The Triple Trail

CHAPTER IV THE MENACE STRIKES

SIMULTANEOUSLY with The Shadow’s departure from his sanctum, a man was alighting from an elevator on the twenty-fourth floor of the Hotel Goliath. Though well dressed, this individual did not look like a representative guest of the fastidious hostelry.

Pasty-faced, with drooping lips, the fellow had the countenance of a dope fiend. His eyes, furtive and restless, had watched the elevator operator with suspicion. In leaving the car, the visitor had sidled out in a manner that had kept his face from the operator’s view.

Moving through a silent, carpeted hall, the pasty-faced man found a stairway and ascended to the twenty-fifth floor. He moved sneakily along a hall, stopped in front of a door marked 2538, and scratched at the barrier instead of knocking.

The door swung inward. The pasty-faced man stepped in to face a brawny, square-jawed fellow who eyed him glaringly. As soon as the door had closed behind them, the big man growled angrily.

“What’s been keeping you, Crawler?” he demanded.

“This.” “Crawler” yanked a copy of the Classic from his overcoat pocket. “They ain’t been sellin’ it more’n ten minutes. I had to take a squint through the pages, like you told me, Duster.”

“You found the ad?”

“Sure.” Crawler opened the paper at page thirteen. “Here it is, Duster. To this guy Signet.”

“Duster” took the newspaper. He leered in ugly fashion as he noted the wording of the advertisement. He handed the copy to Crawler and told him to pocket it.

“That means we’re all set?” questioned Crawler.

“It means this mug Treblaw has what we want,” acknowledged Duster. “Whatever it is we’re after.”

“Ain’t the chief told you yet?”

“He wised me to snatch whatever papers the old bozo has in his room. Providing the ad was in the Classic. That covers the job.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Duster shook his head. He drew a chair over by the door and ordered Crawler to climb up and look through the transom. When Crawler was on the chair, Duster spoke.

“See that door over across?” he quizzed. “No. 2537?”

“Yeah. Is that Treblaw’s room!”

“No. The old guy is next door to us, in 2536. But I’ve got a couple of gorillas over there in 2537. The mugs nearly queered the lay!”

“How come?”

“One of them stepped out about ten minutes ago. Let the door slam behind him when he was coming over here to see me. Hadn’t been in here five seconds before old Treblaw opened his door and stuck his nose out into the hall.”

“You saw him, Duster?”

“Yeah. Through the transom. The old geezer must have heard the door slam. He looked up and down for a couple of minutes.”

“Did he see you?”

“No, I had the light out. I waited about five minutes; then I sent the gorilla back where he belonged. Told him to tell his pal to lay low until I called for them.”

“You think old Treblaw’s wise?”

“I think he’s worried, Crawler. That’s all. But it means we’ve got to handle this smooth. That’s why I was sore about you blowing in late. If you’d come ten minutes ago, we’d have been better off.”

Duster motioned Crawler down from the chair. He produced a key and handed it to his companion.

“Sneak in on him, Crawler,” ordered Duster. “This pass-key is good for any door in the whole joint. I’ll follow up with the gorillas. But you pull the sneak.”

Crawler nodded. He pushed the chair away from the door and, began to open the barrier. He motioned for Duster to extinguish the light. Duster complied.

Crawler started to edge into the hall. Suddenly he stopped. He grabbed Duster’s arm. The two peered from the blackened room.

THE next door had opened. Stanton Treblaw, attired in slippers and dressing gown, was stepping into view. In one hand, the old man was holding an empty glass pitcher.

Duster and Crawler saw Treblaw look about. Then they watched the old man waddle down the corridor and make a turn to the left.

“Get going,” growled Duster. “There’s an ice water faucet down by the elevator. He’s gone to fill the pitcher. Now’s your chance. Slide in.”

Crawler ducked quickly into the hall. The door of Treblaw’s room was closed. Crawler inserted the pass-key, turned it and made a hasty entrance. He shut the door carefully behind him.

Duster had edged back into 2538. He was on the chair again, peering through the transom. He saw Treblaw reappear, his pitcher filled with water. He watched the old man unlock the door of 2536 and enter.

Dropping from the chair, Duster moved from his own room. Sneaking across the hall he tapped on the door that hid the waiting mobsters.

STANTON TREBLAW, back in his own room, was placing the water pitcher on a bureau. The old man was holding the pitcher in his left hand; his right was resting in the deep pocket of his dressing gown.

Treblaw’s face was cunning. It bore an expression that had often worried Wickroft. Peering in sidelong fashion, Treblaw was watching the door of a closet, using the bureau mirror to observe the reflection. With his left hand, the old man poured water into a glass that rested on the bureau.

The gurgle of the liquid indicated that Treblaw was occupied. Slowly, the door of the closet began to open. The figure of Crawler came into view. Unarmed, the pasty-faced crook was ready to spring forward upon his prey. Treblaw’s eyes glistened their reflection from the mirror. The old man set down the pitcher and started to reach for the glass. Then, with a sudden twist, he swung about. His right hand snapped out of the dressing-gown pocket.

The old man’s claw was gripping a .22 automatic. Puny though the weapon was, it caused Crawler to stop short, his pasty face aghast. The swiftness of Treblaw’s action had told the crook that he faced an enemy who would not quail.

“Thought I was napping, eh?” wheezed Treblaw, glowering at Crawler. “Waiting for a chance to come in here. Well, I gave you the opportunity. Now let’s hear what you have to say about it!”

Crawler had raised his hands. Remembering what Duster had said about the door across the hall, he knew that Treblaw had suspected the presence of the gorillas. The old man had made the trip with the water pitcher in order to learn if a prowler on this floor chanced to have a pass-key to the door of this room.

It was plain from Treblaw’s words that the old man thought he had trapped the person who had slammed the door across the hall. It was that fact that made Crawler parry. A smart crook despite his stupid look, Crawler was quick to see a way out.

“Give me a chance, bo,” he whined. “Look — I ain’t in here with no gun. I’m broke and out of luck. Ain’t had nothin’ to eat. The cops was going to grab me for panhandlin’. I was just trying to grab a few bucks.”

The plea was convincing. Crawler looked the part of an underfed panhandler. It was true that he held no gun. The man’s pretense that he was a petty thief seemed an open admission of trivial guilt. Treblaw, however, was not wholly sure.

“Who sent you here?” he snapped suddenly.

Crawler blinked as he eyed the ready .22. He pretended puzzlement as he faced Treblaw’s glare.

“Nobody sent me here,” he pleaded. “Honest, boss, I’m taIkin’ straight. I just sneaked into this hotel because it looked like maybe I could get some easy dough—”

“Did you ever hear of Signet?” snapped Treblaw. “Does that name sound familiar?”

“Sigmund?” questioned Crawler, still feigning much bewilderment. “Sigmund who?”

“I said Signet,” repeated Treblaw. Crawler shook his head.

“Very well,” decided Treblaw, testily. “This is a case for the police. Move back into that corner. I’m going to call the house detective.”

IT was then that Crawler played his ace. The crook had figured that Duster and the gorillas were by this time in the hall. He knew that they had another pass-key. But he did not dare to risk an attack on Treblaw. The old man seemed too ready with the little automatic. Crawler tried subterfuge.

With hands above his head, he backed off beyond the corner, heading toward an opened window. As Treblaw followed him with the gun, Crawler whined a final plea.

“Don’t call the house dick,” he whispered. “He’ll hand me to the cops. It’ll be the Island for me — an’ I can’t go there. I’m a hophead, boss. I got to have snow. If you call the dicks, I’m jumpin’ outta this window! I ain’t foolin’!”

Crawler had shifted; he was raising one knee to the window sill. His gesture looked genuine.

Keen-eyed, Treblaw watched to see what the man intended to do. Crawler did look like a drug addict. But Treblaw wanted further proof.

Crawler, seeing that, swung sidewise from the window, balanced almost for a drop.

His eyes wild, he was staring at Treblaw. And in gazing at the old man, Crawler could see beyond, to the outer door that Treblaw had forgotten as he viewed a man who seemed desperate enough for suicide.

“I mean it, bo!” wailed Crawler. “I’m jittery! I can’t hold out! I gotta have snow! No foolin’—”

Inches would have sent Crawler tumbling to the street, so closely was he balanced on the sill. As a final touch, the crook let his eyes wander to the telephone as if a move by Treblaw toward the instrument would be a final signal for the jump.

The outer door clicked open. Treblaw did not hear it. His sharp eyes, however, saw a rustle of the window curtains against Crawler’s quivering hands. Instantly, Treblaw suspected a draft from the door.

Forgetting Crawler, the old man wheeled.

DUSTER was lunging in upon him. The big crook was brandishing a huge revolver, but did not fire the weapon. Instead, he delivered a swing for Treblaw’s head.

Dropping back with his remarkable spryness, Treblaw aimed to fire at the crook.

Crawler, lunging in from the window, landed upon the old man’s back and tried to grab his arm. Sinking, Treblaw tried for new aim. Duster drove his revolver downward. The weapon crashed hard against the old man’s skull. At the same instant a mobster, piling close behind, thudded Treblaw’s drooping head with a blackjack.

“Douse the glimmers!” ordered Duster, swinging toward the door.

The second gorilla had closed the barrier. He pressed a light switch. The room was in darkness save for a corner floor lamp that threw light upon the rack that held Treblaw’s heavy grip.

Crawler was already in that corner. Pawing through the bag, the pasty-faced crook was snatching out the odd papers that he could find.

Duster growled to the gorillas. They began to rifle Treblaw’s clothes while Duster looked through table and bureau.

The whole work required less than a minute, Duster using a flashlight as he edged away from the corner lamp. Crawler came over and shoved a batch of papers into Duster’s hands. The big crook chuckled. He thrust the documents beneath his coat; then looked at Treblaw’s body, obscure in the gloom of the floor.

“Scram!” he ordered Crawler and the gorillas. “Like you came in. From other floors. I’m following. I’m calling the chief; and I’m leaving this stuff where he can get it.”

Crooks followed their leader’s bidding. Duster was the last to leave the room. He wiped the doorknobs to remove finger prints; then used a handkerchief as he closed the door on departing.

Silence followed in the gloomy room. Three minutes passed; then came the ting-a-ling of the telephone bell. That continued for half a minute; then the ringing ceased.

Stanton Treblaw, sprawled upon the floor, had made no attempt to answer it. For men of crime had carried their brutal work to the limit. Those bashing blows had been more than stunning. Stanton Treblaw was dead.