The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER VII. MINIONS MOVE

PITCH BLACKNESS pervaded a silent room. Though it was brilliant afternoon in Manhattan, no rays of daylight filtered to this unseen abode. Illumination came only when a sharp click resounded in the darkness.

The bluish rays of a hanging, shaded lamp were focused upon a polished table top. White hands came beneath the glare. Upon the third finger of the left hand sparkled a mysterious gem of changing hues. It was a rare girasol — a fire opal of resplendent colors.

The Shadow was in his sanctum. This was the place wherein the master formulated his plans against crime. His hands — alone visible — moved like detached creatures as they tore open envelopes and slid the contents to the table.

Blue, coded writing appeared as The Shadow unfolded a sheet. This was a report from The Shadow’s agent in the underworld: Cliff Marsland. It was bringing news of investigations conducted by the man who knew every dive in the badlands.

Since the death of Sigby Rund, Cliff had been working at The Shadow’s order. The Shadow, though he had gained no clue to the identity of Rund’s slayers, had picked the killers as hired mobsmen. To Cliff he had delegated the job of checking on gang operations that might point to the murderers.

Cliff had not been unsuccessful. Limiting his search to mobsters of a specific type — men of both brain and brawn, who could kill by brute force as well as with guns — he had learned facts concerning a certain pair of thugs. “Ox” Hogart and Jake Packler were a pair of huskies who answered the description of those The Shadow wanted.

Ox and Jake were one time dock-wallopers who had become regular gorillas in the employ of racketeers. They were pals who had always worked together; their specialty was anything from slugging to outright murder. When last seen, they had been at a dive called the Black Ship, in company with “Greaser” Bowden, a smooth crook who had served as mouthpiece for various racketeers. That meeting had occurred a few hours after the death of Sigby Rund.

There had been some cash transaction between Greaser and the two thugs. Since then, Jake and Ox had been among the missing. Hiding out? Cliff advanced that theory. He also held to the belief that Greaser knew where they were. Last night, he had run across Greaser and had traced the man to a cheap hotel.

He was prepared to take up Greaser’s trail.

As The Shadow finished reading Cliff’s latest report, a tiny light shone on the wall beyond the table. The white hands stretched forth and produced a pair of earphones. The Shadow’s whisper sounded sibilant.

A voice responded:

“Burbank speaking.”

“Report.”

“Report from Vincent. Wally Wilking has arrived at Founders Trust Company.”

“Report received.”

THE Founders Trust Company was located on the West Side. The bank building itself seemed to reflect the ultraconservatism of its president, Tobias Hildreth. It was a brick structure dating from the early nineties. Hildreth, though he had installed all forms of protective equipment, had steadfastly refused to move to a modern building.

His argument had carried weight. He could see no reason for heavy investment of funds in an expensive bank building. He claimed that the money thus saved enabled the institution to invest in stronger securities that paid more interest. Thus the Founders Trust Company had weathered all eras of banking troubles.

Financially, it had remained a Gibraltar.

Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had entered the bank building. Standing at a table, he was making figures with pen on paper— apparently a depositor preparing to leave some money at a teller’s window.

All the while, he was secretly eyeing a young man who had entered a short while before: Wally Wilking.

Wally had drawn money from a teller’s window. Harry saw him enter an office that bore the title:

Edging in that direction, Harry glanced sidelong through a glass window. Wilking was talking with a short, nervous-faced man who was seated at a desk. Whatever Wilking was suggesting, Zellwood seemed to take dubiously. Harry could see the cashier shaking his head.

It was three o’clock. Customers were leaving the bank. Harry was forced to go. His only course was to report through Burbank that he had left the Founders Trust Company while Wilking was still there.

MEANWHILE, Wally Wilking was continuing his conversation with Rudolph Zellwood. The cashier was making statements of his own, while Wilking, seated across the corner of the desk, was lighting a cigarette.

“It is not wise, Wilking,” protested Zellwood, “for you to be talking in this fashion. Mr. Hildreth may be in at any minute. He will wonder why you are here.”

“I’ll tell him that I came to reduce my loan,” returned Wally. “It’s natural that I should talk to you about it, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” admitted Zellwood, “since he is not here. Ordinarily you handle your loans with him direct. But this questioning of yours — well, I have told you all that I can.”

“All that you can is right,” declared Wally, with a grin, “but not all that you know — not by a long shot. All right, Zellwood. I’ll let up. You’ve got to stand in right with the old boy.”

Puffing his cigarette, Wally arose from the desk and walked to the door. He came face to face with Tobias Hildreth. The president had just returned.

“Hello, Wilking,” said Hildreth, gruffly. “Well, young man, what do you want to see me about? If it’s another loan—”

“It’s not.”

“An extension on the old one? Well, come in my office.”

“No, not an extension,” affirmed Wally, as he followed the bank president into another office. “I’ve come to make a reduction on the old loan. That’s all.”

Hildreth stared incredulously as Wally drew out a fat wallet and extracted twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. He laid the money on the president’s desk.

“Check that off,” he said. “You wanted me to reduce my note a thousand dollars. There’s double the amount.”

“Humph,” growled Hildreth. “Looks like you’re turning over a new leaf, Wilking. I was going to hold the next payment due from your trust money. In view of this payment, I can be more liberal.”

Hildreth made out a receipt for the money and handed it to Wally. He dismissed the young man with a wave of his hand. Wally strolled out and waited for the watchman to unlock the door to the street.

AS soon as Wally was gone, Hildreth summoned Zellwood. The cashier arrived, his face rather perturbed. He waited for Hildreth to speak. The president, busy with papers, did not look up.

“Why was Wilking talking to you?” he questioned.

“About — about the matter of his loan,” responded Zellwood, a trifle nervous.

“Why didn’t you tell him to wait for me?” queried Hildreth.

“I did, sir,” replied the cashier.

“Very well,” Hildreth looked up. “Remember, Zellwood, Wilking is just one of the persons whose trust funds are managed by this bank. All have a right to discuss the matter of those funds with me; but not with you. Wilking, who habitually tries to borrow money on the strength of his fund, is not entitled to as much courtesy as the others.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I have been brusque with him, Zellwood. That is why he probably tried to annoy you. That is all. Wait a moment — you seem very pale and nervous, Zellwood. What is the matter?”

“Overwork, sir.” Zellwood’s voice sounded pleading. “I should have gone on my vacation before this.”

“I think so,” agreed Hildreth. “I was wrong to hold you here so long. Well, Zellwood, you are leaving at seven o’clock, are you not?”

“Yes, sir. From the Pennsylvania Station.”

“Take things easy. You can ride there in my car. Do you have your bags here?”

“They are at the depot, sir.”

“Very well. I shall call you when I am ready to start.”

Inside business thrummed on within the walls of the Founders Trust Company. Employees completed their work and departed. It was after six o’clock when Rowley, the watchman, admitted Kerry, Tobias Hildreth’s chauffeur. Kerry went directly to the president’s office. Hildreth summoned Zellwood; then ordered Kerry to bring a pair of large suitcases that were in his office.

Rowley gave them good-night as they passed through the outer door. The steel barrier clanked behind them. Hildreth opened the door of his limousine so that Kerry could put the bags inside. It was dusk on the street; a uniformed policeman strolled up through the gloom.

“And how goes it, Mr. Hildreth?” greeted the officer.

“Very well, Lucas,” responded Hildreth. “Here as usual, to see me out, aren’t you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you manage it? I don’t always leave at the same time, you know.”

“Well, Mr. Hildreth, you’d have to patrol a beat yourself to understand. I come to sort of know what’s going on all along the line. Just make it my business to be the places I ought to be. When I ought to be there.”

“And you ought to be here when I come out?”

“Sure, sir. There’s been stick-up men in this precinct. I figure they’d as soon try to stop a bank president as any one else.”

“Good logic, Lucas. Well, good-night. I shall see you here to-morrow afternoon.”

The men entered the limousine. The big car rolled away. A taxi pulled out from the curb, half a block away, and followed. Lucas eyed the cab suspiciously; then decided that its appearance was a mere coincidence. The cop resumed his beat.

TWENTY minutes later, the limousine stopped in the taxi entrance of the Pennsylvania Station. It was still followed by the cab. As Zellwood alighted from Hildreth’s limousine, a lone passenger stepped from the taxi. When the limousine pulled away, this watcher followed Rudolph Zellwood.

The lights within the concourse showed Zellwood’s nervous face as the man went to get his bags from the check room. Those same lights showed the features of the person who was trailing the cashier. It was Lamont Cranston.

From Harry Vincent, The Shadow had learned that Wally Wilking had talked with Rudolph Zellwood. In the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had taken up Zellwood’s trail. The Shadow watched Zellwood turn over his bags to a porter; then lead the way to a gate marked Southern Limited.

The gate was not yet open. It lacked twenty minutes to train time. Yet by the gate, The Shadow spied two other men: one was a wise-faced, shrewd-eyed fellow whom The Shadow knew as Greaser Bowden; the other was Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s own agent.

Swiftly, the tall form of Lamont Cranston moved back toward the concourse. There, The Shadow entered a telephone booth. Two minutes later, he reappeared and strolled toward the street.

At three minutes before seven, a young man arrived at the train gate. He came in a hurry, carrying a light bag. It was Harry Vincent. Cliff Marsland saw him, but gave no greeting. Rudolph Zellwood had already descended to his train. Harry followed in the same direction.

The gate clanged. Greaser Bowden, standing some distance away, strolled off in satisfaction. Cliff, inconspicuous in the shadow of a gate, took up the racketeer’s trail. Both, individually, were satisfied.

Greaser Bowden had obviously come to make sure that Zellwood took the Southern Limited. Cliff had been on watch to see that no suspicious characters were also on the train. Cliff was sure that none were there.

Yet The Shadow had played doubly sure. He had just had time to summon Harry, through Burbank, and thus dispatch an agent to keep watch on Zellwood. Cliff Marsland was needed in New York; The Shadow knew that he would report later through Burbank.

Trails had converged. From Sigby Rund to Greaser Bowden; from Wally Wilking to Rudolph Zellwood.

Then Zellwood, watched by Bowden. What was the purpose behind these manifestations?

To learn, The Shadow had sent an agent along each trail. Past crimes— that concerned the Garaucan bonds — had led up to the present. Future crime was in the making. This The Shadow knew; and The Shadow was prepared.