The Crime Master

CHAPTER XVI THE CAPTURE

ONE week had passed. All was quiet in scumland. Yet there was something ominous in the placid situation. Men of crime — great and small — were waiting, afraid to move.

The Crime Master had declared an armistice. Save for his message passers, none were performing active work. The generalissimo of evil was waiting until the triumph of the law had been forgotten.

Crooks, still in awe of The Crime Master’s power, were doing no jobs of their own. Gorillas who needed funds found money from their leaders. Cash was plentiful in the underworld. It was advance payment of crime that was to come.

Since that one night when he had acted so efficiently, Cliff Marsland had not been called upon to serve as courier. This was a disappointment. Cliff knew — through advice received from Burbank — that somewhere among the string of message bearers, envelopes must come directly from The Crime Master.

Could Cliff discover one of these points where messages were infused into the underworld, he would be accomplishing the vital result that The Shadow sought. Cliff knew that his chief was recovering from grievous wounds. He was anxious to serve The Shadow to the utmost during this emergency.

All the while Cliff sensed that spies were at work. The Crime Master had stool pigeons — more capable than those of the police. Cliff was sure that they had ferreted out all informants who worked for the law. He felt, however, that his own position was secure.

The police — not The Shadow — had smashed the raid at the big jewelry store. The Crime Master’s chosen investigators would be looking for those who had passed the word to Weston.

It was up to Squawky Sugler to take care of himself. Cliff had seen the furtive stool on several occasions since the big night. Each time, Squawky had been at the Pink Rat, feigning the part of a hophead. Cliff could see through the pretense. He suspected that others would do the same, if Squawky were not careful.

TONIGHT, Cliff was at the Black Ship. He was chatting idly with members of Louie Harger’s gang, when another of the outfit entered. The fellow — an ugly faced rowdy — dropped into a chair beside Cliff.

“Louie wants to see you,” informed the newcomer. “Up at the hotel. Says to be there inside an hour.”

“All right.”

Cliff arose and left the Black Ship. There was no need to call Burbank until after he had seen Louie. Twenty minutes later, Cliff was knocking at the door of the gangleader’s room in the Hotel Spartan.

“Come in.”

Cliff responded to the growl. He found Louie seated at the corner table. The gangleader produced one of The Crime Master’s envelopes.

“Pass it along, Cliff,” ordered Louie. “Same way you did before.”

Cliff nodded. He left with the envelope in his pocket. He made for his own place — the little room in the house off the cul-de-sac.

Here, by the vapor from the kettle spout, Cliff steamed open the outer envelope. He found a ten-dollar bill; an inner envelope, sealed, addressed to Turk Bodell. Cliff steamed the second wrapper. He unfolded a sheet of paper. He stared. It bore no message whatever. The paper was blank!

A sudden suspicion rankled Cliff’s brain. He turned toward the door. Paper and envelope fluttered from his hands as they moved upward. Covering him, Cliff saw a pair of revolver muzzles. Looming smoke-wagons, they were formidable weapons. The men who bore them were members of Louie Harger’s crew — rowdies whom Cliff had left at The Black Ship!

Cliff expected death. It did not come. The entering men had been waiting behind a door at the other end of the hall; they were still silent as they backed their prisoner toward a corner of the room. Cliff realized that they were expecting some other arrival. One minute later, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Louie Harger appeared at the door.

“We got him,” growled one of the mobsters. “He’s a phony, right enough, Louie.”

The gangleader nodded. He motioned to his underlings to bring Cliff through the door. With the muzzles of .45s jostling against his ribs, Cliff descended the stairs. He was forced into a car that Louie had brought into the blind alley.

Cliff found himself between two mobsters in the rear seat. He made no move. The car followed a circuitous course, avoiding busy thoroughfares. It pulled up at the rear of what appeared to be an abandoned garage. Cliff was dragged out, shoved through a door and cornered in a room where only the glare of Louie’s flashlight furnished illumination.

A growl from the gangleader. Cliff’s captors set to work. In a few minutes, The Shadow’s agent lay bound and gagged upon the floor. The light clicked out. Helpless, Cliff heard the rumble of Louie’s motor. The gangleader and his henchmen had abandoned their prisoner.

Ten minutes passed. A smooth motor purred from in back of the garage. Footsteps clicked on the stone floor. The rays of a flashlight were focused upon Cliff. The new light went out; powerful arms raised Cliff and hoisted him like a sack. Out through the doorway, Cliff was tumbled into the broad tonneau of a limousine.

THE big man who had come to get the prisoner took the wheel and the large car moved forward. Jolts rolled Cliff to the floor. Trussed, he had no way of telling where the car was going. When it finally stopped, the driver came to get Cliff. Hanging from the big man’s shoulder, Cliff’s only impressions were those of a paved courtyard and the rear entrance to a large house.

Through passages — then a doorway. Cliff tumbled from his carrier’s shoulders and plopped helpless in a large arm chair. Blinking in the mellow light that pervaded a paneled room, he found himself staring at one of the strangest creatures whom he had ever seen.

An old man, his grayish countenance topped by a shock of white hair; sharp eyes, with slitted lids that flanked a thin, peaked nose; lips that showed fangs as they formed a snarling smile — these were Cliff’s impressions.

No further explanation was needed. The Shadow’s agent knew that he was face to face with the evil genius who dominated all the underworld. He had been brought to The Crime Master’s lair; the gloating fiend before him was The Crime Master himself.

“Henley!” A solemn-faced man stepped forward as the old man spoke. “Bring me the bottle — the cloth — and the knife.”

The objects appeared. With an evil glare, The Crime Master soaked a rag with a brownish liquid. He applied the cloth to Cliff’s face. A nauseating odor stifled the prisoner. Cliff felt his senses swimming.

It was not chloroform that The Crime Master had used, yet it was something even more potent. Though Cliff retained consciousness, he felt a helpless weariness. He knew, dully, that The Crime Master was cutting his bonds; yet he had no strength to offer once he was free.

Again the soaked cloth; this time, Cliff felt strangely detached from his body. All was like a dream; this paneled room; the old man with whitened hair; a voice that came from far away.

The Crime Master had seated himself at a table which Cliff had not previously noticed. On the level from which Cliff observed it, the board showed odd pieces that looked like chess men: red, blue, green and white. Though his vision was blurred, Cliff could make out the colors. He saw The Crime Master add a large, black man to the others.

“The Shadow!” The old man’s lips formed a venomous snarl as The Crime Master turned toward Cliff. “He has sought to thwart me, even since my cunning eliminated him from the game. While I am planning, he is recuperating.

“It is well.” There was a sudden easing of the old man’s tone. “Since The Shadow wishes to move upon my board, he shall have the opportunity. Through you — the one who served him — I shall bring The Shadow back into the game.”

THE CRIME MASTER motioned to Henley. As the servant approached, the old man also arose; together, they advanced to Cliff’s chair. The prisoner raised his hands in feeble opposition; then came the sopping rag upon his face. Groggily, Cliff slumped.

The Crime Master and his minion slid Cliff’s chair forward to the table. Cliff’s weak hands rested on the edge of the checkered board. When his eyes reopened, Cliff found himself staring, dazed, at the map beneath the checkered squares. He saw claws — the old man’s hands — shifting the pieces away.

“Here” — The Crime Master pointed with a bony finger as his lips formed a honeyed purr — “is a problem for The Shadow. This square represents the side of the Apex Silk Warehouse. Here, in this square, is the rear of a house across the street.

“My men can move from square to square. There is a secret tunnel, hollowed by my workers, beneath the street. Once, not long ago” — there was sarcasm in The Crime Master’s tone, an irony which Cliff was too groggy to detect — “you intercepted one of my messages. You sent information to The Shadow. That, I presume, was your duty.

“You have new information which I have just given you. The Shadow, tonight, can find my tunnel. Tonight, you understand, not later! For my men will occupy that house at midnight.”

Slitted eyes were glaring at Cliff Marsland. Ruled by The Crime Master’s new tone, Cliff could only nod. Woe to The Shadow! That was the point which the old man was impressing. The voice seemed to carry a commanding power.

“Listen to me.” The Crime Master’s tone came as a suggestion, not as a threat. It was artfully designed to sway Cliff’s groggy brain. “You will send word to The Shadow. You will tell him of The Crime Master’s scheme. Do not say that you are a prisoner; that would divert him from the great work that he can accomplish. Do not think of yourself. You will be safe. You must tell The Shadow how he can thwart The Crime Master.”

Venom had ended. Cliff, staring at the board, heard the voice, but no longer looked toward the old man’s face. By adopting an impersonal speech, by appealing to Cliff’s loyalty, The Crime Master had forced one thought upon The Shadow’s agent.

Dully, Cliff realized that he had learned something. Under the influence of the powerful drug which The Crime Master had used, Cliff could think of but one basic matter, the discovery that had been revealed to him. The fact that he was a prisoner faded from his thoughts.

The Crime Master motioned. Henley brought a telephone and placed it on the table. The Crime Master stared keenly as Cliff’s hands fumbled with the dial. Then, as Cliff held the receiver to his ear, a voice clicked over the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Marsland reporting.” Cliff’s tone steadied, mechanically. “Old house opposite side of Apex Silk Warehouse. Entrance from the next block—”

The Crime Master was whispering in Cliff’s ear. Automatically, Cliff repeated the words that were thrust upon him.

“House number seventeen eleven. Tunnel from rear of cellar. House empty. Will be occupied at midnight…”

“Report received,” came Burbank’s click.

Abruptly, The Crime Master took the receiver from Cliff’s yielding hand. He ended the conversation by hanging up. Cliff stared; a sudden flash of antagonism showed upon his face. Then Henley bobbed forward and thrust the soaked rag over his mouth and nose. Cliff gasped and sank back in his chair.

“Summon Woodling,” ordered The Crime Master.

THE big man who had brought Cliff appeared at Henley’s call. A powerful ruffian, he looked the part of a servant. Obediently, Woodling gathered up Cliff’s collapsed form and carried it from the room.

The Crime Master chuckled. He carefully placed blue pieces on the board, surrounding the square that indicated the house. He beckoned to Henley.

“I suspected that The Shadow had an agent,” he declared. “Turk Bodell encountered trouble; therefore, I chose to have Harger watch the man who had relayed the message. It was this fellow Marsland.

“Through him, I have reached The Shadow. The man to whom Marsland has just spoken was not The Shadow. That was another agent; and he means nothing to us. The Shadow has had time to recover from his injuries; the fact that he was in the game last week is proof enough.

“Look at this trap!” The Crime Master was gleeful as he swept his hand toward the board. “It will imprison The Shadow. He will be out of the great game which I plan for to-morrow night!

“Midnight! That is not the time my agents shall occupy the old house. That story was a blind. At midnight, The Shadow will be a helpless prisoner. It is better to bottle him, rather than to fight him. I can hold him as long as I please. Then, after to-morrow night, I can deal with him like a rat in a trap!”

The Crime Master studied the board; then, from a box he drew out a white piece. He pointed to its knobbed top. It bore the letter W.

“This stands for Commissioner Weston,” scoffed The Crime Master. “He has taken personal supervision of the campaign against me. He is more dangerous than was Joe Cardona.

“I believe that The Shadow gave Cardona clues. I believe that Weston also received a tip. Very well; he shall have another — one that he will follow — one that will make him my helpless hostage.

“Your last report, Henley, tells of a stool pigeon named Squawky Sugler — a sneak whom one of my spies has placed under suspicion. We shall use him as the bait, Henley. Take this new order to Louie Harger.”

Henley nodded. He brought out a pad and pencil. While The Crime Master dictated, the secretary wrote in shorthand. The Crime Master’s words were broken by intermittent chuckles.

The fiend was plotting at his best. By a double stroke of preparation he had paved the way to nullify the only enemies who could counteract his coming crime!