The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT

FOG was relentless along the waterfront. Moving in from the sea, it had tightened its grip upon the land.

Thicker than ever, it clung most heavily to the spot of its first choice: where water met with shore.

There was nothing of comfort in the heavy-throated blares of whistles that came from the river. Those blasts were ghoulish at close range. They were like the voice of the fog itself. Yet to those who frequented these sodden spaces, the tones were commonplace.

Dory Halbit’s dive was not a place for particular patrons. It attracted the riffraff with its cheap grog.

Hard-visaged huskies, rat-faced roustabouts, suspicious-eyed loungers — these were the customers who slouched about at battered tables, undisturbed by those long-echoing blares from the river.

Dory Halbit was present in person. He always was. An ex-seaman, Dory had retired after being crippled in a storm. The possessor of a wooden leg, he found land navigation troublesome and seldom left the grog shop.

Tonight, as on all nights, the proprietor was leaning against the bar in the corner of the dive, keeping a gleaming eye on all who entered or left. For Dory was on the lookout for trouble; when it came, he was capable of handling it. Sleeves of his tattered shirt rolled to his elbows, neck bared, Dory looked formidable. Tattooed arms and chest were brawny; and Dory’s love for a fight made him forget his wooden leg when action started.

Joe Cardona had stretched no point in stating that a raid would not cause surprise at Dory Halbit’s. The one-legged dive owner had many doubtful acquaintances. His place had come under frequent police surveillance. It was Dory’s caginess that had caused the law to desist. If the man happened to be working in cahoots with dope smugglers, it was a sure bet that he would be able to cover up in a pinch.

It was conceded that when — if ever — the law did raid the dive, Dory would enjoy a good laugh the morning after. Tonight, Cardona was ready for the thrust that would prove fruitless in incriminating the proprietor. But in his drive, the detective would perhaps gain results of a different sort.

Through a general round-up of the dive’s habitue’s, Cardona might capture men who would give him information. Joe wanted facts concerning Rigger Luxley; and if Sailor Martz failed to talk, others might know something. Good reasoning; for these fellows at Dory Halbit’s would not mind spilling whatever they might know about a landlubber mobleader.

QUIET prevailed at Dory Halbit’s. Quiet, according to the proprietor’s view. Unshaven seamen were swapping coarse jests; rowdies who had cash were growling for drinks; raucous greetings were being exchanged between newcomers.

Such commotion, to Dory, was more pleasing than silence. So long as the customers were engaged in trivial conversation, no brawls would begin. Much though he liked a fight, Dory did not want to see one start. Fights meant cops; and Dory veered clear of trouble with the police.

Wisps of fog were creeping through broken windowpanes of Dory’s dive. The place was below street level; moisture-laden atmosphere picked it as a settling spot. Encroaching mists were driven back, however, by the clouds of smoke that issued from the mouths of customers.

Medleys of tobacco were always common at Dory’s. Dutch sailors were puffing at big pipes; gesticulating Spaniards and Italians were consuming cigarettes of many foreign blends; squatty Malaysians were smoking rank-odored cheroots. The haze of tobacco smoke was tinged with curls of yellow and blue, and through that shifting cloud, Dory kept constant watch on all newcomers.

There were three doorways that led into this dankish, stone-walled retreat. One came directly from the broad street that ran beside the piers; the second was from a side alleyway. The third was an interior door, used only by chosen customers. It led into an adjoining house.

There were strangers here tonight. That was not unusual; but Dory always sized up strangers as soon as they entered. He knew that feuds of shipboard often found their culmination on the waterfront. Dory kept tabs on usual customers and knew when some required watching. Strangers, however, were always a doubtful quantity. Dory checked all of them for future reference.

Ribald oaths sounded at the main door as three rough fellows entered. All were garbed in oilskins. Dory recognized the trio as crew members of a coastwise barge flotilla. He watched the three men take a corner table and pound riotously to summon a greasy-aproned waiter. Then Dory’s watchful eyes shot back to the door. Another man was entering, quietly. Beefy-faced and evil-eyed, the newcomer stared about the room, a coarse smile on his lips. Dory knew the fellow, he was an ex-seaman whose friends were landlubbers. To his pals, this ugly-eyed specimen was known as Sailor Martz.

Others went back to their ships when they left Dory’s. Sailor Martz stayed ashore. He had no ship. Dory knew, however, that Sailor was not always in New York. He had been absent during a period of nearly two months; it was only recently that he had returned.

Whether or not Sailor Martz had filled a temporary berth on some ship was a matter which did not concern Dory Halbit. He recognized Sailor as an accepted customer; the fellow’s business was his own.

Moreover, Sailor’s patronage was profitable to Dory. On more than one occasion, the bad-eyed customer had paid the proprietor for the use of rooms in the adjoining house. Sailor had held meetings there. That was all that Dory knew.

SAILOR caught the proprietor’s stare. His ugly grin widened. Shaking his dark-colored slicker, shoving his cap up from his forehead, Sailor strolled over to the bar and thrust a foot upon the broken-down brass rail.

Dory leaned back and produced a bottle and glass. He placed these articles on the bar so Sailor could help himself.

“Looking for somebody, Sailor?” queried Dory.

“Yeah.” Sailor stood with glass in hand and stared suspiciously about the dive. “Lookin’ for a mug that I don’t know. Maybe you can help me, Dory.”

“How’s that? If you don’t know the guy?”

“I may be able to pick him out, if he’s here. What I want to lamp is strangers. Tell me where to spot ‘em.”

“Couple of Filipinos over by the side door.”

“Not them. This mug’s an American.”

“Fellow by the middle post. The one with the underslung jaw.”

“Who else?”

“Dark-faced gent down in that inside corner. The one with the dark mackinaw. Might be a furriner, but I don’t think he is.”

Sailor flashed a sidelong glance. He spied a thick-set man who was seated alone. Something in the fellow’s bearing rendered him inconspicuous. Sailor would not have noticed him but for Dory’s suggestion. “Look’s like the mug,” stated Sailor, his growl lowered almost to a whisper. “I’m slidin’ over to talk to him, Dory. Maybe he’ll start somethin’; so be on the lookout.”

“Yeah?” queried the proprietor, his voice as hard as Sailor’s. “Take another guess, matey. This ain’t no joint for a fight.”

“It won’t be no fight,” assured Sailor, bringing a clenched hand from a pocket of his slicker. “Not if you use your noodle, Dory. Here — snag this.”

He transferred a crumpled wad of bills to the proprietor’s hand. Dory eyed the money, nodded and thrust the bills into his pocket.

“Pass the high-sign to the regulars,” whispered Sailor. “When I start it movin’, they pitch in. Drag the guy out through the side way, into the house. I’ll talk to ‘im there.”

“All right,” agreed Dory.

As Sailor strolled over to the indicated corner, Dory shifted behind the bar. Some of the customers had noted him talking to Sailor and were staring curiously. Dory caught the eyes he wanted. He gave a significant nod and a nudge of his thumb. Nods were the responses of the regulars. Eyes shifted to the corner.

Sailor had stopped by the table where the stranger was seated. He was looking at his quarry; the man was staring up to meet his gaze. Sailor eyed a face that was unshaven, with an upper lip that displayed a short-clipped mustache. He gained the hunch that the sallow complexion had been increased in darkness by a dye.

“Howdy, mate,” he greeted. “Ain’t I seen you somewhere? On the Colombo, when I shipped from Buenos Aires?”

“Don’t remember you,” returned the stranger, with a short growl. “Maybe we’ve met; maybe we haven’t.”

“Old Halyard Lubin was the skipper,” recalled Sailor, seating himself at the table. “You heard of him, ain’t you?”

“Sure.” The dark-faced man shoved a bottle and glass to Sailor. “Heard a lot about him. Never met him, though.”

“You heard what they said about Lubin in Puerto Rico?”

“Yeah. But I never got the story straight. What was it?”

Sailor’s grin hardened. His tone was contemptuous as he leaned forward across the table. “You heard about Halyard Lubin, eh? In Puerto Rico? Well, he never was there — because there ain’t no such guy! I thought you was the landlubber I was lookin’ for—”

As he spoke, Sailor came up from the table. His arms shot forward; his long-nailed fingers clawed for the dark man’s throat.

The stranger, too, was in action, and he moved too swiftly for Sailor. Twisting away, the landlubber sent his chair crashing to the floor. With one hand he made a grab for the bottle. Whisking it from under Sailor’s nose, he started a side-swiping swing straight for his antagonist’s head.

Sailor ducked as he threw up a warding arm. The swing went wide; the landlubber shifted for a downward drive before Sailor could stop him. That second blow would have brought results, but for an attack from another source.

The regulars had responded. They were surging forward en masse. Half a dozen ruffians, followed by a dozen reserves, all were springing at Dory’s beck to aid Sailor Martz. The leading attackers caught the landlubber before he could swing the bottle.

Twisting fiercely, the lone man yanked clear. He swung the bottle like a cudgel. He cracked the skull of one assailant and smashed the bottle upon the capped pate of a second. Diving out front the corner, he grabbed up a chair and swung it into the ranks of the foe.

Knives flashed. Revolvers came into view. Three men surged forward. The landlubber staggered as a fist reached his jaw. Sprawling against the wall, he looked up to see Sailor Martz diving straight for him.

Sailor’s face was venomous; his right hand was driving downward with a long-bladed knife.

Others stopped stock-still to let Sailor snag his prey. Death loomed with seeming certainty for the fighter who had sagged beneath the force of numbers. Sallow lips pressed firmly shut as the eyes above them saw the descending blade which the half-groggy victim could not stop.

THEN, from amid the chaos of commotion came a thunderous roar from an unexpected quarter. The burst of an automatic spelled a new entrant into the one-sided fray. Sailor Martz’s upraised body doubled backward instead of forward. With a wild scream, the would-be assassin staggered sidewise; his fist opened and his brandished knife clattered to the floor.

A fierce laugh broke the silence that the gunshot had brought. Hard-faced men wheeled about, fuming oaths as they whirled toward the direction of that sinister mirth. Facing the interior door of the dive, they saw the marksman who had crippled Sailor Martz.

A cloaked figure had emerged from the darkness of that inner doorway. Gloved fists projected from the folds of his sable-hued garb. The brim of a slouch hat concealed the features above the cloak, save for a pair of burning eyes that challenged all.

The Shadow had arrived upon the field of fray, to snatch a helpless victim from the toils of murderous men.