old house uptown. Worth a lot of cash, but he hangs out alone with an old goofy servant — a geezer that has been with him for years.

“The servant don’t amount to much anyway; but to make it all the softer, he was taken sick a couple of months ago and Calbot sent him to a sanitarium. Being a crabby guy himself, Calbot hasn’t taken on anyone else. He lives in the house all alone and he has a room down in his basement where he spends most of his time mulling over a lot of junk that he’s collected. He’s got a big vault down there, too.”

“We’re goin’ in?” questioned Bozo.

“Wait a minute,” ordered Brodie. “You’re doing just what I tell you, Bozo. You and Cliff are to be with the mob, outside of Calbot’s place. You’ll hear a shot from inside. That’ll mean the end of Calbot. Wait a couple of minutes, see? Then gang the joint. Shoot up the windows; pile in through the doors — they’ll be open — and make a big noise. Then scram, in a hurry, before any flat feet show up. Got it?”

Bozo nodded, a trifle perplexed. Cliff grinned, to show that he understood. Brodie could see which was the more intelligent of his two lieutenants.

“It’s a cover-up,” growled Brodie. “Like we’ve done before, Bozo. We lost some gorillas out on Long Island; we don’t want to drop any more on this job. That shot from inside tells you that it’s all set to do some shooting. But wait a couple of minutes—”

“So the man who fires the shot can get away,” interposed Cliff.

“That’s it,” announced Brodie. “Say, Cliff, you’ve got a noodle, even if Bozo hasn’t. Wake up, Bozo! I’ve given you credit for being more than just a dumb egg.”

Bozo scowled. He glanced angrily at Cliff, as though blaming his companion for the criticism which had come from Brodie Brodan. Cliff returned the scowl with a steady gaze. He felt that Brodie’s innuendo regarding Bozo was quite correct.

Bozo, tough, stocky, and with a hard-boiled face, looked like an ordinary gorilla. He had gained his lieutenancy purely through survival in the service of Brodie Brodan. He was a relic of the gang leader’s past.

Brodie saw Bozo’s malicious glare. He ended it with another growl that caused Bozo to ease back in his chair and give a sheepish grin.

“No sorehead stuff,” warned Brodie. “You and Cliff are working together. Figure it between you where you’ll pick up the mob. Ten o’clock’s the time. Beat it — and dope out your game outside. Look Brisbane Calbot up in the phone book. He’s listed. That’ll tell you where he lives. I’m going up to the Club Madrid. Stay away from there. Call me here tomorrow.”

Brodie waved his hand toward the door. Cliff and Bozo arose and made their exit. Brodie’s face, usually immobile, showed changing expressions after the pair had gone. Brodie was comparing his new lieutenant, Cliff Marsland, with the old, Bozo Griffin. The comparison was in Cliff’s favor.

Rising from his chair, Brodie Brodan went to a closet and brought out a tuxedo. The gang leader was preparing for a gala night at the Club Madrid. His plans of crime had been completed. The clock on his bureau showed five minutes to eight.

HALF an hour later, at exactly eight twenty-five, a click resounded in a darkened room. Shimmering blue light glared upon a polished table. White hands stretched forth to obtain earphones from the wall where a tiny bulb was burning.

“Burbank speaking,” came a voice over the wire.

“Report!” It was The Shadow’s whisper that sounded weirdly in the sanctum.

“Report from Marsland.”

The Shadow listened in the gloom. The clicking of Burbank’s telephoned voice brought the word which the contact man had heard from Cliff. Every detail came in terse form.

“Instructions,” spoke the voice of The Shadow. “Marsland to follow orders as given by Brodan.”

“Instructions received,” answered Burbank.

The earphones clattered to the wall. The bulb went out. The blue light clicked off. A creepy laugh rose to a shuddering crescendo. Silence came to the sanctum.

The Shadow had departed. He had learned the facts he wanted. He would find a way to deal with crime.

The Shadow knew.