The Shadow Laughs

CHAPTER XVIII TIGER BRONSON

It was midnight in Manhattan. There were very few customers in the Black Ship. Spotter, seated in a corner, knew every one of them. He had been here since nine o’clock, waiting for the moment when there would be no stranger in their midst.

Although he was so widely acquainted in the underworld, the crafty, beady-eyed little man did not know all the patrons of the Black Ship. Visiting mobsmen from other cities came there frequently. Strange faces were always present. Spotter knew every face at present, however.

Sure he was free from observation, Spotter went to the bar and spoke quietly to Red Mike, the proprietor.

“Let me out by the back way.”

Red Mike considered the request.

“What’s the idea, Spotter?” he asked.

“I’m going to see the big fellow,” whispered Spotter. “I promised him I’d fix it so no one could see me go out of here.”

“All right.”

The proprietor entered a room behind the bar, and Spotter followed. There was a locked door at the other side of the room. Red Mike opened it, and Spotter slipped through like a scurrying rat without even extending thanks.

Hastening through a passage, he emerged through a side door which locked behind him. He was in a deserted walk that led to an alley.

He chuckled as he reached the alley. Only a very few of the elite of gangland knew of this secret way out of the Black Ship.

Spotter now feared no pursuit. He knew that any one who might be watching for him would be at the front entrance of the dive. So he made great speed in leaving the vicinity.

He moved silently, with running gait, along the side of the alley; and continued his deceptive pace when he reached the street.

Spotter used the utmost precaution, and every wile, when he thought he was being followed. But when he was reasonably sure that no one was on his trail, he went forth rapidly, never looking behind. Hence, he did not notice a strange shadow on the sidewalk — a shadow that seemed to keep pace with him, moving without noise, as shadows always do.

Leaving the more disreputable neighborhood behind him, Spotter came to some old, large houses. Here he entered a space between two buildings, and rang at a side door. It was opened for him. He went upstairs, and entered a room at the side of the house.

Spotter always climbed stairs rapidly. Tonight, he should have remained outside the house. Had he been there, he would have seen what appeared to be a solid shadow moving up the side of the wall. It reached the lighted window before Spotter was in the room.

Perhaps that was why Spotter was startled when he entered. For on the floor he saw a shadow. He stared at it; but it did not move.

Sighing with relief, the little crook dropped in a chair, with his back partly toward the window.

A big, bluff-faced man came in. Spotter grinned and raised one scrawny hand in greeting. The little crook seemed to be doing his utmost to gain favor with the heavy, grim-visaged person whom he had come to see.

“What’s up?” demanded the bluff man, lighting a black cigar as he took his place in a chair opposite Spotter. “Give me the dope.”

“Doc Birch was raided last night,” said Spotter. He did not add that he had been there.

“What for?” came the question. “Booze, or stolen goods?”

“Neither. Phony mazuma.”

“Hm-m-m. Trying to pass counterfeit bills, eh? That’s a new one on me.”

Spotter licked his lips and looked at the big man. He was awed in the presence of this personage. For the man was none other than “Tiger” Bronson, an overlord of the underworld, whose word was law throughout crookdom.

No one knew where Tiger Bronson had gained his nickname. It might have been a reference to his former activity in Tammany politics; or it might have been applied to indicate the powerful and dangerous character of the man.

At any rate, Bronson gloried in the name. Tiger he was, and Tiger he was called.

Very few crooks ever visited Tiger Bronson’s home. Spotter was one of the few. Yet he, like the others, had nothing on Tiger Bronson.

He had come here before simply to report that Reds Mackin had wanted to find Birdie Crull, but that he — Spotter — was sure that the pretended Reds Mackin was none other than The Shadow.

The reason for the report was that Spotter was under orders to bring such information to Tiger Bronson. The big fellow wanted to know any unusual developments in gangland.

On the night that he had made the report, Spotter had mentioned the rendezvous that he had made with the false Reds Mackin. He had suggested that The Shadow be trapped there.

Tiger Bronson had made no comment; but Spotter had known that the words had made an impression. Also, he knew that he must not make any statement which might implicate Tiger Bronson.

“What else has happened?” demanded the overlord of gangdom.

“Nothin’ much,” replied Spotter casually. “A mob of gorillas tried to get Reds Mackin.”

“Why?”

“Because they thought he was The Shadow.”

Tiger Bronson knew all this. But Spotter understood the situation. He knew that he must refer to the event as though Tiger Bronson knew nothing about it.

“Who was in on it?” came the question.

“Maloney’s mob,” answered Spotter.

“What about you?”

“I was kinda in on it, too,” grinned Spotter. This was leading up to the subject which he wished to handle tactfully. “Say, Tiger, I’m kinda short on dough. Gave five hundred to an old pal of mine, Steve Cronin. I’d like to borrow that much money, if I could get it.”

Tiger Bronson said nothing. He went to a safe; opened it, and took out a package of bills. They were bound with a large red rubber band. The gang master took off the fastening and counted out fifty ten-dollar bills.

Spotter seized the money greedily. Then he stared quickly toward the window. He had an apprehension that some other eyes were watching him.

Had he been looking at Tiger Bronson, Spotter might have been impressed by the large red rubber band which the big man was replacing on the remaining bills.

It was a very conspicuous rubber band. Spotter had seen one exactly like it — so like it that it might have been the same band — the night before, at Doc Birch’s pawnshop.

But the sudden qualm of fear made the usually observant gangster overlook the matter of the red elastic. He was sure that eyes were watching him from the window. Such eyes would have seen the rubber band, too.

Spotter’s terror passed. He could see nothing in the blackness beyond the half-drawn shade. He steadied himself, so that he would not reveal his nervousness to Tiger Bronson.

“You see,” explained Spotter, “this fellow Cronin blew out of town after I gave him the dough.”

“Why?”

“Because” — Spotter leaned forward to impart this information — “he was the guy that bumped off Reds Mackin.”

“How was that? I thought you said Maloney’s gang did it?”

“They tried to do it,” revealed Spotter. “But they missed out. Cronin knew what they was up to. He got in on it, to help out the gang. He was layin’ for The Shadow. So he shot the guy after the others slipped up on the job.”

Tiger Bronson made no comment.

“But” — Spotter spoke as though afraid of the consequences of his coming statement — “it wasn’t The Shadow that they got. It was Reds Mackin, after all.”

Tiger Bronson’s face was impassive. Yet he looked at Spotter for further information.

“You see,” said Spotter, “I figure it this way. The Shadow was goin’ around like he was Reds Mackin. He was supposed to meet Birdie Crull.

“I leave a note for him at the Black Ship, the night that the works was due to blow. Just by blamed luck, Reds Mackin himself comes back. He used to hang out at the Black Ship a lot. He happens to go in there, an’ he gets the note.

“It was him — not The Shadow — that showed up.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because” — Spotter’s voice became a low, awed whisper — “The Shadow was on deck when the Feds raided Doc Birch, last night.”

Tiger Bronson shrugged his shoulders as though the information meant nothing to him. Spotter knew differently, however. He knew that he must explain further.

“I was aroun’ there,” he said. “Was goin’ by when the bunch blew in on Doc Birch. So I laid low.

“There was a big battle goin’ on inside. A guy got away outa the upstairs window. It wasn’t Doc Birch. Then a cop helps two dicks look for him.

“They all come outa the alley. Then I sees The Shadow. He was the guy they was after. But he ducked them.”

The big man chewed on his cigar, and looked at Spotter quizzically, as though wondering just why the little man had come to tell him all this.

“It makes me kinda uneasy,” confessed Spotter. “Maybe The Shadow has got it in for me — because — because — because Steve Cronin is an old pal of mine. I don’t feel so good with The Shadow prowlin’ aroun’. Honest I don’t, Tiger.”

Tiger Bronson laughed.

“It ain’t no joke, Tiger,” insisted Spotter. “The Shadow will have it in for everybody that had anythin’ to do with croakin’ Reds Mackin. An’ The Shadow is wise. There ain’t nothin’ he can’t find out.”

“All right,” laughed Tiger Bronson. “You run along now, Spotter. Come in any time you have any more bedtime stories about The Shadow, or the Sand Man or any other funny guys that make people hide in closets. I like to hear those yarns.”

As Spotter shambled from the room, the big man stopped him.

“It would be a good idea,” said Tiger Bronson, “if you drop in at Loo Look’s place some time around eight o’clock, every night. Don’t smoke any hop while you’re there.

“You may hear something that will interest you — maybe you will make some dough out of it.”

Spotter grinned as he left. This was a new command from the big shot. He could not imagine what it meant; but he knew that he had gained Bronson’s favor.

After the cunning gangster had left, Tiger Bronson sat in thought. His face betrayed nothing. He flung his half-smoked cigar into an empty metal wastebasket.

Despite his pretended ridicule, he was seriously considering the information that Spotter had brought.

Finally he laughed — a harsh, evil laugh.

“The Shadow!” he said, half aloud. “What does he know? Nothing! What does he suspect? Something, perhaps.

“Well, let him come — let him try to find out. It’s all here for him. I’ll wait to see if he suspects. If he does—”

Tiger Bronson snapped his fingers with a gesture that indicated the cold-blooded ending of a man’s life.

“The Shadow,” repeated Tiger Bronson. “Let him come — like the others did this afternoon. He’ll find what they found — nothing.

“The Shadow!”

It was strange that, as Tiger Bronson repeated the last words, a shadow moved along the floor. It was the same black splotch that Spotter had seen when he had come into the room.

Tiger Bronson did not see it depart. His eyes were on the far wall of the room.

A moment later there was no shadow on the floor.