The Silver Scourge

CHAPTER VIII A RARE BIRD FLIES

WHILE Vic Marquette was planning his secret raid upon the obscure brass shop owned by Cyrus Barbier, a morning visitor was approaching that exact spot. Silk Elverton, dapper but less swaggering than usual, was strolling from the elevated station along the side street, where Barbier’s place was located.

The smooth crook stopped in front of Barbier’s window. He studied the display of brass and smiled. Barbier’s shop was like others on this street — a glittering emporium of cheap metal wares that attracted those who hoped to buy their brass at wholesale price.

Silk entered the store. A pasty-faced boy came over to wait on him. Silk surveyed the youth, and quietly asked a question.

“Where’s Barbier?”

“He’s out,” returned the boy.

“In back, you mean,” interjected Silk. “Go get him. Tell him the Englishman wants to see him.”

The boy shuffled away.

Silk took an interest in brass andirons. While the crook studied these articles, a door at the rear of the shop opened far enough for a pair of eyes to peer through. A whispered talk went on behind the door. The boy came out and approached Silk Elverton.

“Mr. Barbier will see you,” the youth announced. “Go right back.”

Silk went through the rear door. He came into a workshop where deserted benches and idle lathes were in evidence. There was a door beyond. Silk opened it, and entered a smaller shop. This was a windowless room, where a few machines were set.

Standing within this room was a wizened, gray-haired man, whose stooped shoulders seemed to bear an invisible weight The man’s eyes were sharp. As they looked toward the visitor, a toothless grin appeared upon the old rogue’s countenance.

“Hello, Barbier,” called out Silk. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

The old man shook his head.

“It’s a wonder you are seeing me,” laughed Silk. “Remember those florins and half crowns you stamped out for me? I nearly was nabbed passing them in Bermuda. If it hadn’t been for my appearance, they’d have taken me in as a crook.”

“You had trouble?”

“Plenty. Your idea of weight is way, way off, Barbier.”

“I know.” The old man shook his head wearily. “If I get the weight, I lose the ring. If I have the sound, the weight is gone.”

“So the counterfeiting game is on the rocks, eh?”

“It is bad,” admitted Barbier, “but I still can make a living. Look here.”

He reached in a drawer beneath a workbench and brought out a handful of five-cent pieces, which he passed to Silk. The crook jingled the coins.

“Good,” he declared, “but where’s the profit?”

Barbier shrugged his shoulders.

“It is small,” he said.

SILK studied the coins approvingly. He smiled as he noted that they were of different dates. Some were new and shiny; others looked old.

“I pass them out through people in this neighborhood,” explained Barbier. “Pushcart men and other peddlers. Change to customers. It brings me a good profit, but it is very slow—”

“Now if these were silver—”

Barbier spread his hands in a gesture of despair.

“You have the dies for silver coins,” added Silk.

“Right here,” returned Barbier. “But I have hidden them away. They are no good to me. I have always failed to make the coins I want. The dies — they are perfect — but the alloy—”

“You have used silver in it?”

“Yes. But never with good results. Other metals give the ring, but they are too light — all except lead. When I use it to bring up the weight—”

“I know. But the proper alloy is possible to obtain, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” asserted Barbier, “but it has driven me mad. The metal can be had; but who will produce it? It would be silver, of standard far below the Sterling, but silver, none the less.”

“Barbier” — Silk’s tone was confidential — “I have obtained the metal that you require. I have arranged a perfect set-up; but you must work for me.”

“Here in New York?” The old man’s tone was eager.

“Somewhere else,” smiled Silk. “A long way off. A place where you can live under cover. There is plenty in it, Barbier. We will profit both of us, and others beside. You will become wealthy.”

“I am safe here.”

“Only in a small way. Where I am taking you, Barbier, the silver may be had. There will be no need for shipment. It will be prepared at the place itself.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed. Silk Elverton waxed loquacious as he played upon Barbier’s cupidity.

“We shall loose a silver scourge!” exclaimed Silk. “We shall sweep this country like a plague. Silver — silver that will stand the test — silver that will buy gold—”

“I shall come,” declared Cyrus Barbier.

“At once,” returned Silk.

The wizened man began to rub his hands as he looked about the place. He shook his head slowly; immediate departure was something that he could not see possible.

While Silk was watching Barbier, a low, rapid knocking sounded at the door. The old man opened it. A short, dark-faced Italian entered.

“This is Tony Cumo,” introduced Barbier. “You have met him before.”

“Oh, the Englishman, eh?” laughed Tony, showing a gold-toothed smile as he extended his hand.

Silk Elverton received the shake.

TONY CUMO turned suddenly to Cyrus Barbier. The Italian’s grin changed to a serious expression.

“You been talking about the nickel racket?” he questioned.

Barbier nodded.

“It’s getting pretty hot,” said Cumo. “We’re working it too strong. What do you think of it?”

The final sentence of Cumo’s question was directed to Silk Elverton. The slick crook was quick to take advantage of the situation.

“I have just told Barbier,” he remarked, “of a real opportunity. Dimes, quarters, half dollars” — Tony Cumo’s smile was gleaming as Silk rose up the value scale — “instead of five-cent pieces. I have the alloy. I have the place. I have the protection.”

“What do you think of it, Tony?” asked Barbier.

“Say” — the Italian’s tone was serious — “the sooner, the better. This nickel peddling is getting bad. You know that pushcart man, Pietro? Well, he isn’t out on the job this morning. Some one saw him earlier — but he isn’t at his usual place.

“Maybe something is up — I don’t know. But I was coming in here to tell you to stow away those dies—”

There was intelligence in Tony Cumo’s speech. Silk Elverton worked upon it. He saw that the Italian’s influence could swing Cyrus Barbier.

“How long would it take to pack up the equipment?” he asked of Tony.

“Half an hour,” returned the Italian.

“Get busy,” ordered Silk serenely. “You and Barbier are with me from now on. Don’t ask me about the lay — you’ll see it soon enough. Clear out all the phony apparatus in this place and move.

“This means a lot to me. You two are the men I need. I’ll make it worth your while. I’m leaving it to you, Tony. Here — look at this—”

The crook pulled a sheaf of bills from his pocket. He extracted five, each of a hundred-dollar denomination, and gave the half of a thousand to Cyrus Barbier.

“That’ll cover traveling expenses,” assured Silk. “There’ll be plenty more when you get to New Avalon, where I’ll meet you. Get going — don’t leave anything that would mean a clew.”

“Don’t worry,” grinned Tony Cumo. “All that we’ll leave will be brass-stamping equipment. Say, boss” — the Italian was speaking to Barbier — “you go over and see Cleghorn. He was always dickering to buy out this joint as a brass shop. Just tell him you’re going away for your health. He’s made you a price for everything as is. Grab it. Leave me to pack.”

Cyrus Barbier hesitated. Tony Cumo clapped the old man on his stooped shoulders. Nodding, Barbier started on the errand.

Silk Elverton laughed when he had gone.

“You’re a great guy, Tony,” he remarked. “You bring that old duck with you. Register at the New Avalon Hotel, and lay low until you hear from me.”

“This is a good lay, eh?”

“You bet. Wait until you get there. You know the kind of game I play for.”

The Italian was at work detaching apparatus. His work was swift and methodical. As Cyrus Barbier’s helper, Tony Cumo was more than a mere handy man. Silk Elverton grinned as he saw Tony open a drawer, pour a quantity of nickels into a bag, and remove a revolver which he thrust into his pocket.

“So long, Tony,” said Silk. “I’m leaving it to you.”

The dandified crook went out through the brass shop. He walked past the slouching youth who was on duty, and reached the street. He walked hastily to the elevated station.

FIFTEEN minutes after Silk’s departure, Cyrus Barbier returned to the back room of the brass shop, carrying a handful of bills. The old man was counting the money when Tony Cumo interrupted him.

“Shove that dough in your pocket,” ordered the Italian. “I’m going up and bring down a couple of your suitcases. We’re scramming.”

“But I should take more time,” protested Barbier. “I must be sure to get all of my belongings—”

“I’ll bring enough,” interrupted Tony. “You’ve got your money for the shop. Let’s get out in a hurry. Maybe old man Cleghorn will begin to think there may be a catch to it. Come on — before he comes around to chew the rag.”

Tony pointed to a few odd details that he had left unfinished. The Italian went out through the large workroom, and ascended a flight of stairs. He came down with two suitcases. He called to the boy.

“Run out and hail a taxi. Make it fast.”

The boy came to life. By the time Tony had finished tying up heavy packages in the windowless workroom, the youth had returned. With Cyrus Barbier and the boy helping, Tony engineered the transportation of the loads.

“We’ll stop at my place,” he growled to Barbier. “Just long enough for me to grab a few things.”

Turning to the boy, Tony spoke in a louder tone.

“I’m taking Mr. Barbier for a trip,” he announced. “He needs a vacation. Doctor says he isn’t well. Old Cleghorn is your new boss while we’re gone.”

The taxi whisked away, leaving the youth gaping at the door of the brass shop. The youth went back into the shop, sat down in a chair, and began to yawn. In ten minutes, he was half asleep.

HIS awakening came when he felt some one shaking him by the shoulder. He looked up to observe a stocky, stern-faced man, probably a customer.

“I want to see Mr. Barbier,” the man said.

“He’s out,” returned the boy sleepily.

“Yes?” It was Vic Marquette who quizzed the youth. “Where did he go?”

“He’s gone away. For a trip. A fellow named Tony Cumo went with him—”

Vic Marquette turned to the door and gave a signal. Two plain-clothes men entered. The secret-service operative strode to the rear door. He opened it and entered the workshop.

He saw the door beyond. He went into the little room. He turned on the single light.

In a few moments, Vic understood. He could see the signs that betokened a hasty departure.

He called to the men who had come with him. They entered. Vic began a methodical study of the equipment.

It was obvious that articles had been removed. Vic’s practiced eye observed the set-up. Camouflaged as machinery for stamping brass, this equipment could well have served the purpose of punching out counterfeit coins.

“We’ll search the place,” announced the secret-service operative. “Meanwhile, get a couple of men out to locate Tony Cumo.”

While Vic Marquette was still in possession of the brass shop, a detective arrived to state that Tony Cumo had disappeared. The boy had told Marquette that Barbier and Cumo had left by taxi. The check-up proved that the cab had stopped long enough for Tony to enter and leave the house where he lived.

While detectives followed the usual routine of notifying headquarters regarding the fugitives, Vic Marquette quizzed the boy who tended the brass shop.

He soon discovered that the young fellow knew nothing about what had been going on here. The brass shop was simply a blind to cover up the counterfeiting activities; the boy had been kept in his proper place.

The cross-examination, however, brought forth one fact. Tony Cumo had told the boy that Cleghorn was to be his new boss. Marquette learned the location of Cleghorn’s brass shop, and headed there. The proprietor was absent, but Marquette saw enough of the place to decide that it must be a legitimate business.

Back at Barbier’s, Marquette found that the detectives were working on the inference that Barbier and Cumo had ducked to some hide-out in Manhattan.

There was sufficient charge against them to warrant their prompt arrest if the police should discover them. Marquette remained alone at the brass shop. At times, he strolled down to Cleghorn’s to learn if the proprietor of that place had returned.

IT was late afternoon when Cleghorn arrived. The brass man was a quiet-faced old fellow who showed signs of worry when Vic Marquette began to question him. It did not take the secret-service operative long to learn that Cleghorn had merely executed a business transaction with Cyrus Barbier.

“He came to see me just as I was going out,” Cleghorn explained. “I had offered him money for his brass business. He had refused my price. He told me that he wanted to go away, that he would take the offer after all. So I paid him, in cash.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“Yes. I couldn’t understand why he intended to leave so suddenly. I began to withdraw my offer, fearing that something was wrong. Then he pleaded with me. Barbier said that he must visit his daughter — I knew he had one — because she was ill. I asked him where he was going.”

“What did he say?”

“He mentioned a place called New Avalon. He said that his daughter lived in a town near there. He convinced me that the business deal was a fair one. I didn’t even go down to the shop with him. I went uptown instead, to look over the merchandise of an importer who had failed.”

“All right,” decided Vic Marquette. “I guess that’s all you can tell me. If Barbier comes back, or if you hear from him, notify detective headquarters. Understand?”

Cleghorn nodded.

Marquette walked away, a grim expression on his stolid face. He doubted that Cyrus Barbier or Tony Cumo would return. If they did, the police could step in to get them. Vic Marquette was convinced that Cyrus Barbier had let Cleghorn know his actual destination, in anxiety to complete the sale of the brass stock.

A rare bird had flown — with him, another — Tony Cumo. But Vic Marquette was not disgruntled. The secret-service man was sure that he had learned the final stopping place.

Vic Marquette was going to New Avalon!

Silk Elverton had gone to New Avalon. So had Tony Cumo and Cyrus Barbier. Foulkrod Kendall was there.

And The Shadow knew!