The Crime Crypt

CHAPTER III. THE MEETING

DAYS had passed since Cecil Armsbury and his nephew had formed their plot of crime. New night had come to Manhattan. The metropolis was again aglow.

There was one spot, however, that no illumination reached. This was a room in which pitch-darkness reigned, irrespective of day or night. Somber silence marked the strange abode, until a slight swishing sounded faintly through the gloom.

Something clicked. The rays of a bluish light appeared in the corner of the room. The flickering glare was focused upon the surface of a polished table. Beneath that glow appeared two long white hands. From a finger of the left sparkled a brilliant gem, that displayed a range of mystic, ever-changing hues.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. Those hands were his. The flashing gem — a priceless girasol — was the emblem of this master being who balked all men of crime. An unseen visitant to a lost abode, The Shadow was studying reports that concerned the underworld.

All crookdom knew of the existence of The Shadow. In the badlands, the very name of this weird creature was pronounced with awe. Time and again, the mysterious figure of The Shadow had arrived to foil the plans of master criminals.

A being clad in black — a fighter whose mighty automatics blazed a trail of death to skulking fiends — such was The Shadow. Those who recognized his existence knew that The Shadow held the balance between crime and order. When evil threatened to gain power over right, it was The Shadow who could turn the tide.

Long white hands were opening envelopes. Report sheets and clippings fluttered to the table. These were from The Shadow’s agents — faithful workers who aided their master in keeping tabs on the pulse beats of crime.

Strange hands — those of The Shadow! When the mighty fighter fared forth, his hands were gloved in black, in keeping with the spectral attire that clothed him from head to foot. Crooks who had met him had never seen the hands themselves. Long white fingers and the sparkling girasol were tokens of recognition that none had ever gained.

Coded report sheets glistened with bluish ink. The Shadow read the word that his agents had reported.

The writing faded in uncanny fashion. Such was the way with all messages between The Shadow and his agents.

THE SHADOW’S right hand brought forth a pen. Upon a sheet of white paper it inscribed a name that remained in liquid ink of blue.

“Duke” Larrin!

This was the name that The Shadow had written. From two of his agents, he had learned that the famous international crook was in New York. Yet neither informant had picked up Duke Larrin’s trail.

Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent who played the part of a gangster in the underworld, had heard whisperings that Duke Larrin had come to the badlands. No descriptions of the man had been given; it was merely rumored that he was somewhere in Manhattan.

Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, had gained the same information. Clyde was in touch with Joe Cardona, ace detective at Manhattan headquarters. Through stool pigeons, Cardona had heard the rumors of Duke Larrin’s presence in New York. The ace sleuth was looking for the international crook.

So far, nothing tangible had been learned. The Shadow divined the answer. If crime happened to be in the making, Duke Larrin would be forming secret contacts. With whom? That was the question to be considered.

Black gloves slipped over the long-fingered hands. The light clicked out. A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The swishing of a cloak; then silence.

The Shadow had fared forth. His destination was the underworld. There he would seek the undiscovered connection between Duke Larrin and men of the badlands.

AT the precise time when The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, a man was strolling along an uptown Manhattan street. The walker paused to study the entrance of an old apartment hotel. He saw the name above the doorway:

With a hasty glance up and down the street, the man entered the doorway of the building. He went through a deserted lobby until he reached the obscure stairway. Another glance came from his dark eyes; his crafty, heavy-browed features showed a cunning scowl. The man moved to the stairway. Instead of going up, he took the downward steps.

No one had seen this visitor arrive. His identity would not have been suspected, even if he had been observed in the lobby of Ridgelow Court. But in certain sections of Manhattan — particularly where gangsters were wont to meet — this dark-browed man would have been promptly recognized. He was “Brodie” Brodan, a gang leader who had ostensibly retired from the business.

Reaching the basement of the old hotel, Brodan passed the entrance to a furnace room and continued on until he reached the rear wall of the cellar. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. He took a flight of steps that went down to the little-used sub-basement.

All was dark below. Brodie’s flashlight flickered in the darkness. The illumination showed the doors of old storage rooms. Brodie picked one and unlocked it. He closed it behind him and pushed his way past stacks of furniture until he reached the rear wall. He stopped in front of a wooden wall that had apparently been erected to offset the dampness from the stone in back of it.

Brodie’s flashlight showed a projecting nail-head. The gang leader pressed it, like a button. The nail came back. Brodie waited. A slight clicking sounded. Brodie pressed upward. A portion of the woodwork rose. Brodie went through the opening. He used his flashlight to find his way along a narrow corridor.

The wooden barrier slipped down after he had entered.

The passage was more than a hundred feet in length. It terminated in a metal door. Brodie Brodan stopped at the barrier and gave four short raps. The door slid aside. The gang leader’s flashlight clicked off.

Brodie Brodan stepped into a dimly lighted chamber. A strange room — vaulted — with doors on every side. Deep in the earth, this crypt had been reached through the cleverly concealed opening into the old storeroom of Ridgelow Court.

The iron door clicked shut after Brodie Brodan had entered. Quizzically, the gang leader surveyed three men who were seated on stools within the crypt.

THE dark-browed arrival knew them all. One — a smooth-shaven, languorous fellow — was “Fingers” Keefel. A safecracker of remarkable skill, Fingers specialized in artistic crime. He was a crook who looked for big jobs when he needed them.

The second, a tall man with firm-set jaw and cold, evil eyes, was “Croaker” Mannick. With Croaker, murder was a pastime; yet this dangerous criminal was wary in his ways. He killed when people paid the price and each scratch on his .38 represented the life of some big shot whom Croaker had assassinated at another’s order.

The police had never pinned a murder on Croaker Mannick. The underworld, however, knew his ability.

Brodie Brodan, cagey gang leader, felt that he was in select company with Fingers Keefel and Croaker Mannick.

Yet it was the central figure of the group — the third man of the trio — toward whom Brodie finally looked.

He saw a young man of good appearance, whose face wore the faint flicker of an evil, satisfied leer. This was the leader of the four; the man who had summoned Fingers, Croaker and Brodie to the secret crypt of crime. Brodie Brodan was gazing at the international crook, Duke Larrin.

Cecil Armsbury’s nephew opened the proceedings. He looked from man to man; then spoke in a firm, harsh tone that marked him as a man who accepted leadership.

“We’re all here,” he announced. “I’ve picked the three of you because you are the men I want. You know the terms. They’re the same to all. Ten grand apiece.”

The other men nodded to show their satisfaction.

“Three jobs for two of you,” resumed Duke Larrin. “Fingers gets the swag. Croaker does the bumping. Keep apart. You’ll never see each other except when you do the jobs. You’ve got your instructions. You know the exact times and places.

“Each of you will be washed up after the third job. We’ll work fast, because the fifteenth of the month is the deadline. That’s the time you’re each due back here. The pay-off comes on the fifteenth — and if all goes right, there’ll be more than the ten grand each.”

Fingers and Croaker grinned. They felt that their parts were set. Duke Larrin turned to Brodie Brodan.

“Fingers has his job,” declared the international crook. “So has Croaker. You’re the cover-up man. You have your instructions; wherever Fingers and Croaker hit, you be there with your mob.

“These two fellows will have to make clean getaways. We want it to look as though the mob did the trick. That’s your job, Brodie.”

“Leave it to me,” agreed the dark-browed gang leader.

“There’s a fourth job scheduled,” added Larrin. “It will come on the fifteenth. We’ll need a picked crew for it — and it’s up to you to get them, Brodie.

“None of your regular mob are to be in that crew. Get your special crowd in advance. Have them laying low — doing nothing — until you call them on the fifteenth. They can show up where they’re due — and they can pull the job like clockwork. After that, they’re through. They can scram out of town, with one grand each for their work.”

DUKE LARRIN arose. From his pocket, he drew three typewritten lists. He handed one to each of the crooks. They were detailed instruction sheets. Each read his part. Grins appeared upon satisfied faces.

“Got it all?” questioned Larrin, after the men had finished their reading by the dim light of the crypt.

Nods were the replies. Duke Larrin gathered in the lists. He tore them into fragments and dropped the pieces in a small antique urn that rested on the floor. He applied a match. The flame of the burning paper showed the harsh scowl on his face.

“You are the three whom I have chosen,” declared Larrin, “because you accepted my indefinite terms. There were others whom I considered. They were rejected when they wanted to know more before the secret meeting. I told them — as I told you — that I could consider no conditions.

“Each of you agreed to follow my instructions. That is why I gave each of you a key that would enable you to reach this crypt. It is known, perhaps, that Duke Larrin is in New York; but with this crypt as my headquarters no one can find me. I have planned my crimes so that all investigators will be baffled.”

Shrewdly, Duke Larrin eyed his trio of subordinates. He noticed sober glances on their faces. Duke Larrin smiled.

“I said all investigators,” he repeated. “I know what you are thinking. You are wondering if I have included one of whom we all have heard — The Shadow.

“Yes. The Shadow is included. Perhaps you think that I underestimate his power. You are wrong. I have heard of The Shadow in cities other than New York. He has been in Paris, London, Berlin, Moscow, Madrid — yes, and in Rome. He has struck at crime in all those capitals; and he has vanished as quickly as he has arrived.

“New York, they say, is where The Shadow makes his headquarters. The chances are that he is in this city at present.” Duke paused; then smiled as he noted anxious looks on the faces of his companions.

“Let The Shadow be here. He can never fathom the secret of this buried crypt. Each of you has dealt in crime. None of you have met The Shadow.

“Our plans are perfect. The police will cut no figure. While The Shadow is on the trail of one job, the next will be under way. Three in swift succession; then the fourth, in which none of you will be actively concerned.

“The Shadow will be thwarted. In all his fighting against crime, he has never crossed Duke Larrin’s path. Even though he may know that I am in New York, he will never find me nor my crypt.”

The voice of Cecil Armsbury’s nephew rang with confidence. It brought nods from the men whom he had chosen as his aids.

Crossing the crypt, Duke Larrin opened the door to the long passage. One by one, the chosen crooks left, each shaking hands with his chief. When the last of the three had gone, Duke closed the barrier.

The leering look faded from the shrewd crook’s lips. Duke Larrin’s face assumed the quiet manner which characterized Martin Havelock.

Crime had been launched from the crypt. Martin Havelock — otherwise Duke Larrin — had no qualms. He was sure that even The Shadow would fail to thwart his schemes.

Turning, the young man opened the barrier that led to the secret elevator in Cecil Armsbury’s fireplace.

He entered the lift and rode upward through darkness until he reached the light of Armsbury’s living room.

As he stepped from the fireplace, Martin Havelock heard his uncle’s chuckle. With shrewd eyes, old Cecil Armsbury had spied his nephew’s face. That one glance told the old man that the meeting had served its intended purpose.

Men of evil had sallied from the crime crypt. When they met again, successful deeds of lawlessness would lie behind them.