The Dark Death

CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW’S PASSENGER

A LIGHT coupe came to a stop on a secluded Manhattan street. A door opened. Someone stepped forth. The door closed.

Five seconds passed. Then a streak of blackness glided along the sidewalk beneath the dull glare of a street lamp.

The Shadow had abandoned Driller Borson’s coupe. That momentary blotch upon the paving was the only token of his passage. From that spot, The Shadow had merged with darkness. His work accomplished, the weird battler was departing into the night.

Three minutes ticked by. Then came a motion at the back of the coupe. The rumble seat opened. A head poked into view. The street lamp showed the grimy, sweat-streaked face of Skeeter Wigan.

Cautiously the puny mobster emerged. He stole to the front of the car and looked in. He seemed puzzled; then his face showed fright.

Until now, Skeeter had thought that one of Driller’s mobsters had been at the wheel of the coupe. The true identity of the driver dawning on him, Skeeter was filled with terror. He sidled across the street and dodged into an alleyway.

Ten minutes later, Skeeter appeared upon the steps that led to an elevated station. Peering nervously over his shoulder, the little gangster ascended and huddled in a corner of the platform until a train arrived.

He rode for several stations, hunched in a corner of a half-filled car. Then he stepped from the train and descended to the street.

Skeeter spied a cab. He entered it and gave the driver an address. Some minutes later, he entered the lobby of a second-class apartment building. He used an automatic elevator to reach the third floor. He tapped at a door marked “3 G.”

The door opened. A dark-skinned man eyed the visitor and motioned him to enter. The servant who had admitted Skeeter was a Hindu. Silently, the Oriental pointed to a chair; then started toward an inner door.

“Who is it, Mahmud?” came a gruff question from beyond the door.

“The little man, sahib,” responded Mahmud. “The one that you call Skeeter.”

“What’s he doing here?”

Before either Mahmud or Skeeter could reply, the speaker arrived in the doorway. He was a tall man, attired in a gaudy dressing gown. His face was almost as dark as Mahmud’s. His lips, also brown, showed a vicious leer that revealed the gleam of gold teeth.

THIS individual was well-known in certain circles of Manhattan. He was “Gyp” Tangoli, one-time speakeasy operator, erstwhile racketeer and reputed gambler. One of those shady characters upon whom the law had pinned nothing; yet who never stood above suspicion. Gyp Tangoli was noted for his participation in doubtful enterprises.

“Well?” Gyp glowered as he snapped the question at his visitor. “What’s on your chest?”

“I got to talk to you, Gyp,” pleaded Skeeter. “Right now. Alone.”

“All right.” Gyp seemed displeased despite his agreement. “Come on in.”

He led the way to a bedroom, where another Hindu was putting shirts in a bureau drawer. Gyp spoke to this second servant, using a jargon of Hindustani. The servant departed, closing the door behind him. Gyp wheeled to Skeeter.

“I told you to stay away from here,” he snarled. “What do you want to do — queer the game?”

“It’s queered already, Gyp,” whined Skeeter.

“What do you mean?” demanded Gyp, savagely. “Did somebody wise the bulls?”

“No.” Skeeter’s face showed real terror. “It wasn’t the bulls, Gyp. It was The Shadow!”

Gyp paused to stare. For a moment, his hard features seemed frozen. Then he motioned to a chair.

Taking a bottle from a bureau drawer, he poured out a drink and handed it to Skeeter. The little mobster gulped the liquor.

“Spill it,” ordered Gyp. Then, with a short, forced laugh: “I mean the news. Not the booze.”

“Out at Lovenson’s,” blurted Skeeter. “The Shadow was there. He got Driller. Then Gat. At least I think he got them; I didn’t see them drop.”

“Yeah? And what were the gorillas doing?”

“They took it too. The mugs that were inside the house. I hopped out and hollered to the others. But they didn’t have a chance.”

“Why not?”

“The Shadow had a crew planted outside. They bumped off the rest of the mob. I thought Wedge Dunney was going to get away in Driller’s coupe. So I hopped in the rumble and pulled down the top.”

“Yeah? And what happened to Wedge?”

“The Shadow must have got him, too. I didn’t know it until the coupe got to town. Then I got out and looked in the front seat. There wasn’t nobody there.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that The Shadow was the guy that drove me in. No foolin’, Gyp! He blew in that coupe, with me ridin’ in the rumble!”

Gyp picked up the bottle and poured himself a drink. He eyed Skeeter thoughtfully. Then he spoke.

“So they’re all wiped out,” mused Gyp, “Driller and Gat both. The gorillas with them. Well, guys like that come cheap. But let’s get at the bottom of it. Can you figure out how The Shadow walked in on this set-up?”

“I think I’ve got it, Gyp. He was with the mob. That’s the only way I can figure it.”

“With the mob? Which mob?”

“Driller’s. The Shadow was passin’ himself as a gorilla named Tonk Ringo. Joined up with the outfit a couple of weeks ago.”

“What makes you think that The Shadow was Tonk?”

“I’ll tell you. First of all, Tonk wasn’t around when I was passin’ the word tonight. But he showed up at the garage just before we started out.”

“Who tipped him that a job was on?”

“I don’t know. I asked him how he got wise. He said Driller told him.”

“What did Driller say about that?”

“I never had no chance to ask him. It was when we was ridin’ out in the touring car that I asked Tonk. Driller was up ahead in the coupe. I didn’t think nothin’ more of it.”

“Well — maybe Tonk told you a fact. It was your job, though, to tip off the crew. But how did Tonk know about the job if Driller didn’t tell him?”

“Say — if he was The Shadow, he’d have found some way to know about it. There ain’t nothin’ he can’t find out. But that ain’t all, Gyp. This fellow Tonk had a bag with him.”

“What kind of a bag? A keister?”

“Sure. Sort of a little suitcase. I asked him what it was for. He says to hold the swag.”

“Likely enough.”

“Yeah. But Driller already had two bags up in the rumble of his coupe. One with the drills; the other for the swag. Cokey put them there. Well, when we got out on Long Island, it was Tonk that brought in the bags; and he had his own with the others.”

“What then?”

“He went into the room where the box was. Alone, with Driller. That’s where the trouble started. Driller was sort of stallin’ on the job. Gat went in to see about it. Shots. Then instead of Driller or Gat, out comes The Shadow.”

“He might have been in there beforehand.”

“Not much chance, Gyp. It’s easier to figure he was Tonk Ringo, with that cloak and hat in the bag he brought along with him. This ain’t no pipe-dream, Gyp—”

“I’m not sayin’ it is. How long was this Tonk Ringo with Driller? A couple of weeks you say?”

“Yeah.”

“And this was the first job he was in? The first one that brought Driller and Gat together?”

“Yeah.”

Gyp considered. His meditation ended with a nod.

“You’ve spotted it. Skeeter,” he declared, “The Shadow was Tonk Ringo. Do you think he was wise that you were getting orders from somewhere and passing them to Driller? That you were getting orders from me?”

“He couldn’t have knowed that, Gyp. I never came here. I didn’t see much of Tonk. It was Cokey that got him in with the mob. He must have bluffed Cokey. Listen, Gyp — I wouldn’t have come here right now if I’d thought that The Shadow was wise—”

“Cut it. This is the best spot for you. You’ve got to lay low. Keep away from the joints. And I’ve got to watch it too. Well — that’s easy.”

Gyp leered, and paced about the room. He stopped to pour himself another drink. He offered the bottle to Skeeter, who accepted. The little mobster began to lose his nervousness.

“Say, Gyp,” he declared, “this figurin’ that The Shadow was Tonk Ringo means somethin’. Do you know it?”

“It means plenty!” snarled Gyp, “It means too much.”

“You don’t get what I’m drivin’ at. It means that there’s some jobs The Shadow don’t bother about bustin’ up.”

“What, for instance?”

“He ain’t goin’ to bother one crook that’s after another.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Last week” — Skeeter paused to reach for the bottle — “Driller went out to get Reds Parrock. A grudge job. He got Reds, too. A couple of the mob dumped the corpse.”

“Was Tonk Ringo with them?” asked Gyp, quickly.

“No,” replied Skeeter, “but he was wise to what was bein’ pulled. He could’ve smeared the game if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t. That’s why I figure it that The Shadow ain’t goin’ to stop one crook from puttin’ the finger on another.”

“And you think that ought to interest me?”

“Sure it ought! Ain’t there one guy you’d like to see in the morgue? The guy that—”

“Never mind; I remember. I told you about Cuyler Willington.”

“Sure you did. And you said he was sort of a high-brow guy. In with mugs that had dough. Around ritzy joints, the kind of places that The Shadow might be watchin’. You said if it wasn’t for The Shadow, you might take a shot at this dude Willington—”

“I remember. Let’s forget Willington.”

“But Willington’s a crook, ain’t he? And if he’s a crook, The Shadow’s goin’ to find it out after you put Willington on the spot. And The Shadow ain’t goin’ to worry about—”

“Hold it Skeeter! Take another shot and then turn in. I’ve got a room here for you.”

Gyp opened the door and called for Mahmud. The Hindu appeared. Gyp delivered a jargon of words.

Mahmud nodded and turned to Skeeter. The puny mobster finished his drink, waved good-night to Gyp and departed.

Gyp Tangoli closed the door. He seated himself in an easy-chair and peered toward the ceiling. His dark-hued face showed a frown. A snarl came from his lips. Then an insidious leer replaced it. Gold teeth gleamed in the light.

Gyp’s claim as a big shot had been ended tonight. Hidden in this lair, the dark-faced crook had used Gat Lober and Driller Borson as his tools, with Skeeter Wigan as an intermediary. He had lost Gat and Driller. Skeeter had come here for refuge.

Yet, as he considered, Gyp Tangoli was sure that the link had been broken; that his hidden part had not been uncovered by The Shadow. To The Shadow, he was just a small-fry crook. That was cause for satisfaction.

That part settled, Gyp was considering Skeeter’s final statements. Crook against crook. The Shadow would not intervene. That was Skeeter’s theory. The case of “Reds” Parrock, rubbed out by Driller Borson, was tangible evidence.

Gyp Tangoli chuckled as he poured himself a night-cap. He was thinking of Cuyler Willington, the man whom Skeeter had mentioned. New crime — bigger crime — all would be possible, with Willington eliminated.

A new goal lay before Gyp Tangoli. It would start with crook against crook. It would finish with rampant crime. The way was clear. For Gyp Tangoli had gained an inside knowledge of the motives of The Shadow!