The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER XVII. MOVES FROM THE DARK

AT half past-seven the next evening, Detective Joe Cardona entered the exclusive Cobalt Club. He asked to see Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth. He was ushered into the card room where he found three men seated at the table. The eagle-eyed commissioner was among them.

“Well?” Barth was sharp with the question as he walked to a corner with the detective. “What have you to report?”

“A hunch,” responded Cardona.

The detective’s statement would not have gone across with ex-Commissioner Weston. The former official had wanted facts, not hunches, although he had not been adverse to theories. But Barth, to Cardona’s satisfaction, seemed pleased at the detective’s statement.

Cardona had found the new commissioner’s soft spots. Anything that savored of the unusual seemed to appeal to Barth. Cardona’s talk about Dobey Blitz had been pure hokum; yet it had registered. The detective was ready to try the same method to-night; but this time he felt more confidence. For Joe had been given what he thought was a genuine lead.

“A hunch, eh?” gleamed Barth. “Something in the order of a premonition? This interests me exceedingly. Proceed, Cardona.”

“You’ve talked a bit regarding a link,” asserted Cardona. “A hook-up between that South American bond swindle and this bank robbery. You told me to keep that idea in mind, didn’t you?”

“I recall some such statement,” nodded Barth. “I certainly know that the theory sounded plausible. Hildreth seemed to like it; so did other bankers to whom I mentioned the matter.”

“Well,” said Cardona, “I talked it over with a newspaper reporter.”

“What!” exclaimed Barth. “This is outrageous! I don’t speak to you for publication. That theory was not for the press!”

“Don’t worry, commissioner. The guy I talked to knows how to keep mum. Fellow named Clyde Burke, with the Classic.”

“That atrocious tabloid journal? Tut-tut, Cardona! You should end all contact with representatives of that yellow scandal sheet.”

“I talked to Burke — not to the Classic. The idea sort of hit him. He came back to see me. He gave me a suggestion that hit between the eyes.”

“Concerning Dobey Blitz?”

“Indirectly. Burke asked me what I’d done about tracing the murderers of Rudolph Zellwood. He said they must have gone out under orders from Dobey Blitz. He figured that they would be back in town.”

“Why so?”

“Because they pulled their job so neatly. The bank robbers that didn’t get killed probably scrammed. It wasn’t safe for Dobey to have them around. But the killers of Zellwood — Burke figured two of them — well, there’s every reason why they should be back.”

“Because they know New York?”

“Yes. They could hide out better here. I agreed with Burke. Then he popped another thought. Those fellows did a smart job killing Zellwood, didn’t they?”

“They performed a heinous crime,” corrected Barth. “From a criminal standpoint, I suppose it could be termed smart.”

“Well,” added Cardona, “Burke said they could have done another that was even better. The murder of Sigby Rund.”

“The murder?” questioned Barth. “Rund was not murdered. He was a suicide.”

“He landed on the street outside of the Halbar Building,” admitted Cardona. “That doesn’t mean he jumped from his office window. Two mugs could have pitched him out — just as easy as they stowed Zellwood in that upper berth.”

THE statement registered. Barth’s eyes gleamed. This, in his opinion, was masterful deduction. Not being acquainted with Clyde Burke, he was ready to give all the credit for the theory to Joe Cardona.

“You must find those murderers!” exclaimed the commissioner. “Locate them at once, Cardona. Scour the underworld. Those fiends must not be allowed to run at large.”

“I don’t like to use the dragnet,” objected Joe. “They might be smart enough to give us the slip. We want to grab them quiet-like, particularly because I’ve got a hunch who they are.”

“You know the scoundrels?”

“I know a pair that would fill the bill: Ox Hogart and Jake Packler. You see, Burke and I talked it over — he knows the underworld pretty good — and we began talking about crooks that palled together. Fellows big enough and tough enough to pull jobs like those killings. I happened to mention Jake and Ox as a couple of dock-wallopers who made trouble in their time. They sounded like the pair I wanted.”

“Then use the dragnet.”

“I’ve done better, commissioner, for the present. I sent out a dozen stool-pigeons to take a squint around the hangouts. I’m going back to headquarters, to wait for word from them.”

“A capital plan, Cardona. I feared that you might come here empty-handed for this appointment. It pleases me to learn of your progress.”

“It may help me to close in on Dobey Blitz.”

“It may indeed. Return to headquarters, Cardona. Communicate with me frequently, here at the club. I am waiting for Mr. Cranston. He is to make our fourth at bridge. We expect him at half past eight.”

Cardona left the Cobalt Club, muttering to himself. He pictured Wainwright Barth, seated at a bridge table, peering through pince-nez spectacles. Joe could not imagine the old commissioner, Ralph Weston, indulging in a card game while his sleuths were hot on the trail of crime.

WAINWRIGHT BARTH was waiting for Lamont Cranston. The commissioner had forgotten his grievance toward the millionaire. He had invited Cranston by telephone; the millionaire had promised to be at the club by eight thirty. Barth fancied that he had not yet left his New Jersey home. Barth was wrong.

At the very moment when Barth had mentioned Cranston’s name to Cardona, a limousine was stopping on a narrow thoroughfare of the East Side. It was Lamont Cranston’s car. Stanley, the chauffeur, heard the voice of his master telling him to wait.

The car was parked in a gloomy spot. A shady figure emerged silently to the sidewalk. It was promptly blotted out by the darkness of an alleyway. From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable. Ten minutes later, his figure appeared, like a flitting shade beneath the dull glow of a street lamp. Again it faded into darkness; then paused by the corner of an alleyway, where a lounger was smoking a cigarette.

A whisper from the darkness. The cigarette flicked out into the gutter. The slouching man looked about; seeing no one, he straightened and stepped into the gloom of the alleyway. This waiting man was Cliff Marsland, agent of The Shadow.

“Report,” came The Shadow’s whisper.

“Third house on the left of the lamp,” said Cliff, quietly. “Looks like their room in the third floor front. One of Cardona’s stools just did a sneak in there a few minutes ago.”

“Report received. Follow.”

Blackness detached itself from the alley entrance. Cliff caught sight of a weird shape as it glided across the street. The form merged with the blackness of the building that Cliff had indicated. The Shadow’s agent followed.

IN the front room on the third floor, two men were standing with leveled revolvers. Hard-faced, Jake Packler and Ox Hogart were covering a cringing man who was between them, pleading.

“Crawlin’, huh?” questioned Jake. “Our pal, Terry Flagg — that’s what you called yourself. Well — we knew you for a phony when we heard you crawlin’ up those stairs.”

“Honest, Jake,” begged Terry. “I was just comin’ up to tip you off. The bulls is after you. I wanted you to know it. That’s why I sneaked aroun’ here.”

“Shut up,” put in Ox. “You’re a lousy stool. You’re right about the bulls. But they ain’t goin’ to find us; because we’re not givin’ you a chance to squeal.”

“Keep him covered, Ox,” ordered Jake. “I’ll hand him the tap. No use wastin’ bullets on this mug. Too much noise, anyway—”

With a shrill cry, Terry Flagg leaped up from his crouching position. He made a dive toward the door.

The killers were after the stool with catlike quickness. Ox was the nearer; he swung viciously with his gun. The result was a glancing blow that felled the stool pigeon.

Terry’s hand dropped from the knob of the door. At the same instant, the barrier burst inward. Jake was facing the doorway, revolver in hand. Ox saw the startled expression that came in his pal’s eyes.

Like a flash, Jake swung his gun upward. His finger wavered on the trigger. At that instant a terrific report sounded from the hall. It was the burst of an automatic. As Jake tottered, Ox saw the foeman who had beaten his companion to the shot.

“The Shadow!”

As he roared the name, Ox leaped forward upon the black-cloaked figure. Had Ox paused to deliver a shot, his doom would have been sealed. But his sudden spring gave him a chance for life. Ox swung sidewise with his gun. The Shadow’s arm stopped the blow. Then the two locked in a desperate struggle.

Guns clashed as both fighters swung. Weapons went clattering to the floor. Ox thrust his beefy hands for The Shadow’s throat. They almost gained their grip. Then came a twist of the black-garbed form. Ox Hogart’s body went up into the air as The Shadow introduced a jujutsu hold.

That one twist was made to end the struggle. By rights, The Shadow’s toss should have sent Ox head-foremost to the floor at the top of the stairs. The Shadow had calculated on this stroke. Chance intervened against him.

As he braced for the throw, The Shadow thrust his right foot backward. Its pressure came — not on the floor — but upon the revolver that Ox had dropped. The gun went skidding backward. The Shadow lost his footing. Flat to the floor he went, while Ox rolled free.

The Shadow dived back toward the room. His gloved fingers gripped the fallen automatic. On his knees, The Shadow turned to aim for Ox. The big killer had scrambled after his own gun. He had gained it. On his feet, Ox was taking aim. His was the advantage; he had gained the break that Jake had failed to get.

Swift though The Shadow might act, Ox had the opportunity to beat him to the shot.

THE SHADOW never faltered. He swung desperately, straight toward the muzzle of Ox Hogart’s gun.

Then came the burst of a gun-shot. As The Shadow paused, Ox Hogart let his gun arm drop. His revolver dropped from his numbed fingers. The smoking muzzle of an automatic appeared above Ox’s shoulder; the weapon delivered a telling stroke against the side of the big killer’s head.

Cliff Marsland had entered the picture. Firing from the top of the steps, The Shadow’s agent had wounded Ox Hogart. He had followed with a forward leap and a knock-out swing. Cliff came in view as Ox collapsed. He stood above the form of the man whom he had wounded and stunned.

The Shadow’s laugh whispered through the hall. Rising, the cloaked fighter reentered the room. Terry Flagg was lying senseless on the floor. Jake Packler was crouched in a corner, his hands pressed to the pit of his stomach.

Jake looked up as The Shadow entered. With a sweep, the black-clad avenger whisked a chair in front of the wounded crook. There he placed a paper. He seized Jake’s right arm and thrust a pencil into the killer’s fingers.

“Write,” came The Shadow’s order. “Write as I command. Unless you prefer to die.”

An automatic loomed close by Jake’s eyes. Gasping, the crook nodded. He slumped toward the chair.

He placed the pencil point to paper.

“Write these words,” hissed The Shadow. “I killed Sigby Rund—”

Jake hesitated. He saw death in The Shadow’s glare. He scrawled the words.

“And Rudolph Zellwood.”

Jake kept writing. He paused; his fingers lost their grip then regained it.

“I was aided by Ox Hogart.”

Again the scrawl.

“We did the job for Dobey Blitz!”

Jake was weakening as he finished his writing. He started to drop his right hand. The Shadow gripped his wrist.

“Sign your name!” came the sinister hiss.

With a last effort, the killer complied. The pencil fell to the chair and rolled on the floor. Jake Packler dropped back to the wall. His gasp became a cough. Blood flecked his lips as his glassy eyes stared into The Shadow’s burning gaze.

Fear of death had made Jake do The Shadow’s bidding. The killer had counted on a last hope that he might live. As he coughed, his stare was pleading. He did not realize that death already was to be his lot.

The Shadow had mortally wounded the killer in the fray. One shot had done its work. The Shadow had realized what Jake himself had not known: that the murderer was doomed. That confession had been forced upon a dying man.

Jake slumped suddenly to the floor. A last cough spelled his end. The Shadow swept out into the hall.

Cliff had already bound Ox Hogarth’s ankles with the fellow’s belt. The Shadow produced a thong and lashed the killer’s wrists. At The Shadow’s command, Cliff lugged Ox into the front room. Terry Flagg was stirring as Cliff let Ox Hogart’s senseless body drop.

A hissed command from the hall. Cliff came out of the room. The Shadow was already gone. Cliff descended the stairs. He saw no sign of The Shadow when he reached the street. Cliff took his post at the alley opposite.

Terry Flagg, coming to his senses, would hurry to report to headquarters. The police would find Jake’s body with the confession. Ox, wounded, would not be able to escape even when he regained his senses.

He was named in the confession. He would be forced to admit his guilt.

Cliff’s job was to wait here until he saw Terry Flagg depart; then a few minutes longer, to make sure that all was well. After that, the law would do the rest. Two murderers had been trapped by The Shadow.

One was dead; the other living — their mutual confessions would mark Dobey Blitz as the villain who had ordered murder.

The Shadow had departed into darkness. His work to-night had just begun. The Shadow had opened the trail to crime; he was following to its finish.