The Unseen Killer

CHAPTER XIV. THE SQUAWKER

WHEN Commissioner Wainwright Barth had assured present safety for Wallace Norgan, he had spoken in the hope of playing a waiting game. Barth believed that the Unseen Killer would do as he had done before: deliver a new threatening message to the last of the three men whom he had cowed with statements of impending death.

The Shadow had divined the course that Barth would choose. Suiting his own action to the trend of events, he chose also to play a waiting-game. Let another threat come; let Barth prepare. The Shadow would be ready.

To The Shadow, the death of Peters Amboy had merely postponed the inevitable. The Unseen Killer wanted certain funds. Wallace Norgan, alone, could deliver them. This time, Norgan would not balk.

Hence The Shadow, too, was playing a waiting game. His stroke would come after the Unseen Killer received the wealth that he sought. Then would be the time to trap the crook with the goods in his possession.

As yet, The Shadow’s agents had been unable to find traces of any hideout where Miles Crofton might be located. Nor had they tracked Crazy Lagran, the missing stoolie. Those were further reasons why The Shadow preferred to wait until the climax that he knew would come.

But the next morning brought no message to Wallace Norgan. The expected blackmail note was absent from the survivor’s mail. The Unseen Killer, too, had decided to try a waiting game. He wanted to create an effect of suspense. That was a bit of subtlety that escaped Detective Joe Cardona.

Joe was out guarding Norgan’s home. He was the first to see the mail when it arrived. He put in a prompt call to Commissioner Barth, to tell him that no death note had been delivered. Barth fumed across the wire. Joe made a suggestion. It went through.

Commissioner Barth, at Cardona’s urge, ordered the dragnet into operation. The bad lands were to be scoured for all traces of Miles Crofton, branded as the Unseen Killer. The dragnet was seldom advocated by Joe Cardona. But this was one time that the ace sleuth felt it might bring results.

Joe felt that he was after an untraceable person, so far as the man himself was concerned. But it had struck him strongly that some one might know facts concerning Crofton. Why not quiz every crook that the net brought in?

Moreover, Cardona knew of one specific person whom he wanted to locate. That was Crazy Lagran.

The stoolie had handed him a prompt tip once. If Crazy could be located, there might be more coming.

So the dragnet started while the Unseen Killer waited.

EVENING. Commotion in the bad lands. Rats of the underworld were keeping out of sight. They were dodging cops and dicks, keeping away from the joints. Some, scared from their hideouts, had headed for parts of the city where they might elude the clutch of the law.

Those who remained within the scoured areas were furtive and skulking. They kept to alleyways. They dived for shelter on the slightest provocation. Even though they might be subjected to no more than a brief examination, they had no yearning for contact with the police. Quizzes were not to mobland’s liking.

Yet, amid the patrol of the underworld, a select crew of tireless workers still kept up a steady task.

These were the agents of The Shadow. Night after night they had been looking for Miles Crofton or Crazy Lagran. Even though the dragnet was at work, the aids of The Shadow kept at their job.

Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter; Harry Vincent, whom no cop would pick as a crook; Cliff Marsland, whose knowledge of the underworld made it simple for him to evade the law. These were three of the men who were working for The Shadow. They kept on, confident that the police would pass them by.

But among The Shadow’s reserve agents was a worker of another sort. This was “Hawkeye,” a cunning-faced, crafty little fellow who had once yielded to ways of crime. Those days were past.

Hawkeye was taking orders that came indirectly from The Shadow.

Hawkeye was the type of prowler whom the dragnet would pick up. He ran a risk, covering the districts where the police were hauling in the riffraff. But Hawkeye was smart enough to elude the ever closing mesh. His nickname was no misnomer. He could spot a bluecoat a mile away and a dick at half that distance.

Hawkeye was working on the outskirts of the bad lands. There was method in his process. Not only had he finished searching the depths of the underworld; he also knew that here he could rove more effectively while the dragnet was in operation. Hunch-shouldered, shifty of gait, Hawkeye had a way of slipping into alleys that made him as elusive as a prowling cat.

There were others of Hawkeye’s ilk; but he was far more clever than the average. On this night, Hawkeye spied several who were using his own shifty plan of fringing the Tenderloin. Stationed at the entrance of an alleyway, he watched various figures shamble past. Suddenly, Hawkeye became alert.

He had spotted a pasty-faced passer. The fellow looked like a dope; but he wasn’t. He was known in the bad lands as “Fox” Cullis. His nickname meant that he knew much and kept it to himself. Fox, apparently, was edging away from the dragnet’s range.

Hawkeye had spotted Fox twice within the past four days. On both occasions, he had tried to get hold of the fellow; but Fox had slipped from view. Hawkeye had a reason for wanting to talk to Fox. If any one knew where Crazy Lagran might be, Fox would be the person.

Hawkeye edged from his alley. He sneaked after Fox and saw his quarry duck into a narrow street.

Then, up ahead, he spotted Fox turn between two buildings. An artful dodge; but one that did not escape Hawkeye’s quick vision. Hawkeye followed Fox’s path.

He was closing in on the pasty-faced shambler. Calculating, Hawkeye wondered what method would be best to use when he overtook the man he wanted. Fox’s reputation for knowledge was equaled by his known capability for keeping matters to himself. Would Fox talk without persuasion?

Hawkeye grinned to himself. If persuasion proved necessary, he would use it. The job was to grab Fox before the fellow reached the next street. Hawkeye stole forward more rapidly. Then he stopped short.

The unblinking glare of a bull’s flashlight had opened up from the other end of the passage between the buildings.

DESPITE his native cunningness, Hawkeye was caught squarely in the searching beam. He dived into a protecting angle of the wall just as a shout came from up ahead.

Another call responded. It came from the street that Hawkeye had left. A second glare issued from that direction. Footsteps came from both ends of the passage. Hawkeye growled to himself. It was the dragnet.

With all his artfulness, the crafty agent had been trapped in a spot that the cops had decided to search.

They had caught a glimpse of his figure. They were on their way to drag him from the hole where he had found momentary shelter. It was a tight spot. One that Hawkeye did not like.

He did not fear a quiz. A few nights in a cell would be followed by discharge. But his usefulness to The Shadow would be ended during the time when it was most needed.

Footsteps were coming closer. Hawkeye edged further into the niche, found a little blind space beyond and crouched to avoid the approaching lights.

Then a thought struck him. He remembered Fox Cullis. Fox had not gotten clear of this trap. Where was Fox? Hawkeye guessed the answer. Fox must have heard sounds from the street ahead. He had dived for cover before the lights appeared.

Fox was here, in this cul-de-sac, crouching somewhere close at hand. Hawkeye had an idea. He edged along the wall of the building behind him. Finding a flight of old steps, he crept across them and huddled in a space between the steps and the wall.

Then came light. The glare of a cop’s flash flooded the blind passage. It showed the steps behind which Hawkeye was hiding. It also picked out two old ash cans, near the other wall. A second cop joined the first. They made for the ash cans. They yanked the objects away.

The glare showed Fox, cringing helplessly. An officer chuckled as he recognized the pale face. Fox Cullis was small fry but it was smart business to trap as good a dodger as he was known to be. The policeman pulled his captive up into the light.

“You’re coming along,” he growled. Fox nodded.

“Any of your pals here?” quizzed the second cop.

“I ain’t got no pals,” whined Fox. “I was just comin’ through here for a short cut—”

“Never mind. Stay where you are while I look around.”

Hawkeye huddled closer to the steps. He had hoped that the search would end with Fox. The cops had only seen one guy in the alley. Just like a dumb flatfoot to want to make sure.

It looked like Hawkeye’s strategy was done, when voices sounded from the outer end of the space. The searching cop turned.

A stocky man had come into the light. It was Detective Joe Cardona. Acting inspector for the present, known to be the man behind the dragnet, Joe was the big boy as far as the cops were concerned.

THE policeman who had grabbed Fox Cullis was not going to miss out on his credit.

Forgetting further search, the bluecoat turned and gripped Fox’s arm. He pulled the pasty-faced prowler into the light, dragging him up for Joe’s inspection. Cardona nodded and grinned.

“So they got the Fox, eh?” he questioned.

“I ain’t done nothin’, Joe,” whined Fox. “You ain’t goin’ to pull me in—”

“We’re looking for others like him,” put in the cop.

“How about it, Fox?” asked Joe, dropping his gruffness. “Anybody with you?”

“Honest, Joe. There ain’t.”

“All right.”

Hawkeye grinned again. Fox had not heard him come in here. For Fox would not have made a negative answer had he known a brief search would prove him wrong. This was a break. It became a better one when Cardona ordered the cops to douse the glims and move out from the cul-de-sac.

The officers obeyed, puzzled. When they were gone, Hawkeye listened intently.

“Fox,” said Joe Cardona, in the darkness, “I’m going to give you a chance to go your way.”

“T’anks, Joe—”

“Wait a minute. They’re going to take you up to the precinct; but you’ll be out inside an hour if you talk straight right now.”

“I don’t know nothin’—”

“Can that. Listen. You know Crazy Lagran.”

“Sure I know Crazy; but I ain’t—”

“Wait up. You’re one bird that knows enough to keep his mouth shut. That’s why I’m talking to you. Do you know what Crazy is?”

“I t’ought he was a good guy—”

“He’s one of my stools. You knew that, didn’t you?”

There was a pause in the darkness. Then came Fox’s half-reluctant reply:

“Yeah. I knowed it.”

“All right.” Cardona spoke quietly. “Then you know that Crazy’s not going to mind seeing me. He’s hiding out somewhere; but not because I’m looking for him. That wouldn’t be reasonable. I want to know where Crazy is. So I can talk with him, confidentially.”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right. Where is he?”

Fox considered. Then came his reply, lowered to a tone that Hawkeye could barely hear.

“He’s up over Mosey’s hock shop,” whispered Fox. “I knowed he was a stoolie, Joe. So I ain’t squealin’. But don’t tell him I told you where he was. Then he’d know that I knowed he was a stoolie. See?”

“I get it. Don’t worry.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’, Joe. You said that—”

“I said you’d be loose in an hour. You will. After I’ve taken a look over at Mosey’s. Why’s Crazy hiding out?”

“I don’t know. Some mugs must have wised up to him bein’ a stoolie. Honest. I don’t know nothin’ more.”

“All right. Come along.”

Lights blinked as Joe took Fox out to the cops. The acting inspector gave brief orders. The bluecoats started away with Fox Cullis. Joe Cardona followed.

Hawkeye came out of his hiding place.

When he reached the next street, Hawkeye had luck. The police were nearly out of sight. Close at hand was a dumpy cigar store. Hawkeye ducked in and found a telephone in an obscure corner. He put in a call — one that would reach The Shadow. Then Hawkeye slid out into the street and moved back through the very space where he had made his lucky escape.

MEANWHILE, Joe Cardona had moved swiftly. Taking the direction opposite that chosen by Fox’s captors, the ace had headed toward Mosey’s hock shop. Joe had never thought of it as a hideout. The old hock shop had gone out of business. It was a black, deserted building near a corner and to all appearances it was boarded up. A fine spot for a hideout.

Ordinarily, Joe Cardona might have moved slowly on a special trip through this district. But to-night the dragnet was his cover. If skulking crooks spied him, they would think that he was merely checking up on the routine instituted by the law.

Nevertheless, the detective slowed his pace as he neared the vicinity of Mosey’s old pawnshop. He strolled down the street where the place was located. He stopped a moment and noted the doorway that led upstairs. Walking further, Joe crossed the street and returned.

When he reached the doorway, he edged up against it. He tried the knob and found that the door was locked. Not only that; it was well locked. Joe paused; then looked down the street. He remembered something: Mosey’s brother lived near here. Joe left the doorway.

He found the house he wanted. He rang the bell and was admitted. A blinking, bald-headed man recognized the visitor. Joe explained what he wanted. Mosey’s brother produced a key. He shook his head as he handed it to Joe.

“You won’t find anybody up there,” he said. “I ain’t been in the place because there ain’t been any need to go. Maybe somebody else has got a key. But I ain’t seen no lights in the house.”

Cardona decided to look anyway. He went back to the door beside the hock shop. He unlocked the barrier and ascended a flight of dusty steps, using a flashlight cautiously. On the second floor, Joe saw doors on both sides of the steps. He noted a light under one. He scraped his shoe softly and waited.

It made a slight sound — just the type that a person would want to investigate but might not fear. A bolt was drawn. More light arrived as a peaked face peered out into the hall.

Joe Cardona stepped forward. The man ducked; but Joe caught the door with his foot and shouldered his way into the room.

The only window was covered with a drawn shade. The dull illumination came from an oil lamp. But the light was enough to show Joe the face of the man whom he had trapped. It gave the other fellow a look at Cardona, also.

The peaked man’s hands had gone up. Now they lowered. The fellow grinned weakly. Joe Cardona’s response was a pleased grunt. He had found the man he wanted, Here, in this hideout, he was facing Crazy Lagran, the missing stool pigeon.