The Red Blot

CHAPTER IV THE LAW DECIDES

To Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley, the intervention of the police was opportunity. Raiding bluecoats had fired at the light. They had failed to clip The Shadow — had failed, even, to recognize the elusive personage whom they had mistaken for an enemy.

The Shadow had been forced to meet the emergency; his swing toward the wall had carried him straight through the door that led to the stairway. Wisely, The Shadow had posted himself at that strategic spot.

With the raid directed toward the door, Hurley and Tweezers dropped toward the floor in front of the safe, drawing their revolvers as they sought this protection.

A policeman saw them and opened fire. Crouching and sidling hastily toward the door that led to the rear of the building, the crooks returned the shots with gusto.

A policeman fell, wounded. Others dropped behind odd articles of furniture that were in this back room. A filing cabinet was cover for one; another entrenched himself behind a large chair. Two officers jumped behind the opened door through which The Shadow had gone.

The man with the lantern was crouched by the front door of the room. The police had entered through the pawnshop itself. This fellow kept the light in action; for the odds lay with the police. But Hurley Brewster was a tough customer with the gat.

“Clear a path through the back door,” he growled to Tweezers. “I’ll take care of these bimboes.”

The dock-walloper opened fire as he spoke. He had drawn a second revolver, and his huge smoke wagons sent whizzing bullets toward the barricaded raiders.

He had but one purpose; to keep the officers under cover. He succeeded. Then, with a malicious snarl. Hurley aimed point-blank toward the wounded policeman on the floor.

Tweezers was shouting from the door, crying that the way was clear. Hurley ignored the call for the moment. He was set to deliver death to a helpless victim. The other policemen recognized their comrade’s desperate position. but they were too late as they sprang from their places of safety. Hurley’s finger was already on the trigger.

Then came a shot from the blackened doorway across the room — the exit through which The Shadow had departed! Unerring aim found its human target. As Hurley Brewster’s lips mouthed a curse, the dock-walloper’s arm dropped, and his body sagged. Both revolvers dropped from numbed fingers.

The Shadow had winged a leaden messenger straight from the muzzle of his automatic into the crook’s black heart!

POLICEMEN were raising their guns. They were firing now — adding bullets to Hurley’s toppled body. Each thought that one of his companions had fired the first good shot. Only one man knew what actually had happened.

Tweezers Darley, just beyond the rear door of the room, had seen the blaze of The Shadow’s automatic. He knew who had dropped Hurley Brewster; and with eager frenzy, he made a quick effort to gain revenge. Behind the doorway, he thrust out his revolver and aimed straight toward that blackened area where he knew The Shadow must be.

The automatic roared again. This time its target was not a body; it was a hand — the fist of Tweezers Darley. A cry followed The Shadow’s second shot. Tweezers’s gun fell. Grasping his mutilated fingers, the safe cracker staggered away, rendered powerless by The Shadow’s skillful stroke.

Bluecoats were surging through the room. Some were helping their wounded comrade. Others were on the trail of Tweezers, firing after the fleeing safe cracker. More were piling through the doorway from which The Shadow had fired those telling shots, seeking vainly for one who had vanished in that direction.

A tall, powerful man in plain clothes strode into the room. He came from the front doorway; and he pressed a wall switch which brought lights and made the bulls-eye lantern unnecessary. He was joined by another plain-clothes man — the one who had handled the lantern.

At the same time, a stoop-shouldered old fellow came into the room through the door from the stairway. With faltering step, Timothy Baruch hastened to the open safe, and emitted a cry of anguish when he saw that it was empty. He turned to face the big man who appeared to be the leader of the raiding crew.

“Baruch?” questioned the big fellow.

The old man nodded.

“I’m Detective Hembroke,” returned the other, “from headquarters. Got a tip-off there was something going on here tonight. Came in through your front door. Don’t you ever lock it?”

“The front door?” queried Baruch, in a dazed tone. “Sure, it was locked — on the inside—”

“Not tonight,” returned Hembroke shortly. “Unless these birds came in that way, or opened it after they were in here.”

Timothy Baruch held his head in his hands. He stared at the dead form of Hurley Brewster.

“You got that fellow?” he queried. “Are there any more?”

“Two,” said Hembroke. “One went out the back way; the other headed upstairs. We’ll get them. My men are after them.”

The sleuth’s assurance was gratifying to Baruch. The old man had heard of Merton Hembroke, the New York detective whose swift and effective action had won high commendation. It was noised about that this new crime trailer was gaining precedence over Detective Joe Cardona, hitherto regarded as the ace of Manhattan sleuths.

Policemen were coming in to report to their leader. One brought the information that the man who had run from the back door had been plugged; that he could not be far away. Officers were scouring the neighborhood for traces of him.

The others, however, had a barren report. They had been upstairs and down cellar; yet had found no trace of the man who had dived through the side door of the room.

WITH men close beside him, Hembroke strode to the rifled safe. He noted the sheet of paper lying upon the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light. A stern expression appeared upon the detective’s face.

“The Red Blot!” exclaimed Hembroke. “So that guy’s in again, eh? Well” — Hembroke laughed gruffly — “we did better than Cardona’s ever done. We nabbed one of The Red Blot’s workers. I know that mug!”

Still holding the paper, Hembroke was staring at Hurley Brewster’s body. The detective pondered a moment, then laughed again as he gave the dock-walloper’s identity.

“Hurley Brewster,” stated Hembroke. “But who were the birds with him?”

As if in answer to the sleuth’s question, two policemen appeared at the rear door, carrying the inert form of Tweezers Darley. They deposited their burden on the floor. Tweezers, like Hurley, was dead.

“So that’s the guy,” snorted Hembroke. “Tweezers Darley. I’ve got the lay now.

“Good work, men — I’m glad you plugged him. Tweezers Darley, the only safe cracker in New York who could have opened this box. Working for The Red Blot — he and Hurley Brewster.”

Turning, the detective put a savage question to the officers who had searched the house.

“What about the other man?” he demanded. “He’s the one that must have grabbed the swag! Where is he?”

“He couldn’t have got out of the house,” returned a policeman. “But he isn’t in here, either.”

“That’s no answer!” growled Hembroke. “He’s either here, or he isn’t here. Which is it?”

“He’s not in the house,” insisted another searcher.

“All right,” declared Hembroke gloomily, “then he must have made a getaway. That’s tough, men. Sorry, Baruch.” The detective turned toward the old man, who was seated pitifully in a large chair. “We did the best we could. The tip-off didn’t arrive in time for us to prevent the robbery. Nevertheless, we’ve landed two of the crooks and maybe we’ll get the third.”

The old man made no response. Hembroke noted the tired look upon his drawn face. Half clad, in trousers and shirt, Timothy Baruch had evidently arisen hastily after hearing the commotion.

“Help him up to his room,” ordered the detective. “He’s all in.”

Two policemen responded. They conducted the old man up the stairs. When they returned, a few minutes later, they completed the entire raiding squad, for all others had assembled for new orders.

Hembroke was studying the bodies of Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley. He made no comment. The others waited for his decision.

During this interim, they heard the front door open and close heavily. Before anyone could make a move, a stoop-shouldered man came wild-eyed into the room. He was clad in hat and overcoat. Hembroke uttered a surprised ejaculation as he recognized the face of Timothy Baruch.

“What has happened here?” the old pawnbroker gasped. “I go away this evening. I think that all is well—”

Baruch spread his hands and uttered a shriek as he saw the rifled safe. Perplexed looks passed among the policemen. Baruch had gone upstairs — now he was in from the outside!

It was Hembroke who supplied the solution. The detective gave it in the form of a shouted order.

“Get upstairs!” he cried. “Grab the old man that’s up there! He’s the one we want — a fake, playing the part of Baruch!”

TWO policemen galloped to the steps. Hembroke, after a moment’s hesitation, followed at their heels.

The officers reached the room where they had left Timothy Baruch. Their flashlights played upon an empty bed; then toward the open window.

That was the new goal. The flashlights flickered from the window to the alleyway beneath. They showed blankness.

In the space of a few minutes, the pretended Timothy Baruch had made a prompt departure. Some amazing master of disguise had not only evaded capture, but had actually been present to hear Morton Hembroke’s comments; for this elusive being had played the part of Timothy Baruch prior to the real pawnbroker’s arrival.

Nothing in the alleyway; yet to the ears of one policeman came a faint echo that seemed like a weird whisper in the night breeze. It was the strange tone of a mocking laugh — the triumphant cry of The Shadow.

The policeman did not recognize the strain, for it came from a considerable distance. Morton Hembroke, by the bed in the room, did not hear the eerie cry. The detective and his men knew only that they had been cleverly tricked by a stranger who had vanished into the night.

The Shadow!

No longer playing the part of Timothy Baruch, he had again become the creature of darkness. Garbed in the folds of his black cloak, he was wending his silent, unseen way from this locality.

A whispered laugh lingered in a deserted street. The Shadow had played a part tonight. Too late to forestall The Red Blot, who had acted at an early hour, The Shadow had found other men of crime and had stopped them from deeds of murder.

From sullen lips, he had gained an inkling of the scheme behind tonight’s odd episode. A bunched-up little fellow, one with the features of a dope addict — Tweezers Darley — before he died, had spoken of such a man. This was the person whom The Shadow now would seek; for that individual was, in all probability, a spy for the master mind who used the signature of a crimson spot.

Many denizens of the underworld might answer to the description given by Tweezers. The Shadow would eliminate them one by one, until he found the one he wanted. The Red Blot’s purpose? The Shadow had divined it.

Some secret spy had informed The Red Blot of the work which Hurley and Tweezers had planned. The Red Blot had ordered his minions to grab the swag. The police tip-off had been given later, so that Hurley and Tweezers would be grabbed at the empty safe, where the sign of The Red Blot already lay.

The Shadow’s laugh sounded vaguely in the darkness. When The Red Blot struck again, The Shadow would be there to meet his minions. The Shadow had trapped Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley before the police net had fallen.

He, The Shadow, held the clew he needed. It would not take him long to pick out the secret spy whom The Red Blot had planted in the underworld!

The Shadow knew.