The Four Signets

CHAPTER II. GANGLAND’S MENACE

DOPEY ROOGAN was at his post. Huddled against the wall, his pasty face registering anxiety, the little stoolie was looking across the thoroughfare beneath the elevated. Dopey was playing a game to which he had been accustomed. He was feigning that he was on the lookout for an imaginary dope peddler.

All the while, Dopey was taking in the faces of the passers. He watched shambling bums and bearded peddlers as they shifted along the street. But he did not, as yet, spy the persons whom he expected: Detective Joe Cardona and a squad of raiders.

Dopey knew well that Joe Cardona would be artful. No bluecoats would approach this spot, although some might be near at hand, ready for a call. Moreover, Dopey was sure that the plainclothes men who accompanied Cardona would be few in number and that they would form a chosen crew. Other sleuths might herald a trip to the underworld by the tramp of ponderous flat feet; but Joe Cardona was too wise for that.

Intent upon his view across the street, Dopey Roogan did not observe a man who was coming up from the lighted corner below. This fellow was on the same side of the street as Dopey. Broad shoulders bulked beneath his heavy overcoat. His face was bent downward toward the sidewalk. With derby hat tilted over his face, the approaching man kept his features unnoticed as he puffed at a cigar.

At times, he paused to stare at tawdry shop windows. He seemed in no hurry to get anywhere. Yet all the while, his cautious course was bringing him closer to the near side of the alleyway. Pauses — puffs — pauses. Unnoticed by Dopey, the big fellow was edging toward his goal.

FROM across the street, unseen eyes were watching. A new figure had entered the strange scene. Yet this arrival had escaped all notice. Singularly, he had chosen the very doorway which Dopey had used as a spring spot to cover Creeper Trigg. Yet Dopey, staring up and down the street, had not the slightest inkling that his former post was occupied.

The big man, lounging from shop to shop, made a final pause as he neared the alley. His face came up; a rough, heavy-chinned countenance was revealed as the fellow stared across the street. But though he looked straight toward the doorway, he saw no signs of a living presence there. Edging a few steps more, the big man ducked into the alley.

The eyes saw. They glowed from the darkness like blazing coals. Blackness moved upward from the doorway. A solid mass detached itself from the front of the building and glided across the sidewalk. It joined the darkness of an elevated pillar.

A slouching drunk paused to stare. His bleary eyes had seen that semblance of life. The man had caught one fleeting glimpse of a strange, ghostly figure. Then he had lost it.

The bum shambled on, staring over his shoulder as he went. But he had picked the wrong spot. He did not see the repetition of the weird phenomenon as blackness moved once more.

The being from the doorway had reached the pillar on the side toward the entrance of the alley. Keen eyes were watching Dopey Roogan, the only person who was about. The brilliant gaze read the expression on the fake hop-head’s face. Then Dopey turned his anxious gaze in another direction. The lurking figure moved with swiftness.

For one brief second, the phantom shape was revealed by the dull lights that flickered on the sidewalk. A long cloak, inky in hue, swept back from the shoulders that wore it. A slouch hat showed beneath the light; its brim, however, concealed the features under it. Then the apparition was gone. The visitor from the night merged with the darkness of the alley.

Had Dopey Roogan turned to view the passage of that amazing form, the stoolie would have registered real terror. For the swift flight from darkness to darkness had marked the passage of gangdom’s menace.

Out of blackness into blackness: such was the course of The Shadow.

Master sleuth who moved by night; unknown battler who waged war with forces of the underworld, The Shadow had spied upon the man who had edged into the alley. For The Shadow had taken up the trail of that arrival. He knew the identity of the man whom Dopey Roogan had failed to notice. The Shadow was on the trail of Luke Zarby, notorious leader of a bank-robbing band.

Somewhere in the underworld, The Shadow had gained track of Zarby. Where police had failed to find the crook, The Shadow had gained success.

The Shadow’s uncanny skill was evidenced in the darkness of the alley. Though the man ahead was practically out of sight, The Shadow, approaching, picked the very spot where Zarby had gone. That was the passage beside the sixth house.

BACK at the entrance of the alley, Dopey Roogan had ceased his vigil. Across the street, the stool pigeon spied the men he was awaiting. They had seen him also — Joe Cardona and two others from headquarters.

Dopey Roogan shuffled away past Jake’s cigar store. His part of the job was done.

Dopey Roogan had identified Creeper Trigg as Doc Ralder, a man of medical training who aided crippled crooks. He had tipped off the police to Ralder’s hide-out; moreover, Dopey believed that wounded members of Luke Zarby’s gang might be there. But Dopey had no inking to the fact that Doc Ralder had left the hide-out; nor did he know that Luke Zarby had edged into that alleyway.

Least of all, did Dopey suspect that The Shadow had entered the kaleidoscopic picture. The squeamish stoolie would have been stunned had he been able to view the interior of the little room that Doc Ralder, alias Creeper Trigg, had used for a downstairs office.

There, revealed in the glow of the single light, was the tall figure of The Shadow. The cloaked visitor had just arrived to find the room empty. But The Shadow knew that Luke Zarby had preceded him. Two doors offered possible courses that the bank robber might have taken.

The door to the right was unlocked. The one straight ahead was locked. The Shadow probed it with a thin, black metal pick. The instrument encountered a key in the lock. This meant that some one — perhaps Zarby — had gone in that direction and locked the door behind him. The other doors had been unlocked; but The Shadow did not always trust the obvious. His soft laugh indicated that he wanted to know what was beyond this barrier before he tried the open one at the right.

A gloved hand came from the black cloak. It had another instrument, shaped like a pair of pointed pliers.

This device entered the lock; it clipped the key. Fingers turned; the door unlocked.

The Shadow opened the barrier and stepped into a dark passage. Before him lay the route that Ralder and Hoot had taken.

Keenly, The Shadow analyzed the fact that this was merely an exit. He turned to go back into the office.

His keen ears caught the sound of an opening door. The Shadow stepped back into the passage and locked the door behind him.

He was none too soon. Another door opened! Joe Cardona and his two followers stepped into the office.

Short and stocky, his swarthy face firm beneath the light, Cardona surveyed the two doors. He approached the one through which The Shadow had gone. He found it locked. A detective tried the other door and whispered hoarsely that it was open. Cardona nodded. He decided to take the open route.

The detectives followed their leader. Beyond the opened door, Joe found a darkened passage that led to a flight of stairs. He motioned his companions to come along. Cautiously, the detective crept upward.

Near the top, he paused as he spied a trickle of light from beneath a closed door. He stopped his men to listen. They caught the mumble of voices. But they did not hear the unlocking and opening of a door in the office below.

INSIDE the room on the second floor, Luke Zarby was talking to three men who sat about in wicker chairs. Coarse-featured in the light of the room, Zarby was noting the fact that his three gorillas looked in good condition. But he seemed annoyed by the report that Doc Ralder had departed.

“You say the sawbones walked out, eh?” growled Zarby. “Took a bag with him? Where did he dig it up?”

“Out of that room,” responded one of the henchmen, pointing to a door.

“Did he leave any of his truck?” quizzed Zarby.

“Don’t know,” came the response. “We didn’t look around. Just told us to wait here for you. Said he had to go out.”

“I figured he was goin’ out to help some guy,” put in another crook.

“Looked like he was takin’ his tools with him. Maybe some mug got plugged.”

“I’ll find out quick enough,” retorted Zarby. “Wait’ll I take a squint in that other room.”

The big leader opened the door and stepped from view. He left the door ajar. The gorillas stared, expecting to see a light come on. Then a sound attracted their attention. They swung toward the outer door. Two of the three came to their feet. Then all stopped short.

The door had opened inward. Stepping forward was Joe Cardona, a flashing revolver in his hand. Before any of the gorillas could make a move, the detective was inside the door. His two companions followed him. Joe motioned them to cover the gorillas.

“Some of Zarby’s mob, eh?” quizzed the detective. “Well, you’re the birds we’ve been looking for. Where’s Doc Ralder? We want him, too.”

No response. Cardona chuckled sourly as he studied the defiant faces of the crooks. The detective spied the other door. Satisfied that his men had the gorillas helpless, Cardona strode in that direction. He was figuring that if Doc Ralder was in another room, he would be hiding or trying for a getaway. Joe did not credit the sawbones with being a man of nerve.

Hence, when Cardona yanked open the door, he was totally unprepared for the surprise that he received. Instinctively, the detective dropped back as he came face to face with Luke Zarby. The bank robber had heard the detective enter. He was waiting, ready.

Cardona’s gun hand was down. He had no chance to raise it.

Zarby’s guttural command was issued to the other detectives. Turning in astonishment, they found themselves in a line with the crook’s gun. They lowered their revolvers. Like Cardona, they were covered by the gat that Zarby moved back and forth in businesslike fashion.

The three gorillas came to their feet. All were armed. They flashed their revolvers and each picked a man. Zarby, standing in the doorway, grinned as he kept his own revolver moving back and forth.

“So that’s it, eh?” jeered the bank robber. “Doc Ralder ducked out of here and squealed. Got the dough from me for putting these fellows on their feet. Then pulled a double cross. Well — he’ll get his. But before he does we—”

Zarby paused to nod to his gorillas. The men understood the signal. It was one that their chief had used before. It meant to give the works, as soon as Zarby opened fire.

The detectives caught the meaning. They were helpless.

Zarby swung back toward Joe Cardona. As the leader of the crooks, he intended to shoot the chief of the dicks. But before Zarby gained his aim, a sound made him pause. Instinctively, the bank robber faced the outer door, which the detectives had left open. With a wild cry, Zarby aimed in that direction and pressed finger to the trigger of his gun.

He was too late. The thundering report that sounded was not from the revolver. An automatic barked its message from the doorway. With it came the fierce mirth of a sinister laugh.

Luke Zarby staggered. He had seen the menace, but not in time to avert disaster. The Shadow, close on the heels of the detectives, had stepped in to save their lives.

STARTLED gorillas stood stupefied as their leader crumpled to the floor. Wild eyes turned toward the door, where they saw the dread figure of the cloaked avenger.

Then, while no crook dared meet the threat of looming automatics, Joe Cardona acted. Springing forward, the detective launched himself upon the crook who had him covered.

A second sleuth followed Joe’s example. Gorillas fired; but their shots went wide. The third detective was caught flat-footed. Before he could spring, the man in front of him pressed finger to trigger. Again an automatic spoke.

A cry. The gorilla’s hand unclenched. His revolver fell to the floor as blood spurted from a wound. Then the detective raised his gun and fired. His bullet doomed the crook. The crook clasped hands to his chest and doubled upon the floor.

Two shots from a revolver. Joe Cardona, struggling, had gotten his man. At the same instant, the second detective received a slugging blow upon the head. The dick rolled helpless. The last gorilla aimed for the door and fired wildly.

One bullet zimmed into the woodwork beside The Shadow’s head. Then came the response of an automatic. The mobster rolled upon the floor.

Joe Cardona, rising, knew that the crooks were done. He was about to turn toward the door, when a harsh voice stopped him.

It was Luke Zarby speaking. Mortally wounded, the bank robber had half risen from the floor. With a final effort, he was gasping out dying words. Venomously, he snarled forth an accusation for Cardona’s ears.

“A double-crosser,” coughed Zarby. “Doc Ralder — he squealed — but he’s phony. Don’t — don’t let him get away with it. He’s — he’s got a pal — a pal— Hoot Shelling—”

Slumping, Zarby sprawled grotesquely on the floor. A mocking laugh came as a knell. Weird mirth from the doorway — a taunt that trailed, then faded with surprising suddenness. Joe Cardona swung away from Zarby’s body. Staring, the detective saw nothing but the blackness of the hall.

The Shadow had departed. He had dealt with men of crime. He had heard Luke Zarby’s accusation. It had given him a clue that he had sought. For The Shadow, when he spied from darkness, saw with uncanny intuition.

The Shadow had watched Dopey Roogan. He had picked the furtive fellow as a stool pigeon. The Shadow knew now that Dopey had brought this raid; not by trailing Luke Zarby, but by watching Doc Ralder, the owner of this hide-out.

THE proof of this conclusion came later, when a light clicked in a darkened room. Bluish rays upon a polished table denoted the presence of The Shadow in his hidden sanctum. A hand took pen and inscribed two names upon a sheet of paper:

Luke Zarby had betrayed the connection between the two, hoping to get back at Ralder, whom he thought was a double-crosser. The Shadow had heard of both men. Doc Ralder, the elusive sawbones; Hoot Shelling, a crafty mobleader.

They were hiding out, this pair. They must be traced. The Shadow’s laugh crept through the sanctum as the names faded from the paper. The hand of The Shadow inscribed another name:

The stool had traced Doc Ralder before. He might find the trail again. That meant three who were concerned — not two. Of the three, there was one who would be engaged in crime: Hoot Shelling.

There were two ways in which the crook might be found. First, through members of his mob — the course that The Shadow would ordinarily follow. Second, through this clue that Zarby had given; plus The Shadow’s keen discovery. Dopey Roogan — Doc Ralder — Hoot Shelling. Through the stool pigeon, the sawbones; through the sawbones, the crook.

A tiny light gleamed on the further wall as The Shadow brought earphones beneath the bluish light. Then came a voice across the wire:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Instructions to Marsland,” came The Shadow’s whisper. “Report all movements of Hoot Shelling’s mob. Watch Dopey Roogan. He is a stool. Report his actions.”

“Instructions received,” came the response.

Through Burbank, his contact man, The Shadow had sent word to Cliff Marsland, his agent in the underworld. Working in the heart of the underworld, Cliff would seek information that might bring the trail to Hoot Shelling.

The bluish light went out. A weird laugh rose in the solid darkness. Its crescendo ended; followed by shuddering echoes. Then came silence. The sanctum was empty.

Dealing with men of evil, The Shadow had scented the approach of new crime. Hoot Shelling was to be his quarry. The Shadow knew the criminal as a crook of prowess; one who had engaged in crafty, undercover methods.

Yet even with his insight into ways of crime, The Shadow had gained no foreknowledge of the amazing events in which Hoot Shelling was to play a part.