The Crime Master

CHAPTER XIX FORCES PREPARE

SHORTLY before five o’clock the next afternoon, a quiet, chubby-faced man was seated by the window of an inner office. High above uptown Manhattan, he was gazing complacently at the hazy sky-line of the great city.

“Mr. Burke is here, Mr. Mann.”

A stenographer had entered. The chubby-faced man nodded. He ordered the girl to admit the visitor. A keen-visaged chap of wiry build appeared. He nodded to Mann and took a chair beside the desk.

Men of a totally different type, these two were in the same service. Rutledge Mann, easy-going investment broker; Clyde Burke, enterprising reporter of the New York Classic — both were agents of The Shadow.

Where Mann served in passive capacity, as information gainer and contact maker, Burke, like Marsland and Vincent, belonged on the firing line. Each, however, was important. This fact was about to prove itself.

Rutledge Mann produced an envelope. He handed it to Clyde Burke. The reporter opened it to find a message in code. He read the blue-inked lines; then the writing faded. Such was the way with The Shadow’s messages. They disappeared after short contact with the air.

Clyde Burke nodded as he looked toward Rutledge Mann. It was plain that the investment broker had received a message similar to his own. They were free to discuss the subject.

“These clippings impressed me.” Mann drew printed items from his desk. “They are duplicates of the ones I forwarded. That Colombian platinum, Burke, offers great opportunity for criminals.”

“Provided they can get it,” agreed Burke, grimly. “I have made a final search of the back files at the Classic. I find — as I intimated in my last report through you — that the shipment from Colombia was arranged several months ago.”

“Then people in New York would have easily gained knowledge of it—”

“Yes. Here is the situation, Mann. Certain European governments require platinum. Russia controls almost the entire European output. Purchasers in the countries that have no trade agreement with the Soviet government must look elsewhere.

“Colombia produces platinum. A New York Syndicate arranged to purchase this vast supply. They are holding the metal to sell in Europe. Most of it is already ordered; small shipments are to begin before the end of this week.”

Mann nodded.

“So far as crime is concerned,” asserted Burke, “it is a natural. And yet—”

“No one would suspect it.”

“Exactly. That is, the police would not suspect it. But—”

Mann smiled. He and Burke, as agents of The Shadow, had been trained to look for situations such as this. They had both been informed by The Shadow of The Crime Master’s power and ways. Separately, they had been seeking to find indications of crime possibilities. Millions in platinum, despite the supposed security of the precious metal, would be an incentive to The Crime Master.

THE telephone rang on Mann’s desk. The investment broker raised the receiver. He spoke quietly; then handed the instrument to Burke. It was Burbank on the wire. The call from this contact man indicated orders more recent than those that had come through Mann.

“Yes…” Clyde acknowledged Burbank’s statements. “Yes… Vincent… I shall go there right away…”

Hanging up, Clyde took his leave without a statement to Mann. The reporter’s face wore a puzzled expression. These new orders were both brief and odd. He was to report to Harry Vincent, at an obscure store known as the Century Accessory Exchange. Clyde had never heard of the place before; but the location was significant. The Century Accessory Exchange was situated in the same block as the Impregnable Trust Company.

As Clyde neared his destination, he saw that the accessory shop was caticornered to the Trust Company building. The block was unpretentious except for the Impregnable Trust Company, which towered, solid and imposing, on a corner.

There were garages in the block; perhaps this was why the accessory store had been opened there. Clyde noticed that truck supplies predominated, as he stared at the display on the sidewalk and in the window. Piled stacks of heavy truck tires looked like massive doughnuts.

Clyde spied Harry Vincent in the shop. He entered. Harry turned to shake hands; then introduced Clyde to a weary-faced man who was standing by the counter.

“I’m buying the place, Clyde,” said Harry, with a smile. “This fellow — the present owner — seems glad to get out of the business.”

“Things are slow,” explained the weary man. “But a young fellow like you ought to make a go of it. Well, Mr. Vincent, we’ve finished the arrangements. The place is yours.”

The man strolled from the store. Harry motioned to Clyde. The two walked out to the sidewalk. Harry pointed to the stacks of tires. There were two of them, near the curb.

“This fellow Chalmers whom you just met,” stated Harry, “tells me that he has to bring in those stacks every night. A nice job, because they’re rimmed. Look at the size of them, Clyde.”

The reporter walked to the nearer stack. Heavy truck tires, of large diameter, they formed a cylinder nearly five feet high.

“I told Chalmers,” resumed Harry, in a dry tone, “that I might keep the tires out. He said they would be stolen. I decided that I would risk it for a night. I picked a new spot for them — over here.”

He pointed to a spot close by the show window. Clyde saw the opened doors of a small delivery elevator. The car, itself, obsolete and inadequate, was on the level of the sidewalk.

“Going to close the doors and set the tires on them?” questioned Clyde.

“No,” returned Harry. “I’m going to remove the doors entirely. That’s your job, Clyde. Take these pliers and pull out those long hinges.”

CLYDE complied, wondering. Just as he had finished the task, Harry appeared, carrying four flat bars of heavy iron. Kicking the discarded doors aside, he arranged the long bars in crisscross fashion over the top of the flat elevator.

“There’s the support,” remarked Harry, “just in case the car won’t hold the weight of the tires. Help me set the doors.”

He shifted one of the flat metal pieces so that it projected slightly inward from the left side of the elevator opening. Clyde did the same with the door on the right. The result was a makeshift grating, open in the center of the elevator car.

“Now for the tires.” Harry approached the nearer stack. Clyde aided him. They shifted the top tire and carried it to the improvised grating. They continued with the other tires. When they had finished with the stack, Harry, puffing, suggested that they add more. It was with considerable effort that they finally raised the stack to a height of more than six feet.

“Looks a bit lopsided,” observed Harry. “I’ll fix that.”

While Clyde stood puzzled, Harry went into the store and returned with two metal wedges and a small hand sledge. He inserted the point of one wedge between two tires near the top of the stack and drove it home. It made the stack tilt to the left.

“I thought that would happen.” Harry inserted the second wedge further to the left. Again, he hammered. The result was satisfactory.

The stack of tires formed an irregular cylinder that had a slight forward tilt until it reached the wedges. There, a slight gap showed between two tires, six feet above the base of the stack. Above that, the tires were level.

“We’ll roll these extras into the store,” suggested Harry. “After that, we’re through. How do you like my idea, Clyde? Those bars take all the weight from the elevator car.”

Clyde Burke smiled. He was mystified. Harry’s actions seemed nonsensic. Nevertheless, Clyde knew there must be a purpose. He asked no questions. He merely helped Harry with the extra tires; then agreed to his friend’s suggestion that they go out to eat.

IT was six o’clock. Inspector Timothy Klein entered Commissioner Ralph Weston’s outer office to find two persons there: a stenographer and a young man who served, on occasions, as Weston’s private secretary.

“Any word from the commissioner?” questioned Klein, anxiously.

The secretary shook his head.

“Bad business,” muttered Klein. “I can’t understand why we haven’t heard from him.”

“Have you called Grady again?”

“Yes — three times—”

The door opened. Klein turned. He recognized the tall, impressive form of Commissioner Weston. The missing official had returned.

Weston was garbed in gray hat and overcoat. In his left hand, he carried a briefcase. He swung the bag toward the inner office. Klein opened the door; the commissioner went through and the inspector followed.

“Where have you been, commissioner?” questioned Klein. “We have been trying to locate you all day. People have been impatient because we couldn’t tell them where you were, sir.”

“I know it.” Weston’s tone was dry; his lips formed a smile beneath his pointed mustache. “In fact, I called here myself; and also called my apartment, just to hear what would be said. In other words, I inquired after myself — disguising my voice of course — and I learned that I was out but would return later.”

“That was my order,” declared Klein. “We couldn’t let it out that the police commissioner had disappeared. It had me worried.”

“Why?”

“Because of the circumstances. Grady told me where you had gone; when I learned that you weren’t there—”

Weston’s left hand was raised in interruption. Klein paused. Studying the commissioner across the flat-topped table, the inspector noticed that his chief seemed pale. Weston’s full face lacked a bit of its usual contour.

“Tell me,” came the commissioner’s brisk order. “Just what did Grady say? When — where — how — did I leave my apartment?”

“At one o’clock last night,” explained Klein. “A man came to see you — then you went away with him. You told Grady that you were going to visit Ganford Dagron, the retired financier.”

“Very well.” Weston’s tone was still quizzical. “And then?”

“You did not return. I called you this morning. Grady told me the circumstances. I called Ganford Dagron.”

“At his home?”

“Yes.”

“What did he have to say?”

“That he did not send for you. He was willing to see me, so I went out there and took Grady along. We found that Dagron lives alone with one servant — a fellow named Woodling, who admitted us. Woodling was not the man who came to your apartment. Grady was sure of that.”

“So you decided that I had been hoaxed?”

“Possibly. I hoped, however, that you had merely decided to mislead Grady. I could not see what the purpose might be. At the same time—”

“All right, inspector.” Weston’s smile was stern. “The latter surmise is correct. I wanted no one to know where I was. I shall visit Ganford Dagron later, in person, to explain the matter to him.

“I was engaged in special work last night, inspector. My efforts are completed. Call in my secretary. I wish to dictate orders.”

Klein obeyed. The secretary seated himself by Weston’s desk. While Klein listened, Weston’s voice began to drone police orders. The inspector stared dumfounded.

“Coming robbery of the Impregnable Trust Company,” were the words. “Scheduled for tonight. Detail patrol cars as follows—”

Tersely, the orders continued. Patrol cars, detectives, squads of policemen — the commissioner was arranging them in methodical precision. Concentrating powerful forces at strategic points, he was forming an array of strength that seemed amazing.

USUALLY, Klein knew, Weston deliberated upon such courses. This afternoon, his method differed. Never before had the inspector listened to such perfected plans. Handling hundreds of men, forgetful of no detail, Weston was presenting a system of police deployment that outmatched anything that Klein had ever known.

Secrecy seemed linked with strategy. Yet the plainness of the details impressed themselves firmly upon the inspector’s brain. As the secretary arose to take the orders for triplicate typing, Klein gasped in admiration.

“It’s in again?” he questioned. “The Crime Master business? Tonight?”

“Deductively speaking, yes,” asserted Weston. “Tonight is the logical time. Should there be postponement, we shall repeat our plans to-morrow. You will notice, inspector, that my orders leave nothing to chance. Followed perfectly, even our own forces will not know the nature of the crime which we are seeking to prevent.”

“There can’t be a leak,” admitted Klein. “You handled that part of it perfectly, commissioner.”

“You will notice, also,” declared Weston, “that I have provided for all movements to be guided by one controller. You, inspector, will have that duty!”

“You mean,” exclaimed Klein, “that you are turning the command over to me?”

“Yes. As my deputy.”

Minutes passed while the commissioner gave verbal instructions to the inspector. The secretary entered. He was bringing the typed orders. Rising, Weston handed the sheets to Klein.

“Follow my orders,” was the commissioner’s statement. Then to the secretary: “You and the stenographer may leave. I shall remain a short while.”

Five minutes later, Commissioner Weston’s tall form was standing by the desk, alone. One hand moved — the left. The overcoat, which was now unbuttoned for the first time, dropped to the floor.

With the doffing of that garment, the tall form seemed to lose its bulk. The single hand opened the briefcase. It drew out two garments — a black cloak and a slouch hat.

A laugh came from the lips beneath the mustache. The face of Commissioner Weston, suddenly relaxed, seemed to lose its contour and become masklike. The free arm raised the cloak; it settled over shoulders. The hat was lifted to the commissioner’s head.

The transformation was complete. Commissioner no longer, this personage who had directed the perfect massing of law forces under Inspector Klein, had now resumed his chosen part.

The Shadow, his face disguised in perfect fashion, his clothing padded to give it proper bulk, had taken the place of Commissioner Ralph Weston.

Somehow, The Shadow had escaped. Divining the crime that loomed, he had sought to reach Weston anonymously. Scenting that the commissioner’s absence was due to some action of The Crime Master, The Shadow had decided to play a double role.

First, as Commissioner Weston, he had arranged the law for action. That task completed — to a perfection previously unknown — he was returning to his own part.

As The Shadow, he was ready to deliver telling strokes of a sort that he, alone, could make!