The Crime Master

CHAPTER XIV THE NEW CAMPAIGN

ONE week had passed. A light was burning in the ground-floor room where The Shadow’s flight had ended. Revealed by the illumination, the place showed as a small waiting room. Beyond it was the open door of a doctor’s office.

A sober-faced young man was seated at a desk. He was making a telephone call. His voice was quiet and unmistakably professional in tone.

“Yes,” he was saying. “I shall be here to receive the delivery. At once — that is right… Be sure of the name and address… Yes… The name is Doctor Rupert Sayre…”

His call finished, the young physician arose. He crossed the office and opened a rear door. He stepped into the hallway of a small apartment that connected with the office.

A door was ajar near the end of hall. Sayre went in that direction. He stepped into a dimly lighted room where a tall form lay propped in a bed. Doctor Sayre stood looking at the pale face which showed upon the pillow.

The visage was a remarkable one. Its present color was almost the whiteness of marble. This was appropriate; for the countenance looked like a chiseled face of stone. Firm, steady features were predominated by an aquiline nose that gave the face a hawklike appearance.

In repose, the countenance seemed weary. This impression changed as the eyes opened. From the sides of the hawkish nose blazed orbs that seemed to sparkle fire. They were eyes that bespoke unquenchable power and determination.

The dominating gaze exerted a command. Doctor Sayre drew up a chair and seated himself beside the bed. He detected an inquiring look in the burning eyes. Quietly, the physician spoke in answer.

“Your strength is returning,” asserted Sayre. “All delirium has passed. Conversation will not exhaust you.”

A thin smile appeared upon the lips which had hitherto been straight beneath the hawklike nose. The expression, like the gaze, seemed questioning.

“Perhaps,” suggested Sayre, as he viewed the smile, “it would be wise for me to talk at first. Would you like me to review my impression after your arrival here?”

A nod from the head upon the pillows.

“Very well,” resumed Sayre. “One week ago tonight, I happened to return home a bit earlier than usual. That, I may remark, was a most fortunate occurrence. When I opened the door of my office, I found a body upon the floor. It was that of a man wearing a black cloak and a slouch hat. He was alive — but his heartbeat was feeble.

“Imagine my amazement when I discovered who this personage was. Beneath the slouch hat, I found the features of Lamont Cranston, a prominent New Yorker who has long been a friend of mine. Cranston” — Sayre’s tone was impersonal, although he gazed directly at his patient — “was in a most serious condition. He had three bullet wounds; he had evidently suffered gashes by falling through glass; between loss of blood and heavy bruises, it was a miracle that he had managed to reach my office under his own locomotion.”

The smile still showed upon the thin lips. The head upon the pillows delivered another nod.

“What surprised me most,” declared Doctor Sayre, “was the garb which Cranston had been wearing. Your cloak and hat, my friend, are hanging in this closet. It was because of them that I kept you here, instead of sending you to a hospital. It occurred to me that you might wish to preserve your condition a secret.”

So speaking, Rupert Sayre approached the closet and opened the door. Eyes from the bed surveyed the battered hat and the blood-clotted cloak.

“ONCE — not so very long ago” — Sayre paused reminiscently as he, too, studied the hat and cloak — “my life was saved by the timely efforts of a being who wore this very garb. Since then, I have had occasional contact with the mysterious personage called The Shadow.

“I may say that I have two powerful friends. One is a multimillionaire — a famous globe-trotter named Lamont Cranston. The other is a miraculous being known as The Shadow. Sometimes, I have wondered. I have identified the two. I have thought that Lamont Cranston might be the person who poses as The Shadow. On further deliberation, I have decided that it is The Shadow who sometimes chooses to play the part of Lamont Cranston.

“This belief” — Sayre swung toward the bed as he spoke — “has been mentioned to no one. I am a man who believes in loyalty. I shall always show that trait to its fullest whenever I have dealings with either friend: Lamont Cranston or The Shadow.”

There was a table by The Shadow’s bedside. Sayre opened a deep drawer and made a gesture.

“Here,” he declared, “are weapons which I take it are your property.” The Shadow viewed the automatics that lay in view. “This telephone” — Sayre raised the instrument from the floor and rested it on the table — “is for your sole use. As your physician, I recommend only that you do not attempt to leave your bed for at least another week.”

Turning toward the door, Sayre stopped just before he left the room. He viewed the appreciative smile that showed on the thin lips of Lamont Cranston; then added a statement.

“I can obtain copies of newspapers,” said the physician, “dating from Tuesday last. Would they interest you?”

“Yes.” The reply came in a quiet tone — the voice that characterized Lamont Cranston. “How soon can you bring them?”

“Within an hour,” promised Sayre. “I am waiting for the delivery of some medicine; after that, I have an outside call. I shall bring the newspapers when I return.”

The door closed, marking Sayre’s departure. Lamont Cranston’s face seemed to lose some of its pallor. The bed spread moved — a long, pajama-garbed arm came into view. This was the left arm; the right, heavily bandaged, lay across Cranston’s chest.

The stretching hand picked up the French telephone and carried it toward the bed. Cranston’s quiet tones gave a number. A pause; then came a solemn response across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.” The voice was Cranston’s no longer. It was the weird whisper of The Shadow.

For a moment, there was no reply. Evidently Burbank had been startled by the return of his missing chief. Then came the contact man’s words:

“Report from Marsland.”

The Shadow listened. As Burbank’s voice continued, the blazing eyes seemed to sparkle with new splendor. When the contact man’s statements had ended, The Shadow’s whisper again sounded in the room:

“Instructions to all agents. Ready for constant duty. Send frequent reports…”

The Shadow’s voice continued. Heartened by Burbank’s opening report, the recovered fighter was starting his new campaign. Even though helpless, so far as his own individual action was concerned, The Shadow was determined to fight The Crime Master’s schemes.

ONE hour later, Doctor Sayre, returning with the promised newspapers, found his patient slumbering peacefully. The physician placed the journals on the table beside the bed; he arranged bottles of medicine, left a brief note stating the time that he would return; then departed.

At that precise time, Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow, was making a telephone call from a phone booth in an East Side drug store. Through Burbank, he was receiving orders from The Shadow.

A grim smile showed on Cliff’s face as the agent left the store. Keen of visage, square of chin, Cliff was a young man of predominating vigor. They called him a killer in the underworld. Cliff had never denied the reputation. Recognized as a free lance mobster of high skill, Cliff was able to serve The Shadow and at the same keep clear of suspicion.

There was a reason for Cliff’s smile. Cliff had accomplished something during this week that he had been working on his own. Like other lone hands like himself, he had joined the parade. Cliff Marsland had become a minion of The Crime Master!

The Shadow had assigned Cliff to this duty prior to the battle of last Tuesday. But The Shadow had added the proviso that Cliff must delay the action until opportunity arose for association with important members of The Crime Master’s huge band.

Cliff’s chance had come within the last few days. Louie Harger, his forces depleted after the fight at the Associated Importing Company, had been looking for new sharpshooters. Cliff had learned of this; he was now a member of Louie’s new crew.

Louie’s mob had its hangout at the Black Ship, a dive as notorious as the Pink Rat. Here, Cliff had noted single members of the mob stroll out; one had left two nights ago; one had gone last night.

This evening, a call had come for Cliff. It was Louie; the gangleader had ordered his new henchmen to come over to his room at the Hotel Spartan. On his way to the appointment, Cliff had called Burbank. By a stroke of real fortune, he had received timely orders from The Shadow.

“If you are given an envelope—”

This had been the opening of Burbank’s statement. Cliff was puzzling over the words as he paced along beneath the high structure of an East Side elevated. It was apparent that The Shadow must have gained some important knowledge that pertained to The Crime Master’s methods.

THE Hotel Spartan was a decadent structure that fronted on the elevated. Cliff Marsland reached the building; he entered the frowsy lobby and inquired of the suspicious looking clerk if Louie Harger happened to be in his room.

“Your name’s Marsland, ain’t it?” questioned the clerk.

Cliff nodded.

“Go on up. Room three six four.”

Cliff reached the room. He rapped at the door; a growl sounded. Cliff entered to find his new boss, Louie Harger, seated at a desk in the corner of the room.

“Hello, Cliff.”

“Hello, Louie.”

The greetings were terse. Though their motives and principles differed widely, Cliff Marsland and Louie Harger had certain characteristics in common. Both were men of determination. They possessed a hard-boiled manner that made them contemptuous of the small-fry denizens of the underworld.

It was plain that Louie was pleased with his new underling. The gangleader wasted no words as he handed an envelope to Cliff. Louie spoke in terse fashion.

“I want this passed along,” he declared. “Give it to some heel. Tell the mug to open it, take the dough inside and deliver the inner envelope to the guy it’s addressed to.”

Cliff nodded.

“Be careful about the bird you pick,” added Louie. “Grab some mug who’s easy to scare. Tell him to move — and nudge him with a rod just to hurry him along. Get me?”

“Right.”

Cliff thrust the envelope in his pocket. He smiled grimly as he left the hotel room. He knew the import of this envelope. It was a message from The Crime Master, passing through the hands of Louie Harger, for delivery to some other crook whom Louie did not even know!

Leaving the Hotel Spartan, Cliff started briskly toward the Black Ship. Making sure that he was not followed, he suddenly changed his course; doubling through an alleyway, he turned back along another street. He entered a blind alley; at the end of the cul-de-sac, he entered a doorway. Up one flight, Cliff came into a room and lighted a gas jet. This was Cliff’s temporary abode.

The Shadow’s agent produced the envelope. It was sealed; but that meant nothing. Cliff lighted a tin of canned heat and placed a tiny kettle over the flame. Soon water began to boil. Steam issued from the kettle’s spout.

Holding the envelope in the vapor, Cliff loosened the flap. He found a ten-dollar bill inside the envelope; with it, an inner packet that bore the name:

Cliff grinned. It was a certainty that any small-time skulker of the badlands would certainly deliver this note. Turk Bodell was head of a most insidious outfit. Safe blowers, pineapple throwers, men who handled explosives and stirred “soup” — these were the kind of minions whom Bodell governed.

Cliff steamed open the inner envelope. He found a folded sheet of heavy paper. Opening the message, he stared at the peculiar signature — an embossed seal that showed a scimitar behind a skull. Then Cliff read the orders.

NODDING thoughtfully, The Shadow’s agent replaced the paper in the envelope. He sealed the wrapper carefully; added the banknote and placed both in the outer envelope. Cliff Marsland was in on the know. He had learned the vital point in The Crime Master’s newest scheme — a stroke that was due to arrive tonight!

Cliff extinguished the flame beneath the kettle. He turned out the gas light. He was stealthy as he left his room. Reaching the alleyway, he headed westward. Soon he was clear of the badlands. Cliff arrived at a hotel; he entered and found a telephone booth. He called Burbank.

“Turk Bodell…” Cliff was terse in his report. “One o’clock… Wingroft Jewelry Store… Blowing the outer door — then a cleanup. There’s more besides.

“It looks like The Crime Master is stealing an idea from Weston. No mobsters will be near there at one. The note tips off Bodell… Yes… Squads will move in at the zero hour… That’s the idea; they’re coming up just ahead of the police.

“Cars will pick up the burglars… Running fight all along… No concentration.”

Cliff paused. He heard Burbank’s voice telling him to stand by. Cliff hung up the receiver. He waited for five minutes. The telephone rang; Cliff was prompt in his answer. He had given Burbank the number of the pay station; he knew that the contact man had communicated with The Shadow.

“Hello… Yes…” Cliff grinned as he listened. His replies were brief affirmations until Burbank completed the orders. Then came Cliff’s final utterance: “Instructions received.”

The Shadow’s agent left the telephone booth. Clutching the sealed envelope in his pocket, he started back on his eastward journey. It was not yet ten o’clock; three full hours remained in which to forestall crime.

From the note in his pocket, with its complete orders to Turk Bodell, Cliff had given The Shadow a perfect picture of tonight’s lay. There would be others in The Crime Master’s game besides Turk Bodell; but the head of the dynamite crew was the key man in the game.

Orders from The Shadow! They were instructions that Cliff could follow promptly. The new campaign had come into its own. The envelope that Cliff carried would go to its destination; but it would not further The Crime Master’s plan.

Simply, but effectively, The Shadow had decided on a counterstroke. The disabled warrior was counting upon Cliff Marsland to pave the way in a thrust against crime!