The Four Signets

CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOW’S SNARE

IT was early the next evening. Darkness had brought a sinister touch to the realm of the underworld.

Streets that had been merely unsightly in the daylight had become black-blotched lurking spots were crime seemed to linger.

Slouching men who, in sunlight, would have passed for harmless bums, had undergone a change as noticeable as that of the district. Grimy yellow lights made faces appear wolfish. Every straggler in the bad lands looked like a potential murderer.

Chance visitors might have shuddered at passing through this section of Manhattan. But sharp-eyed patrolmen, parading their beats, were undeceived by the change that gloom had wrought. They could analyze the faces that they saw. They knew the folk who needed watching.

Yet even the bluecoats, familiar with their routes, were not entirely infallible. One officer, standing at a secluded corner, let three passers go by without realizing that each was playing a hidden role.

The first was a blind peddler, clicking his way along with the aid of a heavy cane. The cop had seen this fellow before. Creeper Trigg, they called him. A blind pencil seller, who probably worked on some respectable avenue. Plenty like him, down here in the slums. Little did the cop realize that the peddler was the notorious sawbones, Doc Ralder.

The next was a harmless hop-head; he had been on this beat before. Dopey Roogan. The fellow was sniffing when the patrolman spied him. But there was no snow on the hand that Dopey raised to his nostrils. The cop had fallen for another stall. He never dreamed that Dopey was, at present, the prize stool pigeon of the underworld. Only Joe Cardona knew the part that the phony doper was playing.

A third stroller passed unchallenged. Again, the cop recognized a face. This was Cliff Marsland, a fellow who needed watching, for he had a rep in the bad lands. But Cliff — so the cop had heard on the authority of stoolies — was taking things easy at present. No need to watch him until the stoolies brought a tip. That was why the patrolman passed up The Shadow’s agent, totally ignorant of Cliff’s real purpose in the underworld.

As the patrolman resumed his beat, he completely failed to observe a fourth figure that had entered into the picture. The moment that the cop turned away, watching eyes left him. The figure emerged from the front of an abandoned store. It took a course along the opposite side of the street.

The Shadow had come into being. He was working with Cliff Marsland. Alternately, he had kept his agent on the trail of Dopey Roogan. He had hissed a sibilant signal the moment that Dopey had picked up the path of Creeper Trigg. From now on, The Shadow and Cliff had different trails.

MOVING swiftly forward, The Shadow was gaining a vantage point. He knew the man that Dopey was watching. The Shadow intended to trail Creeper without the stoolie’s aid. But Cliff, loitering further in the rear, had retained the original task. He was still tracking Dopey.

The wisdom of this procedure became apparent when Creeper came clicking across the street. The Shadow paused by the entrance to an alleyway and let the pretended peddler pass by. Dopey stopped short, without crossing the street.

For Dopey knew that Creeper was not blind. Once covered by darkness, the fake peddler would look around to see if he was being followed. Dopey dared follow no further for the present. Not so The Shadow. He was merged with darkness by the alleyway. His course was unseen when he moved into the blackness that had sheltered Creeper Trigg.

The clicks of the cane ended. Creeper was hurrying forward, making as little noise as possible. He reached a spot where a circle of dull lamplight showed upon the sidewalk. There, he paused to look about. Satisfied, he moved forward; then ducked off into a blackened space beside a dilapidated house.

Creeper found a basement door. He unlocked it and entered. The door closed behind him. Solid darkness reigned at that spot. Yet, already, the gloom enveloped a hidden form. Silently, The Shadow had approached to within three yards of the basement entrance.

Up above, a chink of light showed through the blind of a rear window. The Shadow skirted the house.

He discovered a low-roofed back porch; above it, another light-chinked window. Silently, The Shadow moved upward. The roof offered the access that he needed.

MEANWHILE, Cliff Marsland had lingered back on the street which The Shadow had left. He was pretending to examine brassware displayed in the poorly lighted window of an old shop. Actually, Cliff was watching Dopey. He expected to see the stool move away. Instead, Dopey headed for the alley.

Cliff followed. The path led on to the house near the street lamp. There, Dopey stopped and looked at the front steps. Cliff gained a sudden inkling. He realized that Dopey had gained a stroke of luck.

Watching from the corner, Dopey must have caught a flash of Creeper here by the lamp light. Thus Dopey knew more than he might ordinarily have discovered. He had spotted Creeper’s alley; he was on the point of locating the actual house which formed Doc Ralder’s new hide-out.

But Dopey was not quite certain. He hesitated; then ascended the steps. He fumbled in his pocket while he crouched in the darkness. He must have produced some skeleton keys; for a series of clicks came to Cliff’s ears. Then a door whined on its hinges. Dopey moved inward.

Cliff was forced to admire the stoolie’s nerve. The little fellow had guessed that Doc would not use the front entrance; moreover he had surmised that the door would be easy to open, for the very reason that a poorly locked entrance would excite no suspicion. So Dopey had decided to look inside — to make sure that this was the place that he must report to the police.

That meant a job for Cliff. Carefully, The Shadow’s agent moved to the steps. He ascended and crept into the entrance that Dopey had used. Crouched within a darkened hallway, Cliff listened to creaks at the top of a stairway, just ahead. The creaks ended.

Dopey had gone upstairs to spy. If he found that this was Ralder’s place, he would come out in a hurry.

But he would make no prompt report to the police. That was why Cliff was here — to prevent such a measure.

For The Shadow, anxious to deal without interference, had deputed his agent to stop Dopey. By delaying the stool pigeon, frightening him, then letting him go after pretended threats, Cliff could keep the cops off the job until The Shadow was done.

Crooks like those who worked for Hoot Shelling would not talk to the police. Even the third degree would not loose their tongues. Cliff knew that; but he also knew the power of The Shadow. Dreaded by all the underworld, the cloaked master could force words to the most reluctant lips.

WHILE his agent lurked on the trail of Dopey Roogan, The Shadow had gained the commanding spot that he desired. From atop the porch roof, he had worked upon the window sash. A thin wedge of steel, pressed between the woodwork sections, had done a silent job with the lock.

The sash moved upward — slowly by inches. A gloved hand reached for the lowered shade. It, too, came up imperceptibly. Eyes from the dark peered into the lighted room. There, The Shadow saw what he expected.

Two crooks, both bandaged, were lying on cots. These were the birds whom The Shadow had winged on the preceding night. Quick shots had been effective; but neither man appeared seriously wounded.

The crooks seemed chipper as they lay propped on pillows.

A door opened at the front of the room. A solemn, keen-faced man entered. Doc Ralder. He had ditched his peddler’s disguise. With professional air, he had come to examine his patients.

Halfway across the room, Ralder stopped. He had evidently forgotten something, for he went back through the door and closed the barrier behind him.

The Shadow lingered, waiting for the crooks to speak to each other. This was a time of opportunity. A chance word, heard by The Shadow’s keen ears, might mean a real clue. The mobsters, however, were silent, waiting for Ralder’s return.

The door opened suddenly. Crooks stared with astonished eyes as the sawbones entered the room dragging a limp form by the neck. With a swift swing of his arm, Doc sent the pitiful figure sprawling on the floor. The man rolled over and lay face upward. It was Dopey Roogan, stunned.

“You know the guy?” questioned Ralder, turning to the first gorilla. “Know him, do you, Lefty?”

The crook shook his head.

“How about you, Dorry?” asked Ralder.

“I’ve seen him, Doc,” returned the second gorilla. “But I ain’t sure who he is. Looks like a hop-head.”

“His name’s Dopey Roogan,” informed Ralder, sourly. “Just found him outside the door of the front room. I slugged him and brought him in. I’ve got his number, now that I’ve seen his mug. He’s a stoolie.”

Growls from the crooks.

“Been sort of sticking close to me, now that I remember it,” went on Ralder. “Used to be around my old hide-out; but I didn’t worry myself about him. Now I know why the bulls raided the joint. This gazebo put them wise.”

“Hold him until Hoot shows up,” suggested Dorry. “He’ll take care of the louse.”

“Not a chance,” laughed Ralder. “Do you think Hoot’s coming back here? Guess again. He don’t want anybody to know you fellows were with his outfit. No — I’ve got something better for this phony. Watch him a minute.”

The sawbones turned and went back into the front room. When he reappeared, he was carrying a hypodermic syringe. He held up the glittering object and chuckled.

“Triple loaded,” commented Ralder. “One shot would snow a guy under; this holds three full doses. That means curtains for Dopey Roogan. He’ll never come back to life after he gets it.

“Coney Laxter is coming up here tonight. He’ll take care of the body. So that settles it. A fake hop-head, eh?” Ralder chuckled as he stooped above Dopey’s body. “Well, he’ll get a shot of dynamite that he’ll never know about.”

WITH this remark, the sawbones pulled up the stool pigeon’s sweatered sleeve. Dorry and “Lefty” leaned forward, grinning, as they saw murder in the making. They did not see the window shade that rose behind him; nor did they hear the sound of The Shadow’s entry.

Like a portion of the night, The Shadow had materialized into a living being. An automatic loomed from his right hand as his left hand brought a second gun out from beneath the cloak.

It was at that instant that Doc Ralder paused. The sawbones sensed that eyes were watching him. He stopped, holding the needle point just above Dopey’s arm. The sawbones looked up. His gaze froze with terror.

The crook’s stared at the change on Ralder’s face. Then, together, they pivoted on their cots to see what had brought the transformation. Like Ralder, they became rigid as they stared into a pair of burning eyes that peered above the barrels of the leveled automatics.

Men of crime were too astonished to make move or outcry. The capture of Dopey Roogan had ended thoughts of police intrusion. It had given these men a feeling of confidence. They had been elated by the expectation of Dopey’s death.

But now the stool pigeon’s plight was a matter of the past. The present was all that concerned these cowering fiends. Three of a kind, Doc Ralder and his patients, they were quivering before the menace of The Shadow.