The Crime Master

CHAPTER II THE SHADOW ACTS

WHILE Joe Cardona was in conference with the police commissioner, Squawky Sugler, the stool pigeon, was slouching his way toward the Pink Rat. Shambling through the baser districts of Manhattan, the sweatered stoolie was observing signs that Cardona had already noticed.

The Italians in the barber shop; the loungers by the pawn shop; the riders in the elevated car — they were but typical. Members of society’s upper crust might share the elation which Commissioner Weston had felt over the episode of the armored truck; but those who dwelt close to the realm of crime could scent the beginning of a wave of terror.

Squawky, scruffing along the sidewalk, was watchful. Like Cardona, he suspected spies everywhere. The detective’s movement had been reported from the little shop where he had stopped to phone. Cardona could assume such a risk; but Squawky, the stool pigeon, could not.

Conditions were precarious so far as stoolies were concerned. Ordinarily, an informant might expect trouble only from the crooks on whom he squealed. But Squawky, tonight, seemed to accept all passers as his enemies. At times, he paused to raise a knuckle to his nostrils. A sniff — and again Squawky was on his shambling way. Acting the part of a dope addict, Squawky felt more secure in his present venture. Cokers were seldom banned from the Pink Rat.

With shifty strides, Squawky neared his destination. He followed a darkened alley; paused when he reached a dilapidated doorway; then opened the barrier and took a poorly-lit passage that brought him into the dive itself.

THERE was tension in the Pink Rat tonight. Squawky sensed it the moment that he entered the big room that constituted the major portion of the joint. Men were seated in small groups at scattered tables. Mumbled conversation buzzed through the smoke-filled room.

Squawky seated himself in a corner. He nodded as a sour-faced waiter approached with bottle and glass. He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and gave it as payment. But Squawky was slow about drinking. He spurned the bottle while he indulged in pretended sniffs.

Coke and hooch were not a usual combination. Squawky knew that fact; hence his reluctance with the liquor. Satisfied that he was getting by, the stool pigeon began a series of furtive glances about the dive.

Hard-faced gangsters prevailed tonight. Among the thugs and rowdies whom he observed, Squawky saw none who looked like police agents. Stools were keeping clear; Squawky felt sure that he was the only one who still had the nerve to pry into gangdom’s secrets.

Crime was the theme. Squawky knew it, although he could not catch words of conversation. Were mobsters talking about the episode of the armored truck? Or were they discussing the probability of coming crime?

Squawky did not know. He was sure of but one point: namely, that a shroud of peculiar mystery had lowered over the affairs of the underworld.

Squawky spied a trio of men seated at a table twenty feet away. He knew their faces. One — the most imposing of the three — was “Trigger” Maddock. Square-chinned, blunt-nosed, with beady eyes that blinked with snakelike stare, Trigger was a character highly feared where gun fights were concerned.

The swiftest shooter in the underworld, a gunner who could drill a mark while on the draw, Trigger had surrounded himself with a band of capable sharpshooters who were equipped for rapid duty. The two men with him were evidently members of his select squad.

There were others of Trigger’s ilk in the underworld — raiding mobleaders like Louie Harger, “Pigeon” Melgin, or “Turk” Bodell. They either worked swift jobs of their own or sold their talents to big shots who might need them. Meanwhile, they were clever enough to evade the law. So far, the police had never been able to hang sure evidence upon Trigger Maddock.

Trigger’s presence in the Pink Rat was not unusual. This place was one of his favored hangouts. Others of his type had their own chosen spots. They, like Trigger, made it a practice to meet their henchmen at appointed places in the badlands.

Squawky Sugler became watchful. His furtive glances returned at regular intervals toward Trigger Maddock. Anxious to gain some information, the stool pigeon was looking for any sign that might indicate coming action on the gangleader’s part. Yet no such sign came.

HALF an hour passed. Squawky shifted in his chair. He began to feel uncomfortable — afraid that some one might be noting the watch that he was keeping on Trigger. Squawky’s eyes roved about the room. They came to a sudden stop.

In watching Trigger, Squawky had been looking toward the left. For the first time, he observed a person on the right. Seated at a table not more than a dozen feet away was a lone gangster whose eyes met Squawky’s as the stoolie stared in his direction.

Squawky did not recognize the mobster. But he crouched uneasily as he studied the stranger’s visage. Squawky saw an immobile face — a countenance as fixed as a statue’s. A hawklike nose, from its sides a pair of piercing eyes that held the compelling stare of a hypnotist.

The focused gaze seemed to burn through the startled stool pigeon. Squawky’s clawing hands scratched at the table beside the bottle. Squawky feared that this strange watcher had spotted him as a police informant.

The stranger was wearing a turtle-neck sweater, black in color. Its heavy folds gave him an impressive bulk; though seated, it was apparent that he must be at least six feet tall. Sinking in his chair, Squawky managed to wrest his gaze from those weird, blazing eyes. Slowly, the stool pigeon looked toward the floor beside the other table.

There he saw a streak of blackness. It might have been a continuation of the bulky sweater. It loomed wide upon the floor; and Squawky, staring as he blinked, observed that it ended in a striking silhouette — a profile of the hawklike visage that lay as motionless as though it were etched upon the floor.

Squawky shuddered. He reached for the bottle. His hand shook as he poured himself a drink. Drops trickled from the lip of the glass; the liquid dabbed Squawky’s hand. More spattered on the stool pigeon’s chin as Squawky raised the glass to his lips.

There was reason for Squawky’s terror. That silhouette, as formidable as the form above it, brought grotesque thoughts to the stool pigeon’s fevered brain. It reminded Squawky of a dread being whose name he had heard whispered through the underworld — The Shadow!

Big shots had quailed through fear of The Shadow. For The Shadow was known as a superfighter, a lone wolf who roved the underworld, preying upon all who dealt in crime. A phantom of darkness, a living being who could travel unseen, The Shadow was the mighty foe of crookdom.

Dying gangsters had gasped The Shadow’s name. Others, who had gained respite through flight, had told of seeing him. A figure clad entirely in black; his eyes like living coals beneath the brim of a slouch hat; his form concealed by an inky, flowing cloak; his gloved hands gripping a pair of deadly automatics — such was The Shadow.

The Shadow, it was rumored, was a master of disguise. The Shadow, it had been proven, knew much, if not all, concerning activities in the underworld. He gave no quarter to those who dealt in crime. None were immune once The Shadow had marked them for destruction.

THIS was why Squawky feared. The unknown gangster; the black sweater; the silhouette upon the floor — these brought beads of perspiration to the stool pigeon’s forehead.

The Shadow was independent of the police. Squawky, as a stool pigeon, could gain no immunity should he incur The Shadow’s wrath. The presence of this mysterious stranger kept Squawky in a tremble. Until he found proof that The Shadow was watching some one other than himself, Squawky was afraid to move.

Wresting his gaze from the floor, Squawky blinked at the bottle as he helped himself to another drink. He did not dare to gaze to the right. His furtive, timorous glances were all brief ones, toward Trigger Maddock, at the left. Even these were few. Squawky still feared that The Shadow’s eyes were upon him.

Two men entered the Pink Rat. They looked like small-fry mobsters. One came slouching over toward Trigger’s table. He clapped the gangleader on the back and mouthed a friendly greeting. Trigger, apparently annoyed by the fellow’s approach, snarled in reply. The newcomer grinned in apologetic fashion. He began to sidle away. Trigger arose and followed him a few paces.

For a moment, the pair stood jaw to jaw. Trigger shoved the other man’s shoulder. Still snarling, the gangleader went back to his table. The small-fry crook rejoined his companion.

Squawky had seen the brief altercation. His eyes naturally followed the man whom Trigger had rebuked. But there were eyes that followed Trigger instead. Those watching eyes were the optics of the sweatered stranger whose gaze Squawky Sugler feared.

The sweatered watcher had seen a shift of hands. He saw Trigger, as he moved away, thrust his fist into his inside pocket. The small-fry crook had delivered something to Trigger Maddock.

Neither of Trigger’s gorillas had detected the move. Like Squawky, they had taken the affair only as an unpleasant meeting that had not been to Trigger’s liking. But the sweatered watcher was ready for the aftermath which came.

Trigger Maddock swallowed a drink. He spoke to his companions. They nodded. Rising, the gangleader strolled toward the door. Squawky, gripping his bottle, began to pour a third drink.

There was a motion at Squawky’s right. The sweatered mobster arose. His trousers, like his sweater, were black. He strolled toward another exit. No one was concerned with his departure.

When Squawky Sugler had gulped his drink, he gazed unthinkingly toward the floor beside the table on the right. The silhouette was gone. Squawky looked up; he blinked when he saw that the table had been vacated.

With a sigh of relief, the stool settled back in his chair. Concerned no more with Trigger Maddock, relieved of the fear which he had felt toward the stranger whom he had suspected to be The Shadow, the stool pigeon began to observe others in the Pink Rat.

MEANWHILE, Trigger Maddock was departing from the outside alley. The gangleader had reached the street beyond. He paused to gaze over his shoulder; then resumed his course. He walked rapidly along the street.

From the darkness of the alley, a pair of keen eyes had seen Trigger’s move. A sweater moved upward; from beneath its bulk came the girdling folds of another black garment. A cloak swished over shoulders.

A flattened hat took shape. It capped the head above the cloak. A form moved forward. Gaining the sidewalk of the street, a fleeting figure merged with the gloom of a house wall. Burning eyes spied Trigger, less than a block ahead.

Then began a weird pursuit. One block — two — three — the gliding phantom trailed Trigger. The space was closing. Trigger did not suspect that he was being followed.

The gangleader reached a brick building which, though old, was more pretentious than others of the neighborhood. He stopped just outside the door. The place was a cheap apartment.

A man stepped from beside the door. Trigger spoke to him in a low growl:

“Hello, Herb. Where’s Greasy? Upstairs?”

“Yeah, Trigger, waitin’ for you.”

“All right.”

Holding his hand in front of him, Trigger spread his fingers, then closed his fist. He repeated the action twice. Herb nodded. Trigger entered the apartment. Herb slouched away from the door.

It was dark on the other side of the street. Herb did not see the figure that arrived there. He did not catch a glimpse of the blackened form that moved along toward the corner of the apartment house; nor did he see those burning eyes that stared upward toward the third floor of the building which Trigger had entered.

A light had appeared in a room on that floor. A soft laugh came in eerie whispered tones. A phantom shape glided across the street, unseen by Herb. It reached the side wall.

A squidgy sound occurred. It was made by concave rubber disks, attached to hands and feet. A batlike figure began its ascent straight up the precipitous bricks. Its goal was that lighted room.

Squawky Sugler had been right in his fears. The mysterious watcher was The Shadow. Like Squawky, the master of the night had chosen the Pink Rat as a post of observation. But where the stool pigeon had failed to see evidence of coming crime, The Shadow had detected it.

That was why The Shadow had left the Pink Rat. His disguise covered by his cloaking garb of black, The Shadow was planning a surprise visit. He was here to learn what Trigger Maddock had received from the small-fry crook during that interlude in the Pink Rat!

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THE Pink Rat was a cross-roads of the underworld. Gangsters, con men, dope peddlers — the scum of Manhattan made the place their rendezvous. Two rules governed the patrons of the joint. Men wanted by the police were barred; gang fights or lesser altercations were taboo.

The enforcement of these two provisions kept the Pink Rat unmolested. Although gambling and dope were ever present in the dive, the law violations were not on a large scale. Technically, the police should have closed the Pink Rat. They left it open because it drew customers from secret and more dangerous dives; also because it was a spot where stool pigeons had opportunities for picking up information.

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