The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER XV. THREE IN A ROW

MIDWAY on an arc between Wesdren’s and the Union Depot stood the Medallion Apartments, where Craig Jollister lived. The Medallion was a modern building; but it stood in a portion of the Northeast section that was inconvenient to reach except by taxi.

Jollister had chosen the Medallion for two reasons. First, because he liked quiet; second, because he had been offered a month-to-month lease. The Medallion, because of its location, was only half-tenanted.

An old abandoned house stood at one side of the new apartment building. Jollister had taken an apartment on that side; he lived on the third floor; and his wing was practically deserted. Sometimes Jollister used the automatic elevator in the center of the building; on other occasions, he went up by a fire tower that served as direct entrance to the wing in which he resided.

A slight rain shower was beginning as a taxicab pulled up in front of the Medallion Apartments. The taxicab skidded a trifle as it stopped. The driver swerved it from the curb. As he turned about to speak to his passenger, a five-dollar bill fluttered from the window between front seat and back.

“Don’t think I’ve got change, mister,” began the driver. “If you’ve got something smaller—”

He stopped abruptly and gaped through the window. The passenger was gone. As singularly silent as when he had entered the cab, the mysterious rider had effected a disappearance.

The taximan stepped out and looked about. He saw no one going in the gloomy entrance of the apartment building; nor could he discern a single passer on the sidewalk. The man stepped back into his cab, pocketed the money and drove away, mumbling to himself.

A TRIM coupe was parked below the Medallion, directly in front of the deserted house. It was away from street lamps. The young man at the wheel of the parked car was huddled, so that no passers would notice him.

It was this man who gained the next inkling of a mysterious presence. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, hunched suddenly as he heard a whispered voice speak through the open window on the street side of the coupe:

“Report.”

The Shadow had approached from darkness; his advent had proven startling, even to the agent who served him. Speaking into the darkness outside the window, Harry whispered:

“Jollister arrived three minutes ago. I saw him go in. The lights just came on in his apartment. Also a report from Marsland. A high-powered touring car is parked in back of the apartment house. Marsland is watching for the lights in Jollister’s. He should he due here—”

Harry broke off as a man stepped from the sidewalk and opened the door on the right side of the coupe.

Cliff Marsland clambered aboard and closed the door behind him.

“Listen. Harry,” he began. “There’s two men in the touring car; they—”

Cliff stopped as Harry nudged him. Then came The Shadow’s whisper; this for the benefit of Cliff:

“Report.”

“Hawkeye and I spotted two men in the touring car,” stated Cliff. “Hawkeye sneaked up and listened in.

One’s Cady, the bell hop that Hawkeye was too late to trail from the Skyview Plaza. The other’s Cooler Caplan, a fellow that Hawkeye used to know.

“They’re going up by the fire tower; whether they’re just allowing a few minutes, or whether they’re waiting for a signal, we don’t know. Hawkeye ducked away so they wouldn’t spot him. But they’ve been watching for Jollister’s light.”

“Instructions.” The Shadow’s whisper was sinister. “Join Hawkeye. Remain clear of the fire tower. Watch for four blinks of Jollister’s light. Then come up by the tower.”

“Instructions received.”

With that acknowledgment, Cliff left the coupe and crept through the rain toward the spot where Hawkeye was awaiting him.

“Instructions.” The Shadow spoke to Harry. “Remain here until further order.”

“Instructions received.”

Watching the front of the apartment house, Harry caught a fleeting glimpse of blackness that moved out of the rain. A tall shape momentarily obscured the gloomy light from the front entrance. Then the manifestation was gone.

UP in his apartment, Craig Jollister was standing by the telephone. He had just completed a call; he picked up some papers from a table and thrust them into an open suitcase. He closed the bag and added it to three others that formed a stack beside the wall.

Jollister had packed everything. He was leaving this apartment for good and the thought seemed to please him, for his sallow features wore a look of contempt as he glanced about the room. Window shades were half drawn. Two lamps alone were lighted. One was on the table near the window; the other was a floor lamp by the door. Jollister glanced at a big watch that he drew from his pocket. The time was half past nine. Reaching out, Jollister clicked the desk lamp and extinguished it.

After peering briefly through the closed window, Jollister paced back and forth across the room. He stopped, facing the window, and stood with head lowered. The door behind him began to open inward, slowly and without sound.

Jollister had a habit of peering upward; it was one which occupied him at the moment. His deep-set eyes blinked suddenly as he saw a reflection in the blackened window. Jollister was observing the slow, inward progress of the opening door.

Nothing else showed in that night-made mirror. No visible form in reflected blackness; simply the door, in its mysterious motion. Jollister stood, watching; then, with a quick swing to action, he whirled about and sprang directly toward the opened doorway.

By the light of the floor lamp, Jollister saw a living personage — a figure cloaked in black. One that stood plain when viewed directly. By catching the reflection of the opening door, Jollister had been warned of The Shadow’s entry.

An upraised arm came from the cloak. As The Shadow’s eyes met Jollister’s, hidden lips hissed fiercely.

Unarmed, The Shadow sought to stop Jollister’s drive through sharp command alone. But The Shadow’s action was too late.

A furious cry spat from Jollister’s livid lips. With a mighty leap, the big-limbed man hurled himself upon the cloaked intruder.

The Shadow wheeled as Jollister’s hands came shooting for his throat. Grappling, the two struck the half-opened door and sent it slamming shut.

Wild viciousness had gripped Craig Jollister. In one instant, the man had gained the power of a living demon. His sole desire was to overwhelm this cloaked antagonist. Inspired by his fury, Jollister drove The Shadow hard against the wall. He forced cloaked arms upward. The Shadow’s slouch hat fell to the floor.

One hand free, Jollister drove a big fist to beat down The Shadow’s guard. The Shadow warded off the blow and with the action, performed a powerful twist. Jollister had jolted his adversary with that first drive; had he kept up his throttling tactics, he would have held the advantage. But his desire to send home a punch proved damaging to his chances.

Though momentarily groggy, The Shadow was able to react when Jollister loosed his clutch. In the interval that accounted for the punch, The Shadow’s twist began. Slugging wide, Jollister recovered and tried to make up for his mistake. He grappled furiously to stop the foe who was slipping from his grasp.

The Shadow’s body slumped; then came upward, rigid. Gloved hands caught Jollister beneath the arms; an upward driving head drove back Jollister’s chin. Before Jollister could tighten his arms about The Shadow’s body, the cloaked fighter sent his foe straight up toward the ceiling.

THE SHADOW’S motion ended with a jerk. Jollister shot head forward, arms outstretched. A hoarse cry ended on his lips as he thudded to the floor. His hands failed to break the blow as his head reached the corner wall.

Half stooping, The Shadow regained his slouch hat and placed it upon his head. He arose and stepped to where Jollister lay. The vault expert had rolled face upward; his lips were rigid with the vicious twist that had marked Jollister’s spring to action.

The plunge had been sufficient to end Jollister’s flight; the blow that had followed his overthrow had left him stunned and helpless. It would be minutes before Jollister could revive; in that space, other work must be accomplished by The Shadow.

Hoisting Jollister’s big form, The Shadow carried the man into a darkened room. There he placed his adversary upon a bed. Jollister gave a deep groan; then subsided. The Shadow went back toward the outer room.

He stopped abruptly as he reached the fringe of light. That groan of Jollister’s had produced the unexpected. By merest chance, it had drowned a slight sound from the outer room. The Shadow, unsuspecting danger’s approach, had stepped squarely into the field of a new foe.

The outer door had opened. Halfway in the room was Cady. The stooped crook must have heard sounds of the fray, for he was crouching, with ready revolver, watching that door to the inner room.

Gun leveled, Cady had the doorway covered. He was waiting for someone to appear. But when he saw The Shadow, a quick twitch came to his ratlike face. Cady gasped an oath; his finger faltered off the trigger.

Cady was startled by the suddenness of the foe’s arrival. He had heard no approach; to his beady eyes, The Shadow had materialized like a living specter. That was the first factor that caught Cady off guard.

The second was the rat-faced crook’s recognition of the enemy with whom he had to deal.

Clink Huron had mentioned nothing of The Shadow. Good reason, for not even Clink, though higher up than Cady, had any knowledge of The Shadow’s presence in the game. Cady, thought a shrewd worker, had a dash of yellow.

It showed in this crisis. A meeting with The Shadow was not to Cady’s liking. Instinctively, the rat dropped back as he steadied his failing finger on the cold trigger that was his sole reliance.

Had The Shadow reached for an automatic, Cady would have fired. Some human gesture on The Shadow’s part was the one assurance that the crook needed. Caught on the threshold of the inner room, The Shadow, himself, was in dilemma. His hesitation, however, lasted only for the slightest fraction of a second.

A SILENT bolt of blackness, The Shadow sprang forward in one mammoth leap. His cloak swished wide; its crimson lining flashed in the dull light. His stroke caught Cady on the instant of action. The crook broke at sight of the living avalanche.

Wildly, Cady scrambled for the door; catching the frame of the outer portal with his left hand, he turned to aim savagely with his right. Frenzied, he wanted to pump hot slugs from his gun; but his chance was gone. The Shadow was upon him.

One black-gloved fist gripped Cady’s wrist. The other sped for the crook’s throat. A gargle was the only sound that Cady made as his head went crashing against the door frame. Uptwisted fingers loosened.

The revolver slipped from Cady’s grasp. The rat-faced crook slumped helpless to the floor.

The Shadow’s right hand shot beneath his cloak; as it emerged, whisking an automatic, the black-clad fighter wheeled. Full about, spinning to the center of the room — such was The Shadow’s course. The move came just in time.

A hulking foeman was springing in from the hall. Cooler Caplan, picked by Clink Huron as Cady’s running mate, was here to back up his fallen pal. Clink had chosen Cooler with a reason. This big gorilla was noted for his readiness with a gat.

Cady had left Cooler in the hall, to be ready with aid. Cooler was here, uncalled, a huge revolver bulging from his fist. That .45 was a murderous weapon; Cooler had used the big “smoke-wagon” often in the past.

Sight of The Shadow was no deterrent to Cooler Caplan. He had heard Cady’s scuffle; he had piled in to aim for the first person whom he encountered. Springing over Cady’s form, the big killer lunged for the whirling figure in the center of the room. With a hideous snarl, he pressed trigger.

At the same instant, The Shadow fired. Two shots sounded as one. Flame flashed from both .45s, revolver and automatic. Zinging bullets passed in air. Two figures came to a halt.

The Shadow stopped, five paces from the spot where he had been when Cooler fired. The crook had been too quick in aim at that elusive target. His bullet had whizzed through the folds of the black cloak.

Missing The Shadow’s body, it had found lodgment in the wall by the window.

But Cooler’s halt came instantly. Stopped in his forward lunge, the would-be killer jolted upward. Both hands clamped to his chest; his right released the smoke-wagon and let the big gun clatter to the floor.

Blood stained Cooler’s fingers as his lips spat incoherent words. Eyes bulged above an ugly, twisted nose. Knees sagged, then gave. Cooler sprawled forward and flattened to the floor.

THE SHADOW placed a smoking automatic beneath his cloak. Standing in the mellow light, he surveyed the scene before him. He had dealt with three contestants in swift succession. Each conflict had led to another.

Craig Jollister had furnished unexpected opposition. The Shadow had come here to approach him unaware. Had the surprise been as compete as The Shadow had planned, Jollister would have offered no resistance.

Cady had gained a lucky break. The Shadow had turned the tables with an unexpected stroke, based upon his recognition of the fellow’s yellowness.

Cooler had driven in with murderous intent. Gun against gun had been the only course. The Shadow had slain a killer who deserved to die. The Shadow’s one regret was that shots had proven necessary.

Silence had been his watchword on this expedition. He had come to change events at Jollister’s without commotion. To stop Jollister’s departure; to overpower Cady; then Cooler — such had been The Shadow’s purpose.

Yet, as The Shadow listened, he could hear no distant shouts. No scurry of footsteps. The lack of tenants in this wing; the deserted house next door — those were fortunate factors. Apparently the simultaneous gun shots had not peen heard outside.

The Shadow laughed grimly. His course was undisturbed. Striding toward the door, he stopped by the floor lamp. He pulled the cord again and again. Four times the light blinked; then remained on. The Shadow glided to the room wherein he had placed Craig Jollister.

A FEW minutes later, two stealthy figures arrived at the door of the apartment. One was a stalwart, chisel-featured man: Cliff Marsland. The other, a shrewd, stoop-shouldered fellow whose keen eyes peered from a wizened face. This was Hawkeye.

Cliff motioned the little man to remain by the door. Crossing the room, he came to the inner door. He heard a whisper. Cliff entered.

“Instructions,” came The Shadow’s low tone. “Remove Cooler’s body to the touring car. Come back for Cady. Place him in the rear seat also, bound and gagged. Drive to the parking lot on M Street, near the Pelham Theater. No watchman is on duty; leave the car there.”

“Instructions received,” acknowledged Cliff.

The Shadow waited while his agents removed Cooler’s body and came back for Cady. When they had taken the surviving crook, The Shadow, himself, hoisted Jollister.

Carrying the vault expert limp across his shoulders, The Shadow extinguished the floor lamp as he passed. He descended by the fire tower. He heard the touring car pull away.

Shifting his relaxed burden, The Shadow laughed softly as he moved frontward through the rain. He was on his way to join Harry Vincent in the coupe. Between them, The Shadow and his agent would put Craig Jollister in a place where he would stay.