The Crime Master

CHAPTER XV SHATTERED CRIME

ELEVEN thirty. Squawky Sugler was sitting in a corner of the Pink Rat. The beady-eyed stool was watching those about him. His right hand clutched a bottle that was nearly full; his left kept making gestures toward his nostrils, in the manner of a coke-fiend.

Nothing new tonight. Moreover, Squawky was becoming nervous. He did not like to remain too long in any dive. He had been here nearly an hour; again, his quest for information seemed hopeless.

Squawky poured himself a drink; he gulped the liquor, then arose and shambled from the dive. At the other side of the room, another man arose and took a different exit. It was Cliff Marsland. The Shadow’s agent had been watching the stool pigeon.

On the street, Squawky was pursuing his shambling way. He threw a furtive glance over his shoulder; that was all. Conversant with the ways of the badlands, Squawky knew that it was poor policy to keep on the lookout. Many a stoolie had created suspicion by being overcautious.

Two blocks — three — Squawky entered a ramshackle building and ascended a dimly lighted pair of stairs. He reached the darkness of an upper hall. He unlocked the door of a room. This was his abode.

The stool pigeon groped his way toward a gas jet. Squawky had taken his time in coming here; always, the stoolie shambled in his course. He felt positive that no one had been on his trail; it did not occur to him that some one might easily have beaten him to this destination.

A frightened, ratlike squeak came from Squawky’s lips as something thrust against him in the dark. A firm hand had gripped his shoulder; the muzzle of a revolver was jammed against the stoolie’s chest. A growling voice was ordering quiet.

Squawky nearly slumped to the floor. His captor thrust him backward. Squawky sat down suddenly upon the tumble-down cot that he used for a bed. He could sense a man standing above him; the point of the gun still rested in Squawky’s ribs.

“No squawk out of you.” It was Cliff Marsland’s growl, but Squawky did not recognize the voice in the dark. “Unless you keep your trap shut, there’s going to be one less stool pigeon working. Get that?”

“I ain’t no stool—”

CLIFF’S harsh laugh ended Squawky’s protest. The shambler subsided, gasping from sheer fear. He expected a bullet from the gun that pressed close to his heart.

“Get this.” Cliff’s growl was emphatic. “I know you for what you are — a stool. You worked for Joe Cardona; now that he’s on the shelf, you’re still squealing to the bulls.

“But that’s not going to hurt you. Not if you listen to what I’ve got to say. I want you to do some squealing. If you do — it’s all right. But if you don’t—”

Cliff’s statement ended with an emphatic pressure of the gun muzzle. Squawky whined. His captor laughed.

“You were at the Pink Rat,” asserted Cliff. “All right. You heard something there. Get that? You heard a couple of mugs talking — you don’t know who they were — and you wised to what’s coming off.

“Somebody’s going to get into the Wingroft Jewelry Store on Sixth Avenue. Who — how — you don’t know. It’s happening after midnight. Word has been passed along. You’ve got a hunch — a good one — that there’s only one way to beat the game.

“That’s a bunch of cops to be inside the joint, all ready. There’s got to be a break in — that’s the only way to beat it. You’re afraid the crooks will wise up if the bulls are hanging around outside — but you know they can be stopped if a lot of coppers get inside, pronto. Do you get it?”

“Yes,” gasped Squawky. “But I ain’t no stool—”

He was making the protest, fearing this to be a trap. Cliff ended the plea.

“If you’re not one,” scoffed The Shadow’s agent, “you’re going to be tonight. There’s an old store down at the corner. A telephone in the back room. That’s where you’re going — and I’ll be on your trail.

“One peek over your shoulder — one sneaky move — it’s curtains. Get that? You’re going to call Police Commissioner Weston. You’re going to tell him your name — and you’ll say you’re one of Cardona’s stools. If you don’t like it, you can have this—”

Again the thrust of the gun muzzle. Squawky whined his willingness.

“I ain’t no stool,” were his words, “but if I’ve got to squeal, I’ll go ahead. Don’t plug me — I’ll do anything you say—”

“You’d better.” Cliff was gruff. “There’s a couple of heels that I want to get. They’re going to be in that raid tonight — and I’m letting the bulls get them. That’s why I’m using you, understand? Now get going.”

Prompted by the gun muzzle, Squawky arose. The stool went through the hall; he descended the stairs. He could hear Cliff’s footsteps behind him. He did not dare to turn around. Along the block, Squawky shambled with the knowledge that a gat was ready in back of him. He entered the store and went into the rear room.

Outside, he could hear the growl of the man who had forced him here. Cliff was buying cigarettes; he was talking with the old storekeeper. At times, Squawky felt sure, the man with the gun would edge toward the door of the back room. Squawky lost no time in dialing the number.

A brisk voice over the wire. Squawky knew it must be Weston. In a plaintive whisper, the stool pigeon announced his identity. He gave the information as Cliff had ordered. He could hear Weston’s excited exclamation. Squawky hung up.

Shambling from the back room, the stoolie found the old storekeeper alone. Squawky kept on his way. His captor had left, confident that Squawky would obey. Furtively, the stool pigeon drifted back to his abode.

MEANWHILE, Cliff Marsland was leaving the vicinity. He had given The Crime Master’s envelope to a small-fry crook. He knew that the message had reached Turk Bodell. He had handled Squawky Sugler. Word had gone to the police commissioner. No one was the wiser — The Crime Master least of all.

Cliff did not know the identity of the mobleaders who had been assigned to cover up and aid Turk Bodell. He knew only that Louie Harger’s outfit was out of it tonight. That was logical, since Louie’s crew was undergoing new formation.

Numbers, positions — such factors did not matter now that the law could strike from the vital spot. Cliff Marsland sauntered toward the Black Ship to convene with other members of Louie Harger’s gang.

ONE o’clock approached. At the table in his paneled room, The Crime Master was chuckling as he pointed to pieces arrayed upon the checkered board. A new map was underneath the squared sheet of glass. Henley was standing by, nodding, as his master spoke.

“Here, Henley, is the center.” The Crime Master indicated an empty square; then placed his scrawny hand squarely in the middle of the board. “All these squares — a dozen — are empty. This game, Henley, is a surprise one!”

Again pointing, the old man motioned toward pieces of various colors that formed a wide-circled fringe about the vacancy. At one spot, he stopped and tapped red men that were on the squares.

“The raiders,” he stated. “They are moving. Square to square, toward the center! They arrive” — the first red piece had reached its goal — “and the attack begins.”

Leaving the center, The Crime Master began to move blues and greens. Into their spread ranks, he brought whites. He indicated skirmishes while he moved. The greens and blues were cutting inward, blocking the whites at every point.

“That will take time,” cackled the old man. “Meanwhile, the reds again!” He retreated the raiders. Thanks to the interference of the blues and greens, a path was open. It divided into two sets of diagonal squares. “Either way! They will be safe. My vaults below will hold new spoils tonight!”

Henley nodded. There seemed no flaw in The Crime Master’s procedure. The old man chuckled as he rearranged his men in their original order.

“This center,” declared The Crime Master, “is the only spot of danger. But the whites could never be located there. Only that black piece — the one that I discarded — could be a menace to my plans.

“I did not break the black piece, Henley. We have eliminated The Shadow for the time, according to the reports that we received. Let us hope that he is dead; yet we have no proof of it. We know only that he is disabled. He may return to annoy us later on. Tonight however, we need not worry.”

THE red moves made by The Crime Master were being enacted while the old man talked. Near the vicinity of the Wingroft Jewelry Store, men were approaching in the manner of chance idlers. While some stationed themselves at the corner of Sixth Avenue, others approached a doorway on a side street.

Preparations followed. They were skillfully done. Less than a dozen seconds after one o’clock, a mighty boom reechoed in the side street. A heavy door was shattered. Raiders sprang to life.

Into the smoky opening they dashed. Jimmies wrenched open an ordinary door. Bull’s-eye lanterns threw their powerful rays into the jewelry store. Eager rasps came from gangster lips.

Suddenly, revolvers answered. From counters, niches and ledges of barred windows sprang officers of the law. Outnumbering the bombers three to one, they had the strength to back their surprise attack.

Bullets pumped into the mobster ranks. Curses mingled with groans as hoodlums sprawled upon the tiled floor. Turk Bodell, squatty, vicious chieftain of the blasters, fired venomously from behind the men who had preceded him. Then, as bullets zipped in his direction, he broke and fled with the remnants of his shattered crew.

Whistles — sirens — police and patrol cars were approaching. Shots broke out from blocks close by. A touring car shot up with two police machines in pursuit. Turk and four henchmen sprang for the running board. Bullets from police cars flattened two of the underlings. Officers coming from the shattered door of the jewelry store picked off a pair clinging to the near side of the touring car.

Only Turk, on the far side of the running board, was making a getaway. A powerful band of The Crime Master’s raiders had been overwhelmed by the terrific odds mustered by the police.

Half a dozen detectives and policemen were on the sidewalk, with guns ready as they watched the police cars continue the chase. From the shattered door came an imposing figure. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had taken personal charge. He was the commander of the thirty-odd officers who had been waiting within the jewelry store.

Elsewhere, scurrying minions of The Crime Master were presenting useless interference. Thanks to the readiness of the law, they were unable to beat the arriving police. Guided by sounds of gunfire, members of Weston’s legion spread out through the neighborhood. Soon all of The Crime Master’s minions were in flight.

TWO o’clock. The Crime Master, his fists crumpling the papers which they held, was reading reports that Henley had brought. The superfiend had met a Waterloo. Failure had followed previous successes. Beaten, scattered, the escaping minions who served him had sought the safety of the East Side.

Turk Bodell’s outfit had been eliminated. Mobs were depleted. Snipers and cover up men had been slain or captured. Disaster had befallen all the forces that The Crime Master had used tonight.

A THIN smile showed upon a pale face that lay pillowed on a bed. Lips were moving as The Shadow spoke to Burbank. Already, Cliff Marsland, lingering late at the Black Ship, had heard reports of The Crime Master’s failure. Clyde Burke, on late shift at the Classic, was relaying facts that the newspaper had gained from the police.

The Shadow had used the forces of the law to make a counterthrust. With Cliff Marsland’s aid, he had sent the precise type of information that had encouraged Commissioner Weston to proper action.

Yet The Shadow was thinking of the future — not of the present. He knew the power of The Crime Master. Deeds of evil would be abated, thanks to this victory for the side of justice. But one defeat could not damage The Crime Master’s coming plans.

The hidden overlord of evil still had hundreds of mobsmen at his beck. New minions would be groomed to replace those who had fallen. Craft — not brute power — was the only means by which the final curtain could be lowered on The Crime Master’s drama.

While the supervillain made new plots, The Shadow would be planning. While The Crime Master schemed to gain new wealth, The Shadow would be finding ways to thwart him.

Eventually, these two must meet. Such accounting was inevitable. The Crime Master — superman of evil; The Shadow, superfoe of crime.

Theirs would be the final conflict. Mobsters and police, no matter how fierce their battles, were but ordinary pieces of The Crime Master’s board.