The Eyes of the Shadow

CHAPTER XXIII. IN THE BLACK SHIP

There were about two dozen men in the large underground den when Pedro entered. The Mexican, with his ugly, scar-marked face, was a fit companion for the group that was assembled there. His eyes shone, and his teeth gleamed as he looked about him with satisfaction.

The crowd in the Black Ship represented the most ruthless thugs of the underworld. Every face that Pedro saw was a hardened, criminal type. Pockmarked features, ratlike eyes, coarse, brutal lips — these predominated in the Black Ship.

The Mexican seated himself at a table near the small bar that was in one corner of the room. The man behind the bar, a huge, brutal fellow, brought out a bottle and a glass and placed them in front of Pedro.

The Mexican gave him a dollar bill.

He knew who the bartender was. The man was "Red Mike" himself, the proprietor of the Black Ship. He conducted his notorious dive without interference from the police. For the Black Ship was the meeting place of the worst criminals that the underworld could boast, and the fact that it operated almost openly was of value to the authorities who sought to combat the evil hordes of gangland.

Police detectives did not enter the Black Ship, but their stool pigeons did. Time and again notorious criminals were traced from this den of the underworld. Yet it was only the most daring and most secretive of stool pigeons who dared enter the Black Ship; for had their identity been known, their lives would have been taken in an instant.

Red Mike knew that his place was tolerated by the police. For that reason he insisted that order be preserved. The gangsters respected Red Mike. They were his friends, and any unruly customer would be ejected instantly at his command.

"No gun play" was the proprietor's strict rule. He did not permit fights and quarrels among crooks to enter his domain. There was only one entrance to the Black Ship. It was an unwritten law in the underworld that those whose victims entered the dive beneath the street should wait outside until their men left Red Mike's place.

Any one could enter. Any one could be served. But only the toughest characters came in. Red Mike spotted strangers instantly. As long as they sat quietly and drank what they received they were welcome.

But no one was allowed to take a bottle from his place.

Like every hardened man of that district, Red Mike was willing to take a chance for the proper price.

Hence, on rare occasions, he allowed a fight to start in the Black Ship — but always under the most careful conditions.

He was expecting trouble to-night. A phone call had come from the proper person. In response, Red Mike had served free drinks to all his patrons. This was a remarkable action — one which was seldom performed in the Black Ship.

Some of the men had received the unexpected benefit with looks of surprise. Others — these were the ones whom Red Mike noticed particularly — had grinned in anticipation. Their toughened faces had shown sudden interest.

One by one they had risen from their tables and had gone through a door into a small inner room — a stone-walled apartment with an iron-plated door. It was seldom that Red Mike allowed any of his patrons to enter that room. It was usually kept for storage purposes.

Pedro the Mexican had entered before the last man had gone through the heavy door. He finished his drink leisurely. While he still sat at his table, the outer door of the Black Ship swung open and a man walked through the entrance.

The newcomer was tall and wiry. He wore khaki pants that were too large for him. An old sweater covered his body. A ragged cap was pulled down over his eyes. Beneath the visor was a face that revealed the typical gangster — a cruel, toughened face.

The pulled-down cap obscured the man's eyes and forehead. Red Mike did not recognize the new customer, yet he placed him instantly as a gangster. The proprietor of the Black Ship prided himself on his ability to spot any detective. This fellow was not of that ilk. He was unquestionably a denizen of the underworld.

The man accepted the bottle and glass that Red Mike laid before him and proffered a five-dollar bill. The proprietor made change and laid the money on the table. The man's head was turned downward; the cap prevented Red Mike from catching the slightest glimpse of his countenance.

The proprietor of the Black Ship waited behind the bar. He watched the stranger draw out a cigarette and light it before sampling the contents of the bottle. Another man came through the entrance. Red Mike recognized the fellow instantly. It was Spotter, the crafty-faced sneak who knew the underworld so well.

Spotter moved quickly and quietly across the room, taking a position in a corner, where he could observe the stranger who had entered before him. Yet Spotter was so situated that the other man could not see him without turning. No sign on Spotter's face betrayed any interest whatever. He became instantly occupied with the bottle that Red Mike put before him.

Pedro the Mexican sat where he could see Spotter. The big man with the scar on his face rose from the table. He stood as though undecided. Then he walked across and opened the heavy door. The sound of voices came from within as the Mexican entered the other room.

A few minutes passed, then two or three more ruffians came into the Black Ship. The den was becoming well-filled. This was Red Mike's cue.

"Them that wants can go in the other room," he announced. "Big crowd here to-night, boys."

The newcomers had already seated themselves, so they remained where they were. But shortly after Red Mike's invitation the stranger with the pulled-down cap rose and casually entered the other room. Spotter finished his drink slowly. Then he left his place and followed the stranger.

The inner room was virtually a vault, with a low stone ceiling and walls of solid masonry. It was lighted by a large electric bulb which hung from the ceiling. It was a fair-sized room, and contained several tables around the walls.

There were exactly eleven men there when Spotter entered and slipped into a chair beside the nearest table. Pedro was seated in a far corner, apparently talking to a man opposite him. The gangster with the pulled-down cap was close by, sullenly slouched over his table, apparently unaware what was going on.

The others were drinking and talking in rather low voices.

Red Mike entered and distributed bottles and glasses. When the proprietor had gone, the room apparently remained the same, except for one fact — all its occupants, with the exception of the slouching man with the cap, seemed to be turning furtive glances in the direction of Spotter.

The crafty-faced fellow poured himself one drink and gulped down the contents of his glass. He drank again, rather rapidly; finally he emptied the bottle. As he was about to set it on the table, he tilted the top of the bottle, and pointed it toward the man with the cap.

All eyes shifted toward the stranger. The man was leaning over the table, ignoring his drink. His hands rested beneath the table. The other men in the room began to move. Hardened grins appeared upon their faces. They were all known to Spotter; he recognized the fact that his companions were the boldest thugs of the underworld. He grinned also, for he was sure that guns would not be needed to-night.

Only one man displayed too much eagerness for what was to come. That was Pedro, the Mexican. He acted one second too soon. Spotter's motion had been the signal for a sudden attack that would come with cleverly calculated stealth. But Pedro, a look of grim vengeance appearing on his face, could not wait. He swung from his chair and sprang upon the huddled man who wore the cap. The Mexican's hand shot upward from his coat. The machete gleamed and came downward with a sure, well-aimed stroke.

The blade never reached its mark. As Pedro hurled himself across the table with amazing speed, the man with the cap slid quickly away from the wall where he sat. The machete whizzed by, cutting the shoulder of the sweater. Pedro, with all his weight behind the blow, fell forward upon the table.

Like a flash, the stranger was in the center of the room. He was standing, head up now, with both hands buried in the fold at the bottom of his sweater. His eyes were flashing as he glanced quickly around the room.

Only Spotter did not move. He grinned as he watched with his crafty eyes. By quick action the unknown man had reached the floor while the others were still rising. He stood there now, his shadow round and black upon the floor before him.

This was only for an instant. The nine thugs were in motion. Those nearest the stranger leaped with one accord. Two of them were drawing knives. The others were hurling themselves to the spot where the stranger stood.

With a quick, short motion the hands came from the fold of the sweater. The quick shots of two looming automatics burst the silence of the low-ceilinged room. Spotter could see the spreading motion of the stranger's hands as the bullets found their marks.

Some of the cutthroats sprawled upon the floor. The others, springing forward, fell in a mass upon their prey. The wiry man went down beneath the heap. Spotter grunted in satisfaction as he saw knives gleaming, raised to strike.

Then from the heap of men came a single pistol shot. Simultaneously the light in the ceiling was extinguished. Glass clattered to the floor. The overpowered victim had freed a hand, and his quick, instant aim had been true. The room was plunged in darkness.

Spotter slipped toward the door. There were shouts coming from the floor. Ten men, the giant Mexican included, were fighting one. But in that blackness they could not identify the enemy they sought. A chair crashed against the door. An oath came from Spotter.

The battler was free! He was fighting like a demon! Every blow he struck was finding a mark. Bottles crashed. Tables hurtled against the walls. The lone stranger was moving everywhere, using anything as a weapon. His foemen were battling blindly. They were powerless.

Spotter could hear groans and sharp oaths. He realized that the conflict would soon cease, with the one man victorious. Then he would be alone with the enemy whom he had betrayed. Alone with The Shadow!

There was a thumping at the door. Spotter had cleverly bolted it when he had entered, to cut off the only avenue of escape. Now he rose cautiously from the floor, drew back the bolt, and let the door swing inward.

The light of the outer room revealed the faces of excited gangsters. They leaped away from the door as it opened — only Red Mike remaining. He was the one who had knocked. Spotter darted through the opening.

The proprietor of the Black Ship held a flashlight and a revolver. But before he had an opportunity to enter to the rescue, the cutthroats swept him aside as they came staggering out. A flying chair struck Pedro as the big Mexican emerged, and he was stretched prone upon the floor.

Rowdies were crawling from the door — groaning, whining. Beaten men they were. The last one collapsed in the entrance. Then a tall figure appeared from the darkness. It raised the fallen ruffian and held him in mid-air. Red Mike pointed his revolver, seeking an angle from which he could shoot without striking the helpless man who was being used as a shield.

Then the body of the crippled thug was hurled forward. It landed against Red Mike with terrific force, sending the proprietor to the floor.

The door of the inner room closed with a bang. The bolt clicked as it was shot in place. The thick, iron-plated door blocked all entrance.

Then, to the ears of the men of the underworld, came a strange, ominous sound. It could be heard above their excited voices — heard even though it was muffled by the heavy barrier.

It was a hollow, mocking laugh — a chilling laugh — a laugh that made those hardened crooks stare at one another in sudden alarm.

Spotter shuddered as he recognized the laugh of The Shadow!