The Garaucan Swindle

CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND TRAIL

CLIFF MARSLAND, back in New York, had kept on the trail that he had begun. Greaser Bowden was his quarry and Cliff saw to it that he lost no trace of the man. In this task, Cliff had held one advantage. He knew Greaser well by sight, for it was Cliff’s business to know the characters of the badlands. But Greaser — though he might have recognized Cliff’s name — did not know The Shadow’s agent.

The trail had led to the Club Samoset, a new spot of bright life on Broadway. It had been opened by a former big shot who had made money in the booze racket. With prohibition ended, the one-time hooch merchant had invested his capital in a legitimate night club.

The spot had become a rendezvous for associates of other days and it was exactly the type of place that Cliff would have expected Greaser Bowden to choose. Cliff, always with an eye on Greaser, saw the fellow join a party at a table near the dance floor. Cliff picked a place not far away.

As the party was having dinner, Cliff ordered one for himself. While he ate, he wondered on one point.

Why had Greaser failed to report to some one after leaving the Pennsylvania Station? Cliff knew that Greaser must be in the employ of some one higher up. The only theory that Cliff could finally decide upon was that Greaser had been told to report only if some hitch had occurred at the station.

There was a long and varied floor show at the Club Samoset. Greaser remained to see it. Therefore, Cliff did the same. At intervals, he dropped out to make a phone call to Burbank. He received no new instructions from The Shadow. The only orders were to stay on Greaser’s trail until the man made contact with his unknown chief.

It was after midnight when Greaser decided to leave the night club. As the man was descending the stairs, Cliff saw him glance anxiously at his watch. That was a good sign. It indicated an appointment.

Cliff took up Greaser’s trail, along crowded streets.

Not far from Times Square, Greaser took a side street and entered the lobby of a narrow but ornate apartment house. Cliff noted the name over the door:

The Shadow’s agent did not follow. Instead, he sidled off through the darkness and made a corner cigar store. He had learned exactly what he wanted to know — the name of the man who hired Greaser Bowden. Cliff knew it must be “Dobey” Blitz.

Among erstwhile big shots, Dobey Blitz carried an unusual reputation. The man had been in rackets of many sorts and had acted in many capacities. He had always emerged with a safe skin. For Dobey had a clever way of cloaking his illicit enterprises under legitimate businesses.

One of his lines had been apartment houses. In fact, where rentals and sales were concerned, Dobey had an aptitude that enabled him to make money on the level. Cliff — like every one else in the underworld — had heard of Dobey’s purchase of the Antrilla Apartments. Cliff had never seen the building until to-night, but he knew that Dobey Blitz lived there.

Ex-mobleader, ex-racketeer — Dobey had turned legit for the present. But that signified nothing to those who knew him well. To Cliff, it was a present proof that Dobey was the big shot who had ordered the rubbing out of Sigby Rund. For when Dobey dealt in crime, it was well handled.

From the cigar store, Cliff passed his information to Burbank. The voice over the wire told him to await a reply. When the answer came, Cliff was ordered off duty. Cliff knew what that meant. The Shadow was taking up the work that his agent had begun.

TO all appearances, the lobby of the Antrilla was no different from the usual apartment house. There was a desk, with a clerk always in attendance. There were two elevators; one was always at the ground floor.

There was a doorman constantly on duty. Thus three men were able to look over all who entered, for the elevator operator was quite as observant as the other two.

There were actually twelve such employees, for they worked day and night in eight-hour shifts. All were henchmen of Dobey Blitz and they commanded salaries that were surprisingly large. Every one of the dozen was an ex-gangster. Dobey had simply chosen thugs who looked respectable.

The stairway from the lobby was barred by a heavy, lazy-tonged grille. This was kept shut by a heavy lock. Perhaps it was the presence of that formidable barrier that accounted for the confidence displayed by the clerk, the doorman and whichever elevator operator who happened to be peering from the car at the bottom of the shaft.

For these three watchers were posted to keep undesirable persons from going upstairs. There were tenants — respectable ones — who were allowed free passage. All others had to show credentials to get by. Since the stairway was blocked, the elevators were the focal point that occupied the attention of the watchers.

Less than half an hour after Cliff Marsland had decided not to enter the Antrilla Apartments, a strange figure appeared at the entrance to the lobby. It paused and blended with a darkened depression at the side of the entry. Vaguely, against the gloomy tiling, the figure showed as a spectral shape topped by an outline of cloaked shoulders, hawklike profile and slouch hat.

The Shadow had arrived. With keen eyes, he was peering inward, watching the doorman who paced back and forth within the entrance. A few minutes passed. The doorman stalked toward the desk. It was then that The Shadow moved inward.

Like a ghost, his black form reached the spot where the doorman had been standing. The elevator operator was glancing inward; he did not see the spectral shape that entered. The Shadow’s form seemed to fade toward the far, secluded side of the lobby. It paused beside a bulky, ornamental pillar that was four-sided in shape.

The doorman did not notice the blackened figure that seemed a part of the post. The elevator operator was waiting to go up. He snapped his fingers toward the desk. The clerk, seeing that the dial showed the second car was almost down, gave the signal to go. The door of the elevator clanged.

Eight seconds elapsed while the clerk watched for the arrival of the second car. In that interval, The Shadow moved away from the post. Twenty feet marked his path to a second pillar, where he again became motionless. This pillar was near the stairs.

A few minutes later, the arrival of two people caused clerk and operator to look toward the front door. It was then that The Shadow glided clear of the post and moved phantomlike to the stairs. Six steps up — his spectral form was hidden from observation; but his path was barred by the heavy, telescopic grille.

A gloved hand produced a flattened pick of stout blackened metal. Deft fingers probed the lock. The fastening, the strongest type of lock that Dobey Blitz could obtain, began to yield under magic persuasion. A muffled click sounded The Shadow’s triumph. Slowly, the gloved hand moved back the grille. The Shadow’s body slipped through a narrow space; then his hand drew the grille back to its full extent.

ON the third floor, The Shadow stopped before a massive door. Here, again, his pick did its work. A lock gave; the door opened. The Shadow stepped into a paneled anteroom. There was a door inside.

Closing the outer barrier, The Shadow approached this new obstacle.

The door had no lock. The knob failed to yield. It was obvious that the door depended on a latch that could be operated only from the other side. The door opened inward; paneling concealed its edge. This was an obstacle that no pick could conquer. To cut or break away the woodwork would be a lengthy task; moreover, one that would leave traces.

The Shadow had a method all his own. He produced an object that looked like a screw-driver or a brad-awl. It was actually a brace-and-bit, with a spring device in the handle. The shaft was amazingly thin. Stooping, The Shadow gauged the exact position of the knob. He placed the point of the bit against the paneling and pressed.

The action drilled a perfect hole, straight through the wood. Striking metal, The Shadow removed the bit and inserted a needlelike instrument. The latch clicked loose. The door wavered inward. Out came the needle; The Shadow’s fingers, ungloved, applied a dab of brownish putty that rendered the hole invisible.

Stepping through the doorway, The Shadow closed the door behind him. He was in a hallway; beyond was a small reception room where three men were sitting. The Shadow recognized one as “Chunk” Elward, reputed bodyguard of Dobey Blitz. The others looked like mobsters.

“How long is that mug Greaser goin’ to be in there?” one of the mobsmen was demanding. “Ain’t he never comin’ out?”

“Keep your shirt on, big boy,” growled Chunk. “Dobey will see you when he’s ready. He ain’t asking no favors of you, you know.”

“Maybe he ain’t. But we was told to come up here and see him—”

A further door opened while the man was speaking. Out stepped Greaser Bowden. Behind him was a heavy, hard-faced man attired in a dressing-gown. A cigarette hung from his puffy lips. This was Dobey Blitz.

The big shot motioned to the two mobsmen. They entered. The door closed. Chunk Elward started to conduct Greaser Bowden toward the hallway. Greaser stopped him.

“Dobey said to put me up here for the night,” informed Greaser. “Guess he meant to tell you.”

“All right, Greaser,” decided Chunk. “Stick around until those mugs come out. I’ll ask Dobey then.”

“Who are they, Chunk?”

“Some small fry that Dobey’s trying out. You know the way he works. Don’t let them get wise to nothing until he knows they’re on the level.”

A few minutes passed. The door opened and the mobsmen reappeared. Chunk spoke to Dobey. The big shot nodded. Evidently he was certifying that Greaser should remain.

“If any one else shows up,” growled Dobey, “keep them waiting. Rap on the door; if I don’t answer, it means I don’t want to see them. I’m going to take a nap.”

Chunk ushered the mobsmen toward the hall. The Shadow glided inward, and slid behind the opened door to a room while Chunk let the mugs out through the anteroom. When the bodyguard had returned to join Greaser, The Shadow again took up his vigil.

THE SHADOW knew that any crime that might be fostering must depend upon Dobey Blitz. Whether or not the big shot intended to engage in it himself, the crime must at least have its beginning within his private room. Did Dobey again intend to talk with Greaser? Perhaps. Or he might be awaiting some new arrival. The fact that Greaser was to remain here indicated, at least, that the man was of some importance to Dobey Blitz.

Half an hour elapsed while The Shadow waited in the hallway. Then came a break. Chunk and Greaser arose and headed toward the hall. The Shadow heard Chunk saying that he would pick a room for Greaser. Again, The Shadow faded from view. The instant that the men had passed, he moved into the reception room.

His step was bold and quick. He reached the door of Dobey’s private room. It had a latch lock and it opened inward. The Shadow’s glove was off; the miniature brace and bit was ready. Steel bored through wood with swift, certain pressure. Steel clicked metal. Out came the bit; in went the needle. Dobey’s door moved inward.

A few seconds later, The Shadow had glided into a darkened room. The door was closed behind him.

There was no sound in the room. Evidently, Dobey was napping. Yet, as The Shadow listened, he could catch no noise of breathing.

A soft laugh sounded in the darkness. A gloved hand found a light switch. On came the lights. The Shadow, weird in the glow, stood alone. The room, though it had no doors, and its windows were barred, was empty!

The Shadow knew the answer. He had not reckoned with the craft of Dobey Blitz. The big shot must have some secret exit, unknown to his henchmen. Through it, he could come and go as he chose. Here was his alibi — men to swear that he had not been out of his apartment — yet he was free to fare forth unbeknown!

The Shadow knew more. He sensed that Dobey’s absence might mean present crime. The Shadow must act at once. He must take up Dobey’s trail. Search for the secret exit would mean time. The Shadow opened the door to the reception room. Chunk and Greaser had not returned. The Shadow started for the hallway.

As he reached his objective, The Shadow stopped short. There was a sound from the front of the hall.

As The Shadow stepped back, Chunk appeared with two new mobster visitors. The Shadow, swinging into the reception room, looked quickly about for a hiding place. He found none. He swung to the door just as the three men entered.

Chunk and the gunmen spied The Shadow just as his burning gaze turned on them. In one tense instant, they recognized this dread foe of the underworld. It was Chunk who snarled an order that the others did not hesitate to obey. Anywhere — anytime, mobsters were willing to forget all other affairs to battle with The Shadow.

“The Shadow!” snarled Chunk. “Get him!”

Guns flashed from pockets. At the same instant, The Shadow’s arms, crossed in front of his cloak, came snapping outward. Black fists revealed mammoth automatics that came as a challenge to glittering revolvers.

Fingers pressed triggers. Automatics roared while revolvers barked. Weaving sidewise across the room, The Shadow loosed his metal at the fighters who were springing in from the door. Bullets whistled. Some flattened against the walls. Others found flesh and bone.

A gangster toppled, snarling. A second delivered a shot that clipped felt from The Shadow’s hat brim.

Then the mobsmen rolled sprawling on the floor. An instant later, The Shadow dropped, just as Chunk Elward loosed two quick shots.

Those bullets snapped mahogany splinters from the arm of an expensive chair. But they did not find The Shadow. He had performed a swift fadeaway to beat Chunk’s aim. His right hand shot up from the other side of the big chair. Its automatic spoke.

Chunk sagged. Snarling oaths, he fired with wavering aim. A second bullet from The Shadow’s gun.

Chunk dropped to his knees. Still, he tried to raise his revolver. He wanted one more shot before he died. The Shadow was rising, as he aimed to prevent it.

A man sprang in from the door. Greaser Bowden. He fired as he came. One wide shot. The Shadow snapped the trigger of his left-hand automatic. The barrel belched flame while the gun was on the move.

Greaser pitched forward. Chunk, coming up, had his chance. His gun was on The Shadow. But his finger faltered. His strength was gone. Swinging to fire, The Shadow withheld his shot as Chunk coughed a last breath and twisted on the carpet.

Swiftly, The Shadow gained the anteroom; then the outer hall. He ran squarely into an elevator man; the fellow was ready with a revolver. The Shadow’s arm was swinging before the man could fire. The thug went down from a gun-clout that landed above his ear.

THE gun volleys had been heard downstairs. The stairway no longer offered sure exodus. Whirling, The Shadow headed back into the apartment. He left the anteroom doors open, to make that appear as his path of escape. In the reception room, he drew forth the probing needle. He pressed it through the tiny hole in the woodwork. The latch clicked. The Shadow opened the door. Calmly, he puttied the tiny hole; then stepped into Dobey Blitz’s private room and closed the door behind him.

The walls of this room were paneled, like the anteroom. With no attempt at haste, The Shadow began a probe. He picked the spots most likely for a hidden panel. His gloved fingers were perfect in their touch.

Muffled shouts were coming from the reception room. Men were pounding at the door. The Shadow kept to his task. A panel clicked; it moved back to reveal a metal plate that had a switch and a push-button. The Shadow swung the switch, then pressed the button.

Thuds at the door. A roared command: “Open, in the name of the law.” The Shadow laughed, with a weird whisper. Police were on the scene. They thought that Dobey Blitz was in here. They wanted to interview the big shot. The Shadow had no time to linger.

Click!

Of a sudden, a large paneled section slid sidewise. Before The Shadow’s eyes was the yawning interior of a tiny elevator that had been brought up by a smooth, silent mechanism. The Shadow entered the car.

He pressed a button. The panel closed; the car began a slow, steady descent, just as the door of the room began to break under shattering blows.

The car came to a stop. Automatically, a wall opened in front of it. The Shadow stepped into a little store room. He saw switch and button on the wall. He pressed the button; the wall closed in front of the car.

Then The Shadow swung the switch and closed a smaller panel like the one in the room of Dobey’s apartment.

The Shadow found an exit through the stone-walled cellar. It led to a grating at the side of the apartment house. He lifted the grating, emerged, and let the iron bars drop. A soft laugh came from his hidden lips as the master sleuth merged with darkness.

Dobey Blitz’s secret was preserved. Only The Shadow had learned it; he had left no trace of his discovery. The secret might serve him later. For the present, The Shadow wanted Dobey Blitz.

Precious time — nearly an hour — had been lost. Dobey Blitz had embarked forth upon crime. It might be too late to stop him now; yet The Shadow had no other thought. He knew the locality where crime might already be under way. That was to be his new objective.