The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER XVII. BRODIE’S MOVE

WHILE hard-faced thugs, members of Brodie Brodan’s under-cover band, were lugging away their loot from the Egyptian Museum, their absent leader was enjoying a gala night. Brodie was at the Club Madrid, one of the most glittering of Manhattan’s night cafes.

Brodie, attired in well-fitting tuxedo, was seated at a conspicuous table. The gang leader was applauding a dancing act. His bluff face wore a grin; a paper cap perched above his heavy eyebrows gave him the appearance of a playboy.

At the table with Brodie was Fritz Fursch, his alibi pal from Chicago. Fritz had come in at Brodie’s order and seemed to be enjoying his visit to New York.

But Brodie, despite his merrymaking had serious thoughts in mind. He was secretly eyeing a stocky, swarthy-faced man on the other side of the floor. This individual, half behind a pillar, was also making a pretense of watching the floor show. Actually, however, his gaze was on Brodie Brodan.

It was Detective Joe Cardona. Persistent in his hunches, the sleuth was dogging Brodie’s trail. Baffled in his attempts to locate the murderers of Perry Trappe and Tyler Bogart, Joe was watching Brodie in the hope that he could at least frustrate further crime.

Cardona’s reasoning showed logic. He had accepted Brodan’s first alibi. He had also been forced to take the second. One had been on the say-so of Fritz Fursch from Chicago; the other on the statements of Lobo Ruscott, proprietor of the Club Madrid. Cardona was not willing to base much on the testimonies of those two.

So he had watched Brodie Brodan — either through his own observation or with the aid of stool pigeons.

Joe was sure that Brodie had been at the Club Madrid on the night that mobsters appeared at Brisbane Calbot’s. He was sure that some of those dead gangsters were members of Brodie’s old crew.

Whatever the purpose at Calbot’s, it had failed. That, Cardona knew. He had attributed the failure to the possible absence of Brodie Brodan. That was why Cardona was again at the Club Madrid. Brodie watched, was crimped. Such was Cardona’s maxim.

LOBO RUSCOTT, a suave, elegantly attired man with a pointed mustache, paused at Cardona’s table to acknowledge the detective’s presence. Joe growled a reply to Lobo’s welcome; then snorted.

Brodie Brodan had spied Lobo from across the floor; seeing the proprietor, he had apparently discovered Cardona also. The black-browed gang leader had left his table and was skirting the floor to join the pair.

“Hello, Lobo,” greeted Brodie. “Hello, Cardona. Say — you’ve picked a great place to spend a night off. Not a better night club in the city. You know Lobo Ruscott, don’t you, Cardona?”

“I know him,” commented the detective, grimly.

“I remember,” laughed Brodie, sitting down at the table. “You talked to Lobo after that guy was killed out on Long Island. I had forgotten it.”

“Yeah,” retorted Cardona. “Lobo gave you an alibi — like that other pal of yours, from Chicago. I see you’ve got him with you again tonight.”

“Fritz Fursch?” questioned Brodie. “That’s right, he told you the straight dope one night — another time you were going to put the screws on me. Say, Joe” — Brodie was making a fervent appeal — “when are you going to forget this goofy idea that I’m hooked up with a funny racket?”

“I’ve got no idea,” returned Cardona. “I’m just playing a hunch, Brodie. Things are sort of quiet right now. I’m waiting for something to break — something big — and I just want to see if that can happen while you’re wearing a paper hat and making goo-goo eyes at a flock of chorines.”

“Great stuff, Joe,” laughed Brodie. “Well, stick around old kid. How long have you been here tonight?”

“Since seven thirty.”

“Just before I came in. Well, Joe, I hope something does break. It’ll give you some excitement and it’ll mean a real alibi for me. But let’s be serious. This cuckoo idea of yours—”

“Listen, Brodie. I’m not questioning your alibis. They’re good ones. I’d like to see a better one; I’ve got a hunch that some funny business is going to break loose. If it does while you’re here, I’ll admit that you’re out of it. How’s that?”

“Fair enough, Joe. Say, Lobo—”

Brodie paused as he turned toward the proprietor. Looking beyond Lobo Ruscott, he saw a solemn-faced man picking his way among the tables. Brodie turned and plucked Cardona’s sleeve.

“Say, Joe,” informed the gang leader. “Here comes a pal of yours — another dick, ain’t he? Is he looking for you?”

Cardona followed the direction of Brodie’s gaze. He saw that the gang leader’s statement was correct.

The man coming from the door of the night club was Detective Sergeant Markham.

CARDONA arose and beckoned to the second sleuth. Markham hurried over and buzzed with Cardona. Joe’s face took on a grim look.

Both Brodie Brodan and Lobo Ruscott were staring with questioning gaze. Cardona noted Brodie’s look. He turned to the gang leader.

“No reason why you shouldn’t know what’s up,” growled the detective. “A crowd of gorillas just raided the Egyptian Museum.”

Brodie looked puzzled; then guffawed.

“Say — that’s hot!” he exclaimed. “They’ll be crashing Grant’s Tomb next. What can they get out of a museum?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” retorted Cardona. “Take it as a joke, Brodie. You’ve got a right to laugh.”

“Why?”

“Because I expected something like this, I won’t be around for an alibi from you. That’s why you ought to laugh.”

“O.K., Joe,” returned Brodie. “Thanks, old man.”

There was a touch of feigned sincerity in the tone. Cardona remembered it as he followed Markham. No use of watching Brodie Brodan now. This was the clincher that backed up Brodie’s previous alibis.

Brodan watched Cardona leave the night club. He remained seated and chatted with Lobo Ruscott. A waiter approached and spoke to the proprietor.

“Call for you in the office, sir,” he said. “Not exactly for you — the man wants to talk to someone — but he wishes to speak to you first—”

“All right.”

As Lobo turned away, Brodie arose and followed him. Traveling by the proprietor’s side, Brodie whispered:

“Sounds like Bozo Griffin. Probably for me. I’ll come along with you.”

They reached the office. Lobo Ruscott spoke into the mouthpiece of the telephone. He turned and handed the instrument to Brodie with a nod. As Brodie began to talk, Lobo went from the office and closed the door.

“Listen Bozo.” Brodie’s tone was serious. “Is Marsland there with you?… Yes? All right… I want to see the two of you… Together… Yes. Right away… I’ll tell you where to meet me… Hotel Ridgelow Court… Yes, come up there in a cab and don’t mention where you’re going until you’ve got Marsland in the cab with you, see?

“I’ll meet you outside the place. We’ll go in together… Now remember this. When you hear me say ‘Hurry up, Bozo!’ yank your gat and poke it in Marsland’s ribs. Get that?”

Brodie scowled as a surprised exclamation came over the wire. He growled an admonition.

“Keep mum, you sap! You heard me… Remember what I told you… Now get started.”

Brodie hung up the receiver. He opened a closet door and removed hat and overcoat. He examined a revolver in the pocket of the outer garment. Brodie was accustomed to parking his gat and overcoat in the closet of Lobo Ruscott’s office.

Following this action, Brodie opened the door of the office and signaled to Lobo Ruscott, who was seated in a chair outside.

“Tell Fritz Fursch to meet me out at the side door,” order Brodie.

The gang leader took an obscure exit that led from the Cafe Madrid. On the sidewalk, he waited for Fritz and piled the alibi man into a cab. He ordered the driver to take him to an uptown destination not far from Ridgelow Court.

“Fritz,” declared Brodie, in a low tone, “you’re going to see a lot tonight. You and some other guys that I can count on. You’re going to see the headquarters for the greatest bunch of jobs that has ever been.

“More than that, you’re going to see a double-crosser get double-crossed. Have your gat handy. I’ll tell you when and how to use it.”

BRODIE and Fritz alighted at their destination. They strolled a block until they reached the front of the old hotel, where Brodie was to meet Bozo and Cliff. A few minutes later a cab rolled up. Bozo and Cliff alighted. Brodie stepped out to meet them.

“Come along,” ordered the gang leader. “We’re going places. You two go first. Through the lobby of this old hotel — and take the stairway down. This fellow — Fritz Fursch — will follow along with me.”

Cliff and Bozo obeyed. They entered the old hotel, walked across the deserted lobby and descended. At the bottom of the steps, they awaited Brodie and Fritz, who showed up a minute later. Brodie led the way to the door that opened on the steps to the sub-basement.

The quartet arrived at the storeroom. Brodie unlocked the door and ushered his companions in. A voice spoke. It was Sinker Hargun’s. Brodie growled a reply.

“All right, Sinker. We’re coming through. Give us a light.”

Sinker turned the glimmer of a flashlight upon the spot where the wooden panel was located. Brodie stepped forward and called for Cliff. The Shadow’s agent joined him.

“Watch this gag, Cliff,” remarked Brodie, in a cordial tone. He pressed the special nail. The panel opened.

“Come on through,” said Brodie, urging Cliff forward. “Come on, you other guys. Hurry up, Bozo!”

Cliff Marsland was in the light of Sinker Hargun’s torch. Brodie Brodan was ahead. The gang leader swung suddenly; he whisked out a revolver. At the same instant the muzzle of Bozo’s gun jabbed Cliff from behind.

“Put ‘em up, you rat!” snarled Brodie. “Keep ‘em up and come along with us. We’re going to put you on the sweetest spot you ever saw.”

Cliff’s arms raised mechanically. The Shadow’s agent had fallen into a perfect trap. Brodie Brodan’s flashlight came on; Sinker Hargun let the panel drop. With a contemptuous laugh, Brodie Brodan ordered Bozo Griffin to bring the prisoner along.

The gang leader had trapped the man he suspected as The Shadow’s agent. Cliff Marsland, a helpless prisoner, was marked for death when he reached the crime crypt!