The Dark Death

CHAPTER XIII. TRAILS IN THE NIGHT

IT was nine o’clock that evening.

Gyp Tangoli, attired in gaudy dressing gown, was standing in the living room of his apartment. His dark face wore an evil scowl; his twisted lips, as they formed an ugly smile, showed a glimmer of his gold teeth.

Opposite Gyp was Turk Berchler. The squatty killer was seated in an easy-chair, puffing at a cigarette.

Turk’s pug-nosed face showed brownish in the light. His expression was one that indicated annoyance.

But Turk said nothing. He was waiting for Gyp to speak. The time came.

“We ought to have heard from Skeeter,” growled Gyp. “He’s been around that beanery for a couple of hours. It’s a cinch that he ought to have spotted Willington by this time.”

“I don’t figure it that way, Gyp,” returned Turk. “Why should Willington go back to the Hotel Royal?”

“That’s where he lives, isn’t it? And he’s in town.”

“Sure. But he’s taking no chances.”

“No? Then why is he talking about coming to the Club Cadiz?”

“It’s easy to figure, Gyp. Willington knows that somebody may be out to get him. He’s not quite sure, though. He thinks maybe the bump was really meant for Congo Mollin. But he’d be a palooka to go back to the Hotel Royal. The Club Cadiz is different, though.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because Nicky Donarth keeps gorillas out of that joint. Except any he might want to have around for protection. Willington figures the Club Cadiz is safe.”

“You don’t think he figures I’m out to get him?”

“Why should he? He don’t know what’s in your mind. You’ve never gone after him before.”

“Maybe you’re right, Turk. But Willington is smart. He might have figured that Driller Borson and Gat Lober were on my pay roll.”

“But he wouldn’t figure on meeting you at the Club Cadiz. That’s why he’s going there.”

Gyp nodded. Turk’s expression sounded logical. The two crooks faced each other in silence. Then Gyp spoke again.

“It looks like the Club Cadiz is the best bet,” he remarked. “That is, if Willington really shows up there.

Only Nicky was kind of squeamish when I talked to him.”

“I fixed that,” grunted Turk. “Nicky can’t back out on anything that I put up to him. He gave me an alibi, didn’t he? Well, he’s got to stick to it, or get in wrong with the bulls. Listen, Gyp: you don’t want Skeeter Wigan on the loose. Call him in from that beanery. He won’t see Willington around the Hotel Royal.”

GYP TANGOLI nodded. He clapped his hands. Instantly, his two Hindus appeared, each from a separate door.

Gyp spoke to the one called Mahmud. The fellow bowed and went to the telephone. He dialed a number; then in careful English, he asked to speak to Mr. Wigan. A short conversation followed.

Mahmud hung up.

“I have spoken to him, sahib,” said the Hindu, addressing Gyp Tangoli. “He will come here from that little restaurant where he now is.”

The Hindu turned and went into another room. Bundha copied the action, returning to the place from which he had come. Hardly had the Hindus departed before the telephone began to ring.

“Answer it, Turk,” said Gyp.

Turk Berchler responded. His conversation was brief. He looked pleased when he had completed it.

“It was Nicky,” he said to Gyp. “Willington has shown up at the Club Cadiz. Nicky’s ready for us.”

“To get Willington?”

“Sure. In Nicky’s office. It will be a cinch, Gyp. Nicky can get Willington in there. Then we show up and bump the guy. Lug him out through a passage that Nicky has all set for a get-away. The door on the right of the office.”

“Who has the key to it?”

“Nicky keeps the key in his desk drawer. But we won’t need them. He’s going to leave the door unlocked.”

“All right.” Gyp’s teeth gleamed. “Willington isn’t wise; that’s a cinch. He’s been around the Club Cadiz a lot more than I have. He wouldn’t figure on Nicky selling him out to me.”

“Of course he wouldn’t.”

“And that makes it soft. I’ll walk in there and meet him. Like it was an accident. Both of us trying our luck at Nicky’s. Handshakes and all that.”

“Sure thing.”

“You come in a little later. Don’t talk to me. Just walk around, like you belonged there. Which you do.”

“Right.”

“When Nicky suggests that Willington go into the office, the guy will fall for it. If for no other reason, he’ll want to talk about me and what I’m doing there. Nicky will send for you, Turk.”

“That’s it.”

“And when you get inside, I’ll come over and cover. Nicky can step out, leaving you talking with Willington. I’ll walk in — like it was Nicky coming back—”

“And there’ll be curtains for Cuyler Willington.”

Turk’s face was evil as his lips formed the final statement. Gyp grinned in appreciation of his companion’s enthusiasm. He clapped his hands. The Hindus appeared.

“We’re going out,” stated Gyp, forgetting his usual jargon of Hindustani. “When Skeeter comes in, tell him to sit around until he hears from me. Get my evening clothes. Mahmud — the coat and vest. Here, Bundha, hang up this dressing gown.”

Gyp peeled off the dressing gown as he spoke. He stood wearing stiff shirt and collar with white tie as he waited for his coat and vest. Turk was already attired in tuxedo. He remained in his chair.

NEAR the entrance of the Hotel Royal, Hawkeye was standing by a news stand. He looked like a loiterer; but his presence had brought no comment from a passing policeman. For Hawkeye had a knack of appearing harmless and inconspicuous.

The little spotter had been watching the beanery across the street. He had seen Skeeter Wigan go to answer a telephone call, when accosted by a man behind the counter. Skeeter had remained to finish a bowl of chili. That accomplished, the frail mobster was starting toward the door.

Hawkeye stepped from beside the news stand. He sauntered across the street and shot a wig-wag signal to Moe Shrevnitz. The taxi man was parked near the cab stand of the Hotel Royal. Moe started along the street as he caught Hawkeye’s call.

Skeeter, leaving the little cafe, was swinging toward the corner. It looked as though he intended to walk; for he ignored the cab that was approaching. But as he reached the corner, he suddenly changed his mind and entered a taxi that was standing there.

“Goin’ to the Delphin Apartments,” growled Skeeter to the driver.

“Yeah?” questioned the cabby. “Where is the place?”

Skeeter gave the address. The taxi started out into the traffic of the avenue.

At the same instant, a man twisted away from a jam of persons waiting to cross the street. It was Hawkeye. Close at Skeeter’s heels, the little spotter had caught all that Gyp Tangoli’s tool had said.

A traffic officer was shouting angrily at Moe Shrevnitz, who had stalled his cab at the corner. Hawkeye came bounding over, wrenched open the door and leaped aboard. Cross traffic started. Moe grinned at the growling cop and shot across the avenue.

Hawkeye, head thrust through the space to the front seat, was talking quickly. He gave Moe the name and address of the apartment house.

“I think that’s where Gyp Tangoli lives,” he added, as they shot along the side street. “You’ll know the mug if you see him. Dark — he looks like a gypsy — with long hair and a lot of gold teeth.

“You can beat the goof that’s driving Skeeter. Get over there ahead of them and park. I’m coming along right after I make a phone call. Drop me at the next corner.”

Moe jammed the brakes twenty seconds later. Hawkeye bounded to the curb near the corner of an avenue and hurried into a cigar store to make a telephone call to Burbank.

Moe swung on a right turn. Traffic was clear. The alert cab driver made speed.

In fact, Moe Shrevnitz, when he neared the vicinity of the Delphin Apartments, was confident that he had gained a full five minutes on Skeeter’s cab. The street, when he reached it, was deserted except for a few parked cars. Moe pulled up a dozen yards away from the apartment house.

This was a good place to wait.

Watching from behind the wheel, Moe kept on the lookout for the arrival of Skeeter’s cab. He had stopped on the near side of the apartment house. He was staring at the entrance. His eyes became suddenly alert as two men stepped into view.

Both were dark-visaged. One was tall; the other squatty. These men — Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler — had come from the apartment house. Moe was positive that one must be the crook of whom Hawkeye had spoken.

Correctly, Moe picked the tail man as Gyp Tangoli. He eased the cab into gear and rolled up toward the apartment house.

“Taxi?”

Gyp and Turk climbed aboard as they heard Moe’s question. As they entered, Gyp growled an order through the front window.

“Club Cadiz,” he instructed, “and step on it. We’re in a hurry.”

No chance to stall. Moe shot the cab away from the curb, carrying the two crooks with him. Reaching below the seat, Moe pressed a switch. He bundled his coat collar close about his neck. The action enabled him to adjust an earphone.

For the rear of Moe’s cab carried the hidden microphone of a dictograph. It was wired for such occasions as this. As he drove along to the Club Cadiz. Moe Shrevnitz was set to overhear any conversation that might pass between Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler.

Two minutes after Moe had left, another cab pulled up in front of the apartment house. Skeeter Wigan alighted and entered the building. The front door was open; he went through and took the automatic elevator. The taxi, meanwhile, made its departure.

Three minutes passed. Then a furtive figure stepped gingerly into the entrance of the apartment house. It was Hawkeye. The little trailer had come to this vicinity after making his call to Burbank. He had looked in vain for Moe’s cab. Not seeing it, he wanted to check on the residents of this apartment house.

The name Tangoli appeared on a card by the number 3 G. Hawkeye grinned. That was enough for the moment. Hawkeye stepped outside and slunk away toward the darkness at the side of the apartment house. He had gone no more than a dozen steps when a sudden hiss halted him.

The Shadow!

Hawkeye stopped, trembling. Though he owned The Shadow as a chief, Hawkeye still dreaded his mysterious master. For Hawkeye possessed an uncanny ability at spotting hidden watchers; yet The Shadow, at times, approached so warily that even Hawkeye could not sense his presence.

“Report,” came a whispered order, seemingly from nowhere.

Hawkeye nodded in the darkness. He had already told Burbank that this was Skeeter’s destination and that Moe would be posted near the Delphin Apartments. He had also mentioned that he believed the apartment house was where Gyp Tangoli lived.

Moe took up his report from that point.

“It’s Gyp’s place,” he informed, in a whisper. “3 G is his apartment. But Moe’s gone. Maybe he picked up some passenger. It might be Gyp. I told Moe what he looked like—”

“Report received,” came a hissed interruption. “Off duty.”

Hawkeye nodded. He moved away from the apartment house, almost reluctantly. He thought he heard a swish close beside him. As he turned to cross the street, Hawkeye could not resist the temptation to dart a glance toward the entrance of the apartment house.

There he caught a momentary glimpse of blackness upon the stone steps of the apartment building.

Hawkeye did not see The Shadow. Only that token on the steps, a fleeting silhouette of a figure that had entered.

UP in Apartment 3 G, Skeeter was seated in the easy-chair that Turk Berchler had occupied. Mahmud had been here to give him orders. The Hindu had departed, leaving him alone.

Smoking a cigarette. Skeeter was staring at the floor. His eyes became suddenly affixed upon the same manifestation that Hawkeye had seen below. A profiled silhouette upon the floor.

A soft laugh whispered in the room. Skeeter gripped the arms of the chair and twisted about. The cigarette dangled foolishly from his pasty lips, its lighted point almost burning his chin. Before him, Skeeter saw The Shadow!

Like an apparition, the master of darkness had entered the room. Soundlessly, he had closed the door behind him. He had seen that Skeeter was alone. Instinctively, The Shadow had known that Gyp Tangoli was gone: that Moe Shrevnitz must have taken the dark-visaged crook as a passenger outside.

Blazing eyes were steady upon Skeeter. They burned from beneath The Shadow’s hat brim, from the face that was obscured by the upturned collar of the inky cloak. Again, the whispered laugh. No need of questioning.

Skeeter came half to his feet, plucking the cigarette from his lips, only to let it fall to the floor.

“Honest,” he whimpered. “Honest — I–I ain’t been doin’ nothin’. It’s Gyp Tangoli! He — he’s the guy you want. He — he had me spottin’ a guy named Willington.”

“Gyp’s gone. I–I don’t know where to. He was gone when I got here. I–I had to stay here. Gyp would bump me if I squealed. There was a guy here with him. Turk—”

Skeeter saw The Shadow whirl; at the same instant, gloved hands swept from beneath the cloak, bringing forth huge automatics. That was Skeeter’s last glimpse of life. For at that moment, two whirring objects came flashing through the room, each from a different door.

Unseen even by The Shadow, Mahmud and Bundha had stepped up to the doorway. Simultaneously, the cunning Hindus had sent long-bladed knives hurtling through the air, each with a different target.

MAHMUD’S aim had been for the traitor, Skeeter Wigan. The blade found its mark, deep in the neck of the pasty-faced crook.

Bundha’s target had been The Shadow. Only a sudden knowledge of danger had saved the cloaked intruder. The Shadow had whirled just in time.

As his cloak swept wide, Bundha’s blade went slashing through the crimson lining of the black-surfaced garment, inches only from The Shadow’s body. An instant later, both Hindus came hurtling across the room. Ignoring Skeeter as the little crook went slumping to the floor, they leaped fiercely upon their black-clad foe.

Even with his rapid whirl, The Shadow had not time to fire before his dark-visaged attackers were upon him. He had spun completely about to escape the hurled knife. Fading toward the wall, he dropped beneath the crashing force of the attack.

These Hindus were thugs. Professional killers, banished from their native land, they had a lust for murder.

With amazing prowess, they caught The Shadow’s upcoming wrists and twisted the cloaked fighter in a ferocious grapple.

Automatics blazed. Both shots went wide as the Hindus gripped The Shadow’s arms.

The Shadow’s left fist opened. Its automatic went bouncing to the floor. One weapon lost.

Bundha, the Hindu at the left, emitted a hoarse cry of triumph as he released The Shadow’s arm and leaped toward the automatic.

But that move had been a master stroke of strategy. Combined, the two thugs were as powerful as any enemy that The Shadow had ever encountered. Realizing it, he had dropped the gun as bait for one.

Mahmud had The Shadow’s right arm in a bone-crushing grip. But as Bundha leaped away, The Shadow shot his free left to Mahmud’s neck. With a mighty upward snap of his body, he sent the Hindu spinning through the air. Mahmud’s grip was torn away. The would-be killer went hurtling for a dozen feet, straight through the doorway from which he had come.

Dropped to his knees, The Shadow rolled for the floor as Bundha fired with the automatic. The bullet sizzled six inches above the folds of the black cloak. Bundha was surging forward as he fired. As the thug sought to press the trigger with new aim, The Shadow fired with the automatic that he had retained.

Bundha screamed. His arms shot forward. His body came pounding down upon The Shadow’s prostrate form. Rising, The Shadow gave a push with his left shoulder. The thug’s body rolled over and lay face upward on the floor. Bundha was dead. The Shadow’s bullet had found the villain’s heart.

THE SHADOW heard a sound from the next room. Swinging to the wall, he reached the doorway. A door slammed from beyond. The Shadow sprang forward. The room was a kitchen. Mahmud, recovering, had headed through the outer door, locking it behind him.

The Shadow stepped back into the living room. He could hear cries from outside; shouts coming from different sections of the apartment house.

Calmly, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number. Burbank’s voice responded.

“Report,” whispered The Shadow.

“Report from Moe Shrevnitz,” came Burbank’s answer, “He took Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler to the Club Cadiz. Overheard their conversation. They plan to murder Cuyler Willington.”

“Report received.”

People were crashing at the door of the apartment. The Shadow turned and viewed the bodies on the floor. Bundha lay face upward; Skeeter face downward. The crook, like the thug, was dead.

The Shadow stepped into the kitchen; the illumination was dim there, for all the light came from the living room. He crossed and inserted a pick in the lock. Mahmud had taken the key from the other side.

Crashes at the outer door. They meant nothing to The Shadow. He needed but a dozen seconds to probe this lock. The door opened. The Shadow stepped forth. He was on a fire tower. As yet, no one had thought of this way of reaching the apartment.

The Shadow descended. He stepped into darkness; he faded away through a narrow passage between buildings at the rear. His whispered laugh sounded in the gloom. He had found the destination that he wanted. That was the Club Cadiz.

Knowing the ways of crooks like Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler, The Shadow was sure that their attempt to murder Cuyler Willington would not be hasty. He had time to arrive before death would be due.

But The Shadow had not yet learned of Cuyler Willington’s counter measures. The doom that threatened at the Club Cadiz was more imminent than even The Shadow knew!