The Dark Death

CHAPTER XXI. THE POLICE SEARCH

JOE CARDONA had planned no puny raid upon the headquarters of Gyp Tangoli. Besides the detectives who had entered with him, Joe had stationed a force of two dozen bluecoats and plainclothes men about the house on Fifty-eighth Street.

It was the sound of gunfire that had brought Joe and his raiding squad pouncing up the stairs from below.

They had heard Gyp Tangoli’s fire while they were still on the street. While Cardona and his men had entered, those outside had remained alert.

One spot that they had watched was the fire escape. The back of the house was totally dark. Even with their flashlights, policemen had been unable to discern if any one was on the iron structure. But they followed the simple plan of waiting at the bottom, ready to stop any one who might come down.

The Shadow was on that fire escape. He had reached it after his swift departure. He was descending. He paused to crouch almost above the heads of those who were waiting below. It was a spot from which escape seemed impossible.

Off to the side where the hinged steps descended, a cop was holding a flashlight slightly aloft while two others were stretching to bring down the hinged section of the fire escape. The lantern was turning. In another moment it would reveal the figure at the lowest landing.

The Shadow chose that instant for action. Drawing an emptied automatic from beneath the cloak, he sent the weapon whirling with unerring precision, straight for that waving circle of light.

Crash! The Shadow scored a perfect hit. The shattered electric lantern went clattering from the policeman’s hand.

AN instant later, The Shadow went speeding up the steps toward the second floor. He stopped before he reached the window that he had used for entrance and exit. Reaching up, he seized the sill of another window: one that opened into the rear apartment.

That window was open. The Shadow drew himself through with amazing rapidity. The policemen had brought down the end of the fire escape. They were pounding upward, swinging flashlights and revolvers.

Two of Cardona’s men had reached the window of the rear hall.

The Shadow, meanwhile, was silently lowering the window of the apartment. From the cries that he still heard, he knew that no one had spotted the exact place from which the missive had come. It might have been from the fire tower. Perhaps from an upper window. But it was drawing the outer men to the rear of the old house.

The Shadow was in an empty apartment. He could hear raiders pounding at the door. He moved stealthily to a side window and opened it. Detectives were crashing at the door. The Shadow looked downward from the window. The passage at this side of the house was a dark one.

Footsteps clattered through. The Shadow swung from the window and drew the sash downward. He dropped to the ground below. For a moment he crouched beside a niche in the wall.

There were shouts from all about. Officers were coming on to the roof from adjoining houses. Rising, The Shadow drew a flashlight. He strode forward through the passage and clicked his torch. The blinding glare dazzled a bluecoat who was guarding the entrance to the narrow path.

“Who’s that?” challenged the officer.

“Detective Sergeant Markham,” returned The Shadow in a gruff voice, still covering the officer with his light. “Inside, all of you. I’m in charge here. Get up to the second floor. In through the front door.”

The officer hurried to the front door. Another policeman was on guard there. The first cop passed the word. The two stepped in. The Shadow clicked out his torch; he swung from the front end of the passage and sidled quickly against the front of the next building.

It was a timely move. Already policemen and detectives were coming back through the side passages. A patrol car was whining up from the end of the street.

Keeping close to the front of the next building, The Shadow swept swiftly through the darkness. He found a passage beyond the next house. He cut through to the rear, as a second patrol car came up from the opposite end of the street.

The Shadow had used this trick before. The drawing in of a cordon; a prompt departure while it closed.

Luck, bluff and quick action had served him well tonight. Usually, in a departure of this sort, he engaged in chance encounters, spilling policemen and detectives who blocked his path at crucial moments. This time, he had managed to avoid such action.

IN the next block, The Shadow dodged new patrolmen who were coming up. He reached a spot three blocks away, entered a taxi unnoticed by the driver, and announced his presence with a quiet order.

Ten minutes later, he reached through the front window and dropped payment as the driver reached the destination. The Shadow stepped quickly from the cab into a quiet space on a side street near Sixth Avenue.

Another cab was waiting there. The Shadow stepped aboard. The driver of the first cab looked about.

He saw no sign of his mysterious passenger. He drove away, pondering.

The driver of the new cab, however, knew that something was up. For this driver was Moe Shrevnitz, posted at an appointed spot. He heard The Shadow’s order. It was to wait here for ten minutes. Moe wondered why.

Ten minutes. Then came a new order. Moe started the cab; he entered Sixth Avenue and headed northward. He wove a course as The Shadow gave it. Soon they were slowly rolling along another avenue, near Fifty-fourth Street.

Moe’s cab was coasting easily, as though about to stop, when the sound of a siren came from down the avenue. The Shadow peered sharply from the rear window. He saw a limousine speeding northward. It was Commissioner Weston’s car.

The Shadow knew that Weston was due back in town; that word would reach him of the raid immediately upon his arrival. Clyde Burke had furnished details regarding Joe Cardona’s appointment with the police commissioner.

This avenue was the logical one by which the commissioner’s car would come. The Shadow wanted to intercept it. He shot an order to Moe Shrevnitz. The taxi driver obeyed.

Just as traffic cleared. Moe swung for a left turn. He brought the cab to a jolting stop half across the avenue. Brakes screeched as Weston’s chauffeur brought the big limousine to a halt. Moe sent the cab forward with a terrific jerk. The door swung open. A figure came tumbling to the street.

It was not the form of The Shadow. Cloak and hat had gone long since into a bag on the floor of Moe’s cab. The personage who half sprawled on the lighted avenue was none other than Lamont Cranston.

“Cranston!” he exclaimed. “You were in that cab! Officer,” — this to a traffic cop who came up — “arrest that driver.”

“Please, mister,” pleaded Moe, white-faced, to the commissioner. “I was trying to get clear. A car shot in front of me—”

“Let him go, commissioner,” laughed The Shadow, in Cranston fashion. “The poor devil was scared stiff. I saw it myself. Here, cabby. Roll along.”

He passed a bill to Moe, who sputtered his thanks and drove away. The traffic cop growled.

“Looked mighty dumb to me, commissioner,” he protested. “That cab driver was plain goofy.”

“Forget the matter, officer,” rebuked Weston. Then, to his friend, “Come, Cranston. In my car. I have urgent business. A police raid.”

A FEW minutes later, Weston and The Shadow alighted in front of the house on Fifty-eighth Street. A score of officers were about the place. They saluted Weston as he and his friend entered the house.

They found Joe Cardona on the second floor, in the swami’s seance room. The ace detective exhibited the Q-ray machine. The commissioner stood aghast.

“Where did this come from?” he exclaimed. “Not from the laboratory of Universal Electric?”

“No,” returned Cardona. “I’ve called there. That machine was dismantled, right enough. This must be a duplicate.”

“Seth Brophy’s, perhaps,” commented The Shadow, in the easy tone of Cranston.

“What’s that, Cranston?” quizzed Weston. “You think—”

“Merely an idea, commissioner. Brophy has not been heard from. I would advise a more thorough search of his house.”

“A good suggestion. It shall be done tonight. What about this swami, Cardona? Who is he?”

“Gyp Tangoli. Markham landed a clue. We followed it.”

“And he planted the machine?”

“I don’t think so. This fellow — we’ve identified him as Cuyler Willington — looks like the bet. Riddled with bullets. The Q-ray couldn’t get him.”

“Where is Tangoli?”

“He made a get away. I caught a glimpse of the fellow. I think was him. Togged up in the swami robes we found in the back room.”

“Tangoli was dark?”

“Yes. But he was far enough away, maybe, to escape the ray. He fired at us; we had to duck.”

A thin smile appeared upon the masklike lips of Lamont Cranston. Joe Cardona had made no mention of The Shadow. Joe knew that again the cloaked fighter had saved his life.

“We had the place surrounded,” declared Cardona. “But that wouldn’t have prevented Gyp Tangoli from ducking up or down. There was some funny business out on the fire escape. Somebody used Markham’s name down by the front passage on the side of the house.

“It wasn’t Markham. It might have been Tangoli. We’re searched this apartment house from top to bottom. There’s no sign of the fellow. An old lady on the third floor. A man in each apartment on the fourth.”

“Neither of the men answer Tangoli’s description?”

“No. Nowhere near it. The landlord’s due here to identify them, though. Markham went to get him.”

Weston remembered Cranston’s suggestion. He arranged for detectives to go to Brophy’s house. He specified a thorough search — walls and floors as well as the rooms themselves.

When Weston had finished these instructions, Markham appeared, accompanied by a genial German.

“This is Mr. Einhorn,” announced Markham. “Owner of this building.”

THE proprietor nodded.

Cardona led the way upstairs to the fourth floor. They entered the front apartment. Two policemen were on guard. A haggard-faced man was seated in a chair.

“Know him?” questioned Cardona.

“Sure,” replied Einhorn. “Good tenant” — he chuckled — “when he’s not too much behind with the rent. How do, Mr. Tobin?”

“His name is Tobin?” asked Cardona. “Hector Tobin?”

“Sure.” nodded Einhorn. “Didn’t he tell you so?”

“He did. How long has he resided here?”

“About two years.”

“All right.”

Cardona led the way to the rear apartment, with the others following. Two more policemen were on duty. Their charge was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in shirtsleeves. His face was pasty and solemn; his eyes dull.

“Know this fellow?” questioned Cardona.

“Sure,” replied Einhorn. “He is Mr. Dolke. George Dolke. Don’t see you often, Mr. Dolke. Still traveling?”

Dolke nodded.

“How long has he lived here?” quizzed Joe.

“About one year,” returned Einhorn. “He goes in; he goes out. Always the rent by the first of the month — regular.”

“All right.”

Cardona spoke to the officers. They followed as the group descended. The other pair of policemen came along at Cardona’s bidding. Weston offered no objection. It was obvious that neither of these tenants tallied with Gyp Tangoli.

“I shall leave you in charge, Cardona,” stated Weston, when they reached the street. “Keep a few men at this house until the morning. Meanwhile, start the dragnet. We must trap Gyp Tangoli at any cost.” He turned. “Coming with me, Cranston?”

“Sorry, commissioner,” replied The Shadow, in his calm tone. “I have an appointment further uptown. I shall take a cab.”

“Don’t pick the driver you had before,” laughed Weston.

A thin smile showed on Cranston’s lips. His tall form strolled along the street. A block and a half away, Weston’s friend stepped aboard a cab. He spoke an order from the rear seat.

Moe Shrevnitz responded. He had been waiting at this spot.

The cab rolled away. It doubled the next corner and turned back along Fifty-ninth Street, passing occasional policemen who were still searching the neighborhood. The cab stopped within the next block.

This time it was blackness that emerged. The Shadow, again a cloaked creature of darkness, was faring forth upon a new and important quest.