The Four Signets

CHAPTER V. IN THE DARK

PHILIP LYKEN’S jewelry store was located in a secluded neighborhood. It occupied a two-story building; its windows were fitted with bars. This feature applied to basement and second story, as well as ground floor.

The building formed a portion of a solid row of houses; in back was a cement passage that separated the row from the houses on the next street. The buildings in back were more pretentious. They were detached structures, with side passages between them.

Although Ed Mallan had been advised to pay an early visit to Lyken’s place, it was after ten o’clock when the private detective arrived in the vicinity. Darkness pervaded the street in front of Lyken’s.

Mallan, strolling along the opposite side of the thoroughfare, came to a stop as he studied the jeweler’s abode.

All the front windows were dark. That fact did not trouble Ed Mallan. The jewelry shop was closed; the front room, upstairs, was Lyken’s office. The fact that the second story was unlighted proved that the jeweler had no visitors. Lyken, if he had not yet retired, would be in the rear room.

Mallan finished a half-smoked cigar, then sauntered in the direction of the corner. He crossed the street and sidled along toward the next block.

Mallan had adopted the inconspicuous manner of a chance passer; but his eyes were busy. Across the side street, the dick noted a rakish touring car parked by the curb.

Reaching the rear street, the dick walked swiftly for one block; then came to a stop as he neared the corner. On the other side street he noted a second car, very much like the first.

Mallan turned about and walked along until he reached a space between two houses, almost directly in back of Lyken’s. He entered the passage and moved inward. He reached a spot, halfway along, from which he could view the rear windows of the jeweler’s second story. Those windows, like the front ones, were dark. Lyken had retired. Mallan waited.

DIRECTLY beneath the windows that the detective had observed from a distance of fifty feet, two men were at work in the darkness. One was shielding the rays of a flashlight while the other used a sharp saw upon the bars of a basement window.

The rays of the light showed the square features of the man who held it. An evil smile played upon twisted lips. The man with the flashlight was Hoot Shelling. The crook’s grin showed admiration for the work that his companion was performing.

“How’s that, Hoot?” came a whispered question, as the saw edged through another bar. “There ain’t many guys can say they saw Greasy Karn chisel his way into a joint. Keep that light close, Hoot. This is the last bar.”

“It’s neat work, Greasy,” complimented Hoot, also in a whisper. “Neat and quick. Say — it’s lucky I got hold of you before you blew town.”

“You ought to have looked me up earlier, Hoot.”

“I didn’t know I’d need you. The word didn’t come along until an hour ago — that is, the tip-off that this job was to be done. I told the chief I’d need the right guy to carve his way into the joint. I sent Dorry out to look you up; then I ran into you myself, on the way here.”

“Where’s Dorry now?”

“Still looking for you, I guess. Going the rounds of the joints. He’ll be due here before we scram.”

The saw was biting steadily. The last bar came loose. “Greasy” lifted away the entire grating. Hoot edged through the opening and disappeared, while his companion waited in the darkness. Several minutes passed. Then came a soft scraping as Hoot came up out of the cellar.

“Any trouble?” whispered Greasy. “I thought maybe you’d need me to cut through the door.”

“Nothing to it,” returned Hoot. “I got up on the first floor all right. It would have been tough, though, if I’d had to get through the door from the hall into the store. But I didn’t bother with that. Fixed it so a match’ll start the fuse and blow the works.”

“I don’t get the lay, Hoot.”

The two were edging toward the passage where Ed Mallan lurked. Hoot drew his companion into the darkness and spoke words of warning. The detective, crouched twenty feet away, could catch their mumbles.

“Just say nothing, Greasy,” ordered Hoot. “This ain’t a job — it’s a stall. See? But the mob don’t know it. We opened the way; the rest is up to the guy that’s paying us. He can get into the first floor; from there, it’s a cinch for him, to go up to the second. What’s more, the fuse is ready to blow the door into the store.”

“But what’s the game?” quizzed Greasy. “I don’t get the lay. Blowing the door when nobody’s going after the swag.”

“That’s to make it look like a job,” explained Hoot. “I’m getting mine; you’re getting yours. So why should we holler?”

“I ain’t hollering.”

“All right. Now listen. The mob thinks it’s a straight job. See? I’m going to one car; you’re going to the other. When the door blows, it’s going to make plenty of noise. I fixed that. Then’s when I say to my crew that the job is off. Scram — that’s what I’ll tell them. You pull the same gag with your bunch.”

“O.K., Hoot. Shoot for your new hide-out, eh?”

“That’s it. I’m giving the signal that it’s clear. Then we slide back through this alley and split when we get to the next street. Savvy?”

IN the course of their whispered conversation, Hoot and Greasy had not detected a slight noise from the passage. Ed Mallan, instead of moving closer, was drawing away. Quiet, despite his ungainliness, the dick was nearing the far end of the passage. He was almost to the rear street when he turned.

Blink — blink — Hoot’s flashlight was signaling at the inner end of the passage between the houses. Mallan eased to the sidewalk and crouched beside a flight of high steps. He waited there until Hoot and Greasy arrived and separated with whispers.

Coming from his hiding place, Mallan looked in each direction and waited until each crook had turned a corner.

They were going back to their cars. The way was clear to Lyken’s. With cautious steps, Mallan crept forward through the long passage that led to the rear of the jeweler’s abode. He was slow and stealthy in his approach.

HOOT had reached the touring car on the side street. He entered it and spoke to the trio of mobsters who awaited him. His first words were a question:

“Where’s Dorry?”

“Ain’t showed up yet,” returned a henchman.

“No?” Hoot’s whisper was a snarl. “A fine palooka! He was to be here by now whether he found Greasy or not. Well — he ought to have brains enough to stay away if he’s late. We ain’t waitin’ for him.”

“Maybe he’ll show up before we go into the joolry joint,” suggested one of the crooks. “That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, Hoot?”

“Maybe we ain’t going in,” growled the leader.

“Ain’t going in?” came a question.

“I had to soup that inside door,” explained Hoot. “What’s more, I had to do it plenty. If the thing makes too much noise when it blows, we’ll have to chuck the job—”

The crook leader broke off. A sound had come to the ears of the mobsters. It was like the muffed report of a revolver — a shot from somewhere within a house.

“Hear that?” came a whispered question. “Say — maybe it was from inside that joint.”

“Keep quiet!” ordered Hoot. “Listen for what happens. That wasn’t the door blowing.”

“Yeah, but—”

Hoot hissed for silence. It came. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the neighborhood. The muffled shot had evidently failed to arouse the sleepers in these quiet, half-deserted blocks.

The crooks waited. They figured that Hoot must have put a time fuse on the charge that he had set. They did not know that he had prepared it for some one else.

Two minutes — three — then, of a sudden came a thunderous roar that seemed to rock the neighborhood.

Staring criminals saw the curl of white smoke that came in volcanic fashion from shattered windows at the rear of the jewelry store.

Cries from houses, excited calls — the shock had awakened the district.

There was no need for the command that Hoot uttered. The crook at the wheel was already shoving into gear when the leader snarled:

“Scram!”

The touring car shot toward the corner. Into the glare of its headlights came an arm-waving figure. The driver blurted his recognition:

“It’s Dorry!”

“Slow down!” ordered Hoot, flinging open the rear door of the car. “We’ll drag the goof along with us. Get ready.”

As the car slowed momentarily, Dorry jumped aboard. He clung to the running board beside the door.

The car was almost at the corner of the next street. That was the spot from which Dorry had arrived.

Out into the path of the machine came a policeman, revolver in hand.

“I’ll get him!” barked Dorry.

Hanging to the side of the car, the belated crook aimed point-blank for the bluecoat. But before his finger could press the trigger, a shot sounded from the darkness of the side street. The flash of an automatic; Dorry crumpled and nearly fell from the running board.

Another crook was leaning out to plug the policeman, who had leaped back to the curb. Again, flame flashed from the darkness. The second gorilla slumped into the car as hands yanked Dorry’s sagging form aboard. Then the car had passed the corner.

The policeman, miraculously rescued, was firing wild shots at the fleeing machine. He started on the run, following as he saw the car make its escape.

INTO the light that glimmered on the corner came a strange, cloaked form. Burning eyes watched the spurts of the policeman’s hopeless shots. A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. It was The Shadow.

He had trailed Dorry from the underworld. Cliff Marsland had spotted the man as a member of Hoot Shelling’s mob. But The Shadow had kept well behind. He had divined that Dorry was on his way to participate in crime.

Dorry’s lateness had been Hoot’s salvation. Had the tardy crook arrived before the explosion, The Shadow would have trapped Hoot and his half of the crew. As it was, Dorry had leaped from the corner to join the men in the escaping car.

Even then, The Shadow would have ended the flight but for the appearance of the patrolman. To save the officer’s life, The Shadow had been forced to pick off Dorry and the second mobster, instead of aiming for the driver of the touring car. Fortune had favored men of crime.

From the adjacent block, The Shadow had guessed the direction of the explosion. His tall form merged with darkness. His footsteps led him toward the passage behind the row of houses in which Lyken’s jewelry store was located.

At that particular moment, another figure was moving along a street two blocks to the rear of Lyken’s house. Gold teeth glittered from a grimly grinning mouth as Ed Mallan stepped into the light close by the steps to an elevated station.

The detective took to the steps, chuckling as he went. He joined a group of waiting passengers who were speculating upon where the muffled explosion had occurred. The dick heard the whine of a police siren from the avenue beneath the elevated.

Then a downtown train rumbled into the station. Passengers stepped aboard; the dick was with them.

The private detective, like the crooks, was decamping from the scene of crime.