The Road Of Crime

CHAPTER I A GENTLEMAN OF CRIME

“UXTRY! Uxtry! Read about the big bank holdups!”

Graham Wellerton stopped as he heard the newsboy’s cry. He proffered a few pennies and received the final edition of a New York evening newspaper. He glanced at the headlines as he walked along in the bright illumination of Forty-second Street, then thrust the sheet under his arm as he entered a subway kiosk.

While he waited on the platform for an uptown local, Graham Wellerton again surveyed the headlines. His eyes ran rapidly down the columns.

After a few short minutes of swift perusal, the man quickly learned that no new clews had been gained by the police relative to the crimes that had struck at noon that day.

Subway riders were reading their newspapers with avid interest when Graham Wellerton boarded his local and took a seat in a corner. His own newspaper tucked under his arm, Graham surveyed the composite crowd in the car and wondered what their varied reactions might be concerning the chief news of the day.

For New York sensation seekers had been treated to a contrast. The columns in the evening journals were, in themselves, food for a grim debate on crime.

Was crime profitable? One news account said no; the other said yes.

Two hordes of bank bandits had struck at noon, in different parts of Manhattan. Those who had invaded the Parkerside Trust Company had been routed in a spontaneous fray which had left half a dozen mobsters dead and wounded. But those who had entered the Terminal National Bank had gained swift success. With the aid of tear gas, they had eliminated tellers and bank patrons. The robbers had escaped unscathed with thousands of dollars in currency.

STUDYING his fellow passengers, Graham Wellerton placed them in two definite classes. One group, he felt, consisted of those who gloried in the victory over crime — who gained high satisfaction in the outcome of the fray at the Parkerside Trust.

The others, Graham decided, were those who held a secret envy for robbers who had looted the Terminal National and had made so perfect a getaway.

Idly, Graham played a game of human analysis. He noted the people who were reading about the thwarted robbery. Most of them possessed an air of stability. Those who were eagerly perusing the accounts of the successful raid, however, were curious, bitter-faced individuals who seemed to gloat in the knowledge that wrongdoers had gained a momentary triumph.

In considering those whom he thus classified, Graham Wellerton adopted an odd neutrality so far as he himself was concerned. Had he included himself, he would undoubtedly have placed himself in the select category. In dress, appearance and manner, Graham was the most distinctive occupant of the subway car.

Tall, handsome and dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, Graham had the appearance of a polished man-about-town as he sauntered from the car when the train stopped at an uptown station.

But the smile upon his face was reminiscent. Not so many hours before, Graham Wellerton, in another subway car, had represented an opposite class of society. Then he had been wearing baggy trousers, heavy sweater and checkered cap.

Graham was still smiling as he tossed his newspaper into a trash receptacle. The accounts of the bank holdups had included descriptions of just such individuals as he had been at noon this very day. Evening had brought the present transformation.

So far as the bank holdups were concerned, Graham’s neutrality was one of balance. He was pleased that the attempt upon the Parkerside Trust had failed; he was glad that the Terminal National robbery had been successful. For Graham knew something that the police did not suspect: namely, that both raids had been ordered by one master of crime.

Two lieutenants had been employed, each the leader of a band of marauders. One — “Wolf” Daggert — had failed at the Parkerside Trust. His minions had been overpowered, his own escape had been a matter of luck.

The other — Graham Wellerton — had succeeded at the Terminal National. By cool strategy and swift action, he had gained his end without the loss of a single henchman.

No longer the rowdy that he had appeared to be by day, Graham Wellerton, in his gentlemanly guise, hailed a taxicab as he stepped from the subway.

Lounging in the back seat, he lighted a cigarette and, amid the puffs of smoke, emitted soft chuckles. From a position as a lesser gangster, he had risen to a lieutenancy which equaled that of Wolf Daggert. Today, he had shown his superiority over Wolf.

Graham Wellerton was anxious to hear what the big shot would have to say. That was his mission tonight — a visit to the big shot. From now on, Graham would rate above Wolf Daggert. The big shot liked smooth workers.

Yet the smile of triumph upon Graham’s face was sour at the corners. Despite the proficiency which he had shown in crime, this handsome young man was not overpleased with his calling.

THE cab pulled up at a huge apartment house. Graham Wellerton, his face no longer showing traces of satisfaction, alighted and paid the driver.

Wellerton strolled into the lobby, approached the doorman and inquired if Mr. Furzman were at home. The doorman asked the visitor’s name, made a short call over the apartment telephone and ushered Graham to the elevator.

The car stopped at the fourteenth floor. Graham stepped out and approached a doorway at the end of a short corridor.

The door was ajar. A stocky, iron-jawed individual opened it without a single word. Graham Wellerton entered and waited until the door was closed.

“Hello, Gouger,” he said to the stocky-faced man. “Is King Furzman ready to see me now?”

Gouger nodded. He opened a door at the right of the little anteroom in which they were standing, and motioned the visitor to enter. Graham walked through the doorway; Gouger followed and closed the door behind him.

The anteroom remained silent. A small, gloomy chamber with three doors, it served only as an entry. It was the appointed spot where Gouger, bodyguard to “King” Furzman, awaited visitors who were announced.

Now that one visitor had entered, there was no occasion for Gouger to remain until another call came from the downstairs lobby. But during that interim, an unexpected visitor was due to make his appearance.

Scarcely had the door at the anteroom closed behind Gouger and Graham Wellerton before the knob of the door from the corridor began to make a slow turn. Something clicked softly in the lock. The door moved inward.

A figure entered the anteroom. The door closed behind the silent visitor. Within the range of light stood the tall form of a spectral visitant who had entered here despite the fact that the door was securely locked.

This being was completely clad in black. His principal garb was a long, flowing cloak, that gave his form a grotesque shape. The upturned collar of the cloak obscured the stranger’s features.

Above the cloak, the silent visitor was wearing a broad-brimmed slouch hat which completely hid his forehead. The dull light of the anteroom showed only the eyes of the mysterious arrival. From beneath the hat brim, a pair of blazing orbs shone with sinister gleam as they peered toward the two doors that led into the apartment.

Like an apparition, this weird stranger had followed Graham Wellerton into King Furzman’s abode. Merged with the darkness at the far end of the corridor, the black-cloaked phantom had been waiting for someone to arrive.

Neither Graham Wellerton nor Gouger had detected his uncanny presence; neither was aware that The Shadow, master of the night, had observed their meeting at the opened door!

THE SHADOW!

Spectral figure of darkness, he was one who sought the spots where crime was fostered. A master of mystery, his very name was terror to the underworld! A lone wolf who battled the hordes of crookdom, a supersleuth whose prowess of investigation knew no equal, The Shadow had entered here to learn facts concerning bold crime.

The gleaming eyes spied the door upon the right. A soft, whispered laugh came eerily from unseen lips. The tall form glided across the carpeted floor and reached the closed door. A black-gloved hand slowly turned the knob. The door yielded.

Peering through a narrow crevice, The Shadow spied an empty room, which was almost totally dark. The one source of illumination came from a narrow archway which was hung with heavy curtains. Beyond that was a room lighted by floor lamps — a condition which signified that someone was present there.

The Shadow entered the gloomy room and silently closed the door behind him. His tall form was totally obscured as it clung to darkness in its path toward the heavy curtains. Only the slight swish of the black cloak was audible.

The Shadow halted when he reached the curtains. His weird shape merged with a hanging drapery.

The eyes of The Shadow peered into the room beyond. They spied one man — Graham Wellerton. The visitor, his coat, hat, and cane laid aside, was seated in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette.

A handsome face, above the peaked points of a Tuxedo collar — that was the visage which The Shadow saw. Graham Wellerton, tonight, was a gentleman of crime. As such, he was awaiting the arrival of the big shot — the man whom he called King Furzman.

Graham Wellerton’s eyes, steady despite their idle appearance, were fixed upon a door at the opposite side of this reception room — the spot from which the young man knew King Furzman would enter.

Intent in thought, Graham Wellerton gave no attention to the draperies at the archway. He did not see the blotting patch of darkness that crept slowly inward from the other room and became an unmoving blotch upon the floor.

That single sign of The Shadow’s presence was motionless as The Shadow waited. An interview was in the making — an important conference between Graham Wellerton and his superior, King Furzman.

The ears of The Shadow would listen, unsuspected, to whatever might be said; and in the meantime, the eyes of The Shadow were gazing sternly upon Graham Wellerton, the gentleman of crime!