The Man from Scotland Yard

CHAPTER III. THE RAID

THE denizens of Dory Halbit’s dive were not of mobland’s ilk. Yet these ruffians who had aided Sailor Martz were cutthroats in their own right. To them, the name of The Shadow might be hazier than it was to crooks of the underworld; that fact only made this squad of murderers more dangerous.

Crooks had faded often at The Shadow’s advent. Rats of crime knew the menace of The Shadow. This crew lacked such information. They saw The Shadow as an unexpected intruder who had balked them of a kill.

Revolvers crackled as knife-wielding fighters charged forward, driving low. Under a high barrage, the men with dirks were aiming for the intrepid stranger who had come from blackness. They, like Sailor Martz, were to learn The Shadow’s power.

Doubling to the floor, The Shadow sprang straight against the attacking ranks. Bullets whizzed above him, aimed too high and too late. Mighty automatics belched flame into the phalanx of knife-armed men.

Snarling rogues sprawled to the cement floor.

One wounded assassin caught himself and sent a blade whizzing through the air. His stroke was late. The Shadow had whirled from the charge. Diving along the wall, he gained the bar where Dory Halbit was stationed. The brawny proprietor sprang forward to stop the sweeping figure. Gun-fisted hands shot upward and sent the one-legged foeman clattering across the floor.

Revolvers burst anew. The automatics answered. The Shadow had found the vantage point he wanted.

There were full barrels beneath Dory’s counter. They served as a bulwark against bullets. His guns upon the counter level, The Shadow blazed responding shots.

Attackers broke. They had not counted upon conflict with a vengeful, sharp-shooting foe. They valued their hides too much to keep up the quarrel on behalf of Sailor Martz. Wild with desire for escape, the armed men followed the noncombatants who had already scurried through the doorways to the streets.

Sprawled figures told of The Shadow’s prowess. The cloaked fighter had not aimed to kill. He had dropped his adversaries with quick, clipping shots; his wounded foemen were crawling toward the doors that offered escape.

There was one exception. Sailor Martz, half doubled in agony, was picking up his knife. His bleary eyes were looking toward the landlubber whom he had failed to slay. He was out to get that victim at any cost.

The dark-faced man had risen also. Grogginess ended, he was ready to pounce forward the moment that Sailor made a move. The Shadow watched the coming drama. He knew that the full advantage lay with the man whom he had saved. Sailor Martz surged crazily forward; the landlubber caught him and sent him staggering back.

Then came a shrill interruption from the doorways through which escaping rogues were diving. Police whistles told the entry of the law. Ruffians came staggering back; plainclothes men piled down the steps into the underground dive.

Cardona’s raiding squad had arrived. They had caught men who were seeking flight, not fight. The police were just in time to make a complete round-up of the scattering customers from Dory’s dive.

THE SHADOW dropped behind the counter. His whispered laugh faded. His work had been accomplished. He had come here tonight to back the law. He had entered only because a crisis had arrived before the raid. He had wounded Sailor Martz. The man was helpless. The law could have him.

But the law was due to blunder. Sailor Martz had sagged to the floor under the pressure of the landlubber with the dark-hued skin. A bulky plainclothes man bounded forward; the dark man swung about to speak.

The dick placed a hard punch to the dyed jaw. The landlubber crumpled. Half recovering, he came up; another plainclothes man sprang in and clubbed him. Together, the two officers dragged their limp victim to the door.

Sailor Martz came to his feet. He swayed a moment; then grinned in sickly fashion. Unnoticed by the raiders, he turned about and staggered through the inner door that led to the adjoining house.

Clattering footsteps now sounded on stone. The raiders had done most of their work outside; they were dragging out the last of their prisoners. Joe Cardona appeared in the side doorway; looking about, the raid commander saw that the work was complete.

But Joe did not spy the figure that rose hazily behind Dory’s counter. That spot was out of the light. The Shadow, peering forward, was unobserved as he, too, made a survey of the scene. The Shadow spied Joe Cardona; he followed the direction of the detective’s gaze toward the front door of the dive.

There The Shadow’s eyes were fixed. Between two plainclothes men he saw a figure that he recognized.

Instantly The Shadow realized the mistake that the raiders had made. They were dragging out the rescued man. Sailor Martz had disappeared.

Impatiently, The Shadow waited. He watched Joe Cardona turn about and leave. The dive was deserted. Dory Halbit had been thrust out with the rest. Swiftly, The Shadow moved from behind the wooden bar. He swung toward the inner doorway and merged with the darkness beyond it.

The law, confident of the swiftness of its clean-up, had failed to bag the one man that it sought. Sailor Martz had made a get-away, despite his wound. The Shadow, alone was on the fellow’s trail.

OUTSIDE the dive, Joe Cardona was watching clanging patrol wagons pull away into the mist. Prisoners had been herded aboard. In the crowd somewhere — Joe was sure — would be the man he wanted: Sailor Martz.

Cardona smiled as he stepped aboard a police car. The fight in the dive, just before the raid, had been a fortunate break according to the detective’s reasoning. It offered a good pretext for the raid. Dory Halbit could make no howl.

Clanging through the fog, the car reached the nearest precinct. Alighting, Cardona walked up the steps of the building and entered the big room to survey the prisoners. He found half a dozen who were due to be shipped in an arriving ambulance. Not one of this crowd answered the description of Sailor Martz.

Lines of mugs greeted the detective as he studied the remainder of the sullen prisoners. Cardona’s face showed a scowl. The detective came to the end of the line; there he encountered Dory Halbit. The one-legged man was nursing a black eye that he had received in combat with a dick.

Cardona motioned the proprietor to one side. In a growled undertone he inquired regarding Sailor Martz.

Dory shrugged his shoulders.

“Sailor ain’t here,” he told the ace. “Look ‘em over. You won’t find him.”

“He was in your joint tonight?”

“Sure! It was him that started the trouble! I’m off the guy. Wish you’d have landed him. But he ain’t here.”

“Where did he go?”

“Don’t ask me. I didn’t see Sailor after the fight got started.”

“All right.”

Cardona strolled away, muttering to himself. He knew that Dory had spoken the truth. Sailor Martz was not in the throng of prisoners.

A police sergeant approached.

“We’ve got the fellow who started the trouble,” informed the officer. “The boys knocked him cold, when they dragged him in.”

“Where is he?” questioned Joe, quickly.

“In the lieutenant’s room,” replied the sergeant. “We laid him on the couch. He’s still out.”

Cardona hurried into the lieutenant’s room, expecting to find Sailor Martz.

He shook his head as he surveyed the dark-dyed face of the stocky man who lay sprawled upon the couch.

“Not Sailor,” decided Cardona. “but this fellow may do some talking when he comes to. Dory says Sailor started the battle. It must have been with this guy.

A policeman passed Joe a slip of paper, stating that he had found it in the unconscious man’s pocket.

Cardona read a name and address.

“What’s this doing here?” he asked aloud. “Name of Caleb Wesdren, Hotel Marrington. This guy must know somebody important, who lives at the Marrington. Unless he was figuring on making trouble up there. Get the Marrington; tell them I want to talk to Mr. Wesdren.”

The sergeant put in the call. Meanwhile, two plainclothes men sauntered into the lieutenant’s room. They were the ones who had slugged the dark-faced man. They seemed pleased with their accomplishment.

The sergeant completed the call. He handed the telephone to Cardona. The detective spoke briskly. The others heard his words.

“DETECTIVE CARDONA, of police headquarters,” announced the ace. “We just raided a dive on the waterfront, Mr. Wesdren. Brought in prisoners. One had your address in his pocket… What’s that? Oh, yeah… That’s right… Dark face… Looks like it was dyed, all right… Yeah… What’s that? Say, you don’t mean—”

“Why certainly, Mr. Wesdren… Absolutely… Yes, I’ll bring him right up… You’ll call the senator?… Good… Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.”

Cardona hung up and turned to the plainclothes men, who greeted him with wise grins. One of them offered a husky question.

“Well?” asked the dick. “Is this the mug you want? Sailor Martz?”

“No,” retorted Cardona, “but he’ll tell us plenty about Sailor. Which one of you slugged him?”

“Clancy did. He was the first to get to him.”

“Did he put up much of a fight, Clancy?” demanded Cardona.

“Didn’t give him no chance,” was the reply. “He was beatin’ up a guy that was wounded, so I piled in on him. Morey here helped me.”

“And the other fellow? The wounded man?”

“Don’t know what happened to him.”

Joe Cardona fumed.

“That was Sailor Martz,” he growled. “The guy we wanted. The wounded man, I mean.”

“But we got this bird.”

“Sure you got him — and can you guess who he is?”

Heads shook as Cardona paused. Emphatically, the ace detective added a statement, from information that he had just gained from Caleb Wesdren.

“This fellow you slugged,” he stated, “was smart enough to get in ahead of us. He was clever enough to grab the bird we wanted. He’d have handed Sailor Martz to us, if you’d let him,”

Joe stopped to gesture toward the unconscious man upon the couch. His final words, sarcastically directed toward the plainclothes men, served also as a belated introduction.

“This gentleman,” declared Cardona. “was working in disguise. He is Vic Marquette, of the United States Secret Service.”