The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER XIV SPOTTER PAYS A VISIT

The denizens of New York’s underworld prowl while others sleep. At the very time when Harry Vincent was retiring, in peaceful Brookdale, a little stoop-shouldered man was sidling along an obscure street in Manhattan.

It was nearly twenty-four hours since Spotter had talked with Steve Cronin. The murderer had disappeared from town, and Maloney’s crew of killers had cleared out at the same time.

Only Spotter remained. No one connected him with the death of Reds Mackin.

All evening, Spotter had frequented his usual haunts. He had been to the Black Ship, the Pink Rat, and other notorious dives of the underworld.

Those who had seen him had not suspected that he had any purpose in his mind. That was Spotter’s way. Cunning and secretive, the eagle-eyed crook conducted his affairs without interference.

Tonight he had slipped out of the Pink Rat, and had chosen a course through narrow side streets that had assured him that no one was following him.

Spotter was always cautious that way. He had sure methods of slipping out of sight. Even though no one might be following him, he used his precautions.

Spotter chuckled as he sneaked along. Crooks and police were alike to him. They never had the goods on Spotter. When he had work to do, he did it suddenly and unexpectedly.

No one could suspect his present purpose; yet he left nothing to chance.

There was only one man, Spotter decided, who could ever trail him. That man was The Shadow — and now The Shadow was dead. The Shadow had been a menace; now the menace was removed.

The little man disappeared along a narrow alley. He dropped into a dark nook and waited. If any one was on his trail, the pursuer would come down the alley and betray himself. But no one came.

Spotter chuckled softly. He emerged from the darkness, went along the deserted street, and turned into the side door of a building on the corner.

Over the corner entrance hung three battered golden balls. But Spotter chose a side entrance that led to the rooms above the pawnshop.

There was a second door, with a bell button beside it. Spotter rang. The latch clicked, and the little man entered. The door closed behind him as he mounted the stairs.

A man was waiting at the head of the stairway, where a dim light shone. He scanned Spotter, recognized him, and took him into a small room. The shades of this apartment were drawn.

“I didn’t expect you this early, Spotter,” said the man. “You’ll have to wait a little while.”

“All right, Doc,” replied Spotter.

The man whom Spotter was visiting was “Doc” Birch, the proprietor of the pawnshop. Doc Birch was a careful man in his dealings. He conducted a legitimate business and seldom received stolen goods.

He was a gaunt man, well along in years, who surveyed Spotter through large, thick spectacles.

“It’s O.K. for you to wait, Spotter,” said Birch, “but there’s no one else that I’d trust.”

“Don’t blame you, Doc.”

“You know I’m working through a couple of the boys, but while they’re all right, I don’t go too strong with them. They’re liable to blab or to get in trouble. It would spoil my game.”

“You gotta watch out, Doc. It ain’t wise to have too many in the know.”

“I agree with you, Spotter. But I always try to unload the phony bills as soon as they come in. The sooner you shove out queer money, the better.

“I’d like to depend on you alone. It would be safer in a way; but if I did I’d have to keep the stuff here in the house. That would make it more dangerous in the long run.”

“I thought you did keep it here.”

“Well” — Birch hesitated before making his admission — “I might as well tell you the real dope, Spotter. I buy the goods outright, cash in advance. I don’t know where it comes from myself.”

“You don’t?” Spotter asked in amazement.

“No,” replied Birch. “I tell the messenger how much I want and when. How I got into the racket is my own business; no use in going into that. But I play the game straight.

“The fellow will show up any time now. He brings ten thousand in queer bills — but they’re the best imitation I’ve ever seen — and I give him real money for it.”

Spotter did not ask regarding the terms on which Doc Birch worked in paying for the counterfeit bills that came from the unknown source.

“You’re taking out two grand to-night,” remarked Birch. “The others will come at different times, to get theirs. Then I’m clear.

“They all work like you — fifty-fifty split with me. So far, I’ve never been stung.”

“Why should we sting you, Doc? It’s a soft racket for us.”

“You said it, Spotter.”

“To tell you the truth, Doc, I was always kinda worried about you. I figured maybe you was makin’ the phony mazuma right here.”

Doc Birch snorted.

“You should know better than that, Spotter,” he said. “If I had the plates and tried to print, I’d be nabbed quick. No, sir. Get it in, get it out. That’s my method.”

He went to a safe in the corner. As he did, his shadow loomed large upon the floor of the room. It became a huge black phantom that seemed to reach to the dim hall.

Spotter uttered an exclamation of fright.

“What’s the matter?” asked Doc Birch, quickly.

“Nothin’, Doc,” answered Spotter.

The gaunt man opened the safe and removed a stack of bills. He closed the safe and flashed the money before Spotter’s eyes, spreading it so the gangster could see the bills. They were crisp and new.

“All ten spots,” said Doc Birch. “No phonies, either. These are real, boy. I’m paying them out for the stuff.”

The pawnbroker wrapped a thick, red rubber band around the stack of currency. Spotter was unable to determine the amount of the cash.

“What made you so nervous?” questioned Birch, as he thrust the payment money in his coat pocket.

“Nothin’,” grunted Spotter. “I just been kinda shaky to-night.”

“Did that rub-out of Reds Mackin worry you?”

“No. Why should it?”

“Well, it was a lot of hullabaloo over just one guy. I wonder what Reds Mackin had been doing? They went out of their way to make sure of getting him.”

Spotter shook his head as though the whole affair was a mystery to him. He glanced at the floor, and felt relieved. The huge shadow had disappeared since Doc Birch had come back to his place in the room.

Evidently it had been due to the peculiar position of the lights. Spotter was not anxious to be reminded of anything shadowy.

The bell rang twice. Doc Birch motioned to Spotter.

Then he went out in the hall.

Together they descended the stairs. A man was standing beyond the glass-paneled inside door. His hand was pressed against the pane, so three fingers showed. This was evidently a sign of some sort.

Birch opened the door. A package was thrust in.

There, in the darkness, with Spotter looking on, the pawnbroker gave the man the packet of ten-dollar bills. In an instant, the visitor was gone. The sound of a departing automobile came from outside.

“Come on,” said Birch, picking up the package. He led Spotter through a short hall. They went down a flight of stairs into the cellar.

Birch turned on the basement light. He laid the package on the floor, and burst it open. Stacks of twenty-dollar and fifty-dollar bills came into view. Birch examined one.

“Great stuff,” he said. “Up to the usual standard. How do you want yours, Spotter? Twenties or fifties?”

“Half of each,” replied the little man.

As the pawnbroker stooped forward to count out the counterfeit cash, his shadow again performed its elongation. This time Spotter said nothing; but his face became drawn and tense. He watched Birch for a moment; then turned cautiously and looked about the cellar.

His inspection proved that they were alone. The edges of the cellar were gloomy, but no one was visible. A pile of blackness at one corner proved to be a large heap of coal — evidently left over from the winter’s supply.

Birch finished counting the money, and rose just before Spotter ended his survey of the cellar.

The crafty-faced Spotter noted that the huge spot of blackness was no longer on the floor, now that the pawnbroker had arisen.

“Get going, Spotter,” warned Birch. “I’ll let you out as we go upstairs. The others will be here soon. I want to unload before midnight if I can. Pay me your split as soon as you finish passing these.”

The pawnbroker put the remaining counterfeit bills in a box, and covered them with paper. He and Spotter went upstairs. Birch turned off the light as they were leaving. Then, as an afterthought, he switched it on again.

“Duke will be here soon,” he said to Spotter. “No use in my blundering around in the dark.”

A full minute went by after the two men had left the cellar. Then a shadow began to grow on the floor. It extended from the coal bin in the corner.

Had Spotter been there, he would have screamed with fright; for from the blackness of the coal pile emerged a tall figure, clad entirely in black, cloaked beyond recognition.

The strange phantomlike being advanced softly across the cellar. It crouched beside the box where the counterfeit bills had been placed.

The cloak and hat dropped, and a man of medium height arose from the spot. He was attired in rough, ill-fitting clothes, with a shapeless dirty sweater to give him every appearance of a typical hoodlum.

Spotter would not have recognized the man; but he would have known the voice. For the roughly clad fellow laughed in a low, sinister tone.

His laugh, soft though it was, echoed weirdly from the basement walls. It was the laugh of The Shadow — The Shadow whom Spotter believed to be dead!