The Green Box

CHAPTER XVIII THE THIRD CRIME

THE big clock on the Southfield city hall was booming the hour of nine. In the darkness of Room 301, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland were still watching the lighted street below.

Armed deputies were much in evidence. Fully fifty men were on duty. In contrast, four uniformed policemen seemed a trivial number. Eric Griffel, not Alexis Kerr, was in charge of the city. The leader of the vigilantes had usurped the police chief’s power.

Despite the lulling quiet, The Shadow’s agents were expectant. They knew that crime was due to strike. They had box seats for the coming drama. Their low, whispered conversation showed their tenseness.

The zero hour had arrived. The token of crime came with a startling suddenness. Harry and Cliff leaped closer to the window as they heard the sound of a dull, muffled explosion. The blast was from within the Southfield Bank!

Griff’s deputies stopped their patrol. The men stood as though stupefied. Alarms began to ring. Then came a wild shout as Griff himself appeared. The leader of the transformed vigilantes had been coming in this direction from the Southfield Athletic Club.

Men with rifles sprang toward the doors of the bank. Griff’s lieutenants were on the job. The doors swung open. Volumes of smoke poured forth. Shouting orders, Griff directed his cohorts into the bank.

Of four policemen, three were joining the deputies. The fourth man dashed to an alarm box to signal headquarters. Chaos reigned as deputies dashed about to stop oncoming traffic.

THE deputies who had entered the bank were met with warning shots. These crackled from the top of a stairway that led below. Three men were firing through a heavy gate. Their shots seemed purposely high but they gained effect. The green deputies scrambled back to the outside air.

Amid swirling smoke, Hawkeye, a water-soaked bandanna about his face, growled to his companions. They had come up here to escape the effects of the charge which they had used to blow the lower vault.

“Grab the swag,” was Hawkeye’s suggestion. “We can’t do nothin’ up here. I’ll keep ‘em away from this gate. Hook the stuff out of that vault downstairs.”

Tapper and Skeets descended in a hurry. Their faces, too, were covered with dampened handkerchiefs. They had purposely added smoke powder to the charge which Tapper had used for the vault.

With flashlight aiding, the tall crooks rifled the vault and bagged the spoils. Shots from above played a staccato while they worked. Tapper chuckled as he piled away the articles that Skeets handed him — other objects besides reams of cash.

The job was quick. Tapper whistled. Hawkeye, crouched behind the top step, was still delivering timely shots. Three emptied revolvers lay beside him. The cunning crook had gauged his fire to ward off the deputies.

A surge came just as Hawkeye reached to grab his guns. Griff’s orders had taken effect. Deputies, with police behind them, were piling in through all the doors. They reached the metal gate too late. Hawkeye was already below.

Tapper and Skeets were waiting. Hawkeye sprang into an opening in the marble floor, a jagged hole which the three had drilled from the conduit below. This was another token of Tapper’s craftsmanship.

Skeets followed Hawkeye. Tapper was the last to leave. Loaded with bags of swag, the three henchmen of Slade Farrow were moving through the conduit which they had used to reach their objective. The pipe turned toward the front street. Hardly had the three men gained the corner in the conduit, before a muffled explosion echoed behind them.

“That’ll do it,” chuckled Tapper. “That’s the charge I placed to crumple junk into the hole we went through. Keep ahead. We’re safe.”

Griff had opened the metal grill through which Hawkeye had held back his men. Deputies, on the stairs, dropped back at the second explosion. Volumes of smoke poured up the stairs. The outlet was blocked; these fumes were driving back Griff’s men.

OUT on the street other deputies were warning cars away from the curb. Traffic was blocking on the far side of the street as Slade Farrow’s delivery truck came speeding up the thoroughfare. Dave was grim as he held the wheel. He ignored the shouts of two deputies; then applied the brakes in a hurry.

The truck with its wheel-concealing banners came to a dead stop directly over the spot where it had paused on its way to Gwynnesborough. Other cars were adding to the jam. Dave turned off the motor; with Louie, he leaped to the street to argue.

A whining siren announced the arrival of the police chief’s car. Alexis Kerr, his square-set face grim above the blue collar of his uniform, leaped to the street to take charge of the situation.

THE chief arrived in the bank just as Griff’s deputies were throwing tear-gas bombs down the stairs. They followed this maneuver with a rattle of rifle fire. Kerr saw Griff standing in the clearing smoke and bellowed at the chief deputy.

“Why don’t you get men down there?” demanded Kerr.

“We can’t,” retorted Griff. “Too much smoke.”

“So you chucked tear gas, eh?” shouted Kerr. “Fine work. If the crooks can stand the fumes, they can stand the gas. Clear out these deputies. I’m in charge.”

Sullenly, Griff called off his men. A policeman was coming in from Kerr’s car, bringing a bag of gas masks. The chief donned one; three officers did the same. Griff followed suit.

Then men reached the floor below. Their flashlights showed the broken, rifled vault. The gaping hole in the floor was filled with broken debris. The stone base of the lower vault room had been crumbled by the second charge.

Police Chief Kerr waved his men upstairs. He saw that the robbers had escaped. He reached the street and went into conference with Griff and the latter’s lieutenants.

“Spread out!” ordered Kerr. “All over town. We’ve got to get these crooks!”

Kerr turned toward the street. He saw the jammed cars, among them Slade Farrow’s decorated truck.

“Get this traffic clear!” he instructed two policemen. “We want some space here.”

HARRY VINCENT and Cliff Marsland, watching from their post above, saw the traffic move. Cars were clearing from the street. Dave was jockeying with the crank of the delivery truck.

More than ten minutes had elapsed since Dave had stalled his bannered vehicle at that spot. When the truck moved away and pulled to the curb some sixty feet down the street, Cliff gripped Harry’s arm and pointed to the man-hole cover.

“A clean getaway,” he whispered.

“With the goods,” added Harry.

Both agents looked toward the truck. Dave and Louie were on the sidewalk, interested spectators of the chaos which still reigned about the bank.

“Look.”

Cliff followed Harry’s pointing finger. Slade Farrow had come from the front of the hotel. The Shadow’s agents saw him cross the street and gesticulate to Dave and Louie. His motions indicated that his men were to drive the truck around the block to the rear delivery entrance.

Farrow continued on to open the store. He had closed it just before the hour of nine. Dave and Louie still stood watching the scene on the main street, as though in no hurry to obey their employer’s order.

Lamont Cranston’s inflexible face was at the window of Room 401. A soft laugh came from the unmoving lips. The tall figure turned and stepped into deep darkness. Shortly afterward, a swishing sound occurred.

The door of the room opened. The Shadow stepped noiselessly into the corridor. His gliding form moved toward the fire exit.

Crime had reached its climax. The aftermath was due. Slade Farrow had completed his looting of Southfield’s coffers. The Shadow was faring forth to view the counting of the spoils. Three jobs had been accomplished; the next stroke would be The Shadow’s!

Phantomlike, The Shadow followed the rear streets. He crossed the main thoroughfare beyond the lighted zone. Unseen by prowling deputies, he reached the street behind Slade Farrow’s store.

Ascending the brick wall, The Shadow reached the darkened apartment. He descended by the stairs. He saw a light in Farrow’s office. Softly, The Shadow approached the door to the basement. It was unlocked.

As the door closed behind the black-garbed figure, a motor throbbed at the back of the store, then ceased. Dave and Louie had arrived. Slade Farrow, his face wearing a grim smile, approached the delivery door and unlocked it.

The final job was done. Successful henchmen were returning with the swag. Dave and Louie were unloading cases from the truck. Slade Farrow was triumphant.

The ex-convict’s smile would have faded, had Slade Farrow known that The Shadow lurked below!