The Unseen Killer

CHAPTER XV. TWISTED TRAILS

CRAZY LAGRAN’S hideout bore all the signs of an improvised headquarters. The oil lantern was standing upon a broken soap box. A battered army cot, covered with ragged blankets, was in a corner of the room. A rickety folding chair was the final article of furniture.

His first surprise over, Crazy grinned sheepishly. He slouched across the room and parked himself on the edge of the cot. He made a gesture toward the folding chair, an invitation for his visitor to be seated.

Joe accepted. He took the chair and watched Crazy roll a lopsided cigarette.

“Well?” quizzed Cardona, eyeing the stool pigeon steadily. “What’s the idea?”

“Dis hideout?” parried Crazy.

“Yes,” nodded Joe.

“I had to duck,” declared Crazy, earnestly. “Honest, Joe. I was scart. After I seen de poipers—”

“When was that?”

“De day after I give you de tip-off. I was readin’ about Crofton. I knowed I’d better lay low.”

“Why didn’t you give me another call?”

“I was scart.”

Cardona watched the stoolie puff at his cigarette. Crazy, in turn, eyed the ace detective. The stoolie became uneasy. He shifted a bit; then began an explanation.

“It was dis way, Joe,” he affirmed. “You know de way I work. I ain’t no ordinary stoolie. I look for de real dope, don’t I? You know what I told you onct. Just leave me go my way an’ slip you news when it’s hot—”

“I know,” broke in Cardona. “Get back to Crofton. Where’d you get the tip about him?”

“I knowed de guy onct. Dat was all. Den I hears he was wid Rouser. I meets him on de street — Crofton — an’ he figures me a pal. Tells me he’s workin’ for dat professor guy.”

“When was that?”

“De day I called you. Well, after dat, I ducks out. Figurin’ on findin’ somebody knowin’ more about Rouser. See? Den de poipers blows de woiks. I ducks in here.”

“On account of Crofton?”

“Sure. Dey call him de Unseen Killer, don’t dey? Ain’t he liable to be figurin’ dat I did de squealin’? Him bumpin’ off dem big guys— say, Joe — I don’t want him to know where I am.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Had a key. From a mug dat used to work for old Mosey. Mosey forgot about it. Dis fellow made some extra keys.”

“Who is he?”

“Aw, lay off, Joe. I can’t squeal on no guy dat’s helped me out. Dis guy drops in an’ gives me de newspoipers. I see what’s been goin’ on—”

“But you couldn’t get out long enough to tell me where you were.”

“I was scart, Joe.”

“Well, you look it. But what about to-night? Why didn’t you let yourself get grabbed by the dragnet?”

“Wid dat guy Crofton runnin’ around? He could plug me in de middle of a police court. I ain’t tellin’ nobody nothin’, Joe. Nobody.”

“Except the guy that slipped you the key to this place. What about him?”

“He’s a regular, Joe. But I can’t tell you who he is. Say — ain’t I in enough of a mess? Tellin’ you about a guy like Crofton? Well, dis friend of mine ain’t done nothin’. So why should I—”

“LOOK here, Crazy.” Cardona arose as he spoke. “I’ve had enough of this stall! If you think you’re getting anywhere by trying to hold tack on what you know, you’re making a bum guess! I’ve been looking for you a long while. Now I’ve found you, you’re coming clean!”

“Honest, Joe—”

“You’re talking like a phony. You’ve got the inside on a lot of stuff that you’re going to spill. Maybe you know more about Crofton than is healthy for you. Well, you’ll squawk just the same.

“Don’t worry about Crofton. He’s forgotten you for the time. If you thought he was coming after you, you’d have been on your way long before this. Here’s my proposition. Take it or leave it. Spill what you know, right here, or come along to headquarters.”

“Don’t pinch me, Joe!” blurted Crazy. “I ain’t safe nowhere but here. I ain’t safe when you’re here. Gee, Joe, if dey—”

He caught himself. But Cardona had noted the slip. He nodded wisely. Crazy edged back upon the cot.

“So there’s somebody else in it, eh?” quizzed Cardona. “Well, we’re getting somewhere. Other mugs in the racket with the Unseen Killer? Just the birds I’m looking for. Who are they?”

“It isn’t dem, Joe. It’s de Unseen Killer I gotta watch out for. I ain’t kiddin’. He’s liable to be snoopin’ in here right now.”

“Who are these other birds?”

Crazy hesitated. He looked toward the closed door. He licked his lips; then stared at Cardona. Leaning forward on the cot, he began to talk.

“Say, Joe,” he pleaded. “I wanta get out of it. I pulled a boner. No foolin’. Listen: I’ll give you de name of de guy you want; but get me away clear before you do anythin’. See? It’d be curtains—”

“From him?”

“Maybe from him, if he thought I was pullin’ de double cross. Maybe from de Unseen Killer. Dat’s what de guy tells me — de guy you want to know about. He says ‘Watch out for Crofton’ an’ it sounds like he means it—”

“Who’s the guy?”

Crazy paused before mentioning the name. He was intent. So was Cardona. Neither noted the door from the hallway, slowly opening. Nor did they see the muzzle of a shining revolver as it edged through the space. It was not until the gun had stopped its motion that Crazy happened to glance nervously in that direction. The stoolie came up from the cot.

“Stop him, Joe! De Unseen Killer is comin’—”

AS Crazy voiced the second phrase, the revolver spurted flame. The boom of the weapon sounded through the room. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Crazy Lagran’s lips spread silently. The stoolie sprawled forward from the cot. He plopped hard upon the floor.

Yanking his police gun from his pocket, Cardona sprang for the door. The revolver muzzle went quickly out of sight. Joe yanked the door open and thrust himself into the darkness, boldly seeking the unknown slayer. A flashlight came out in the detective’s left hand. Joe pressed the button.

The gleam spread along the hall, toward the stairway. Joe stood startled. No one was in view. Then he heard a sound almost behind him. He wheeled. Before he could bring the flashlight into play, an arm come swinging through the darkness. Joe tried to ward off the blow.

It was a glancing stroke on the side of the head. Cardona staggered. He lost his flashlight. A foot kicked it into the room where Crazy’s body lay. Cardona, staggering like a drunken man, still held his gun. It was of no service. Dizzy, Joe sprawled at the head of the stairs. An evil laugh came from the darkness.

Joe’s assailant moved over and crouched above the detective’s form. Half groggy, Cardona was trying to rouse himself. He gripped for the man in the darkness. He tried to raise his gun. Then the fellow had passed him. Blindly, Joe turned.

Crazy’s killer jabbed a gun muzzle against Cardona’s ribs. He was about to fire. Weakly, Joe thrust out an arm and encountered a living form. Then came a sound from the hall at the head of the stairs.

Cardona’s enemy looked up.

A window was moving upward. Some one was moving in from outer darkness. The window showed in dim outline; beyond it, only a strange blot of blackness. Dropping, the man on the stairs forgot Cardona.

He aimed for the window and fired twice.

In response came the bursts of an automatic. High shots that whistled over the head of Crazy’s killer.

They were enough. Wildly, the man on the stairs dived downward. At the bottom, he yanked open the door and leaped out into the street.

A flashlight blinked a tiny circle at the head of the stairs. Keen eyes saw Joe Cardona. The detective was coming to his senses. A soft laugh — token of The Shadow. Keenly, The Shadow saw into the room where Crazy Lagran lay dead.

The stoolie killed; Cardona coming to life. No reason for The Shadow to remain. Too late to prevent Crazy’s death, he had arrived in time to save Joe Cardona. Sweeping past the detective, he reached the street. There was no one in view, but The Shadow heard the shrill of a police whistle. Evidently the last shots had been heard. Swiftly, The Shadow took to the night.

ONE block away, Hawkeye was on the move. Again the hunch-shouldered agent was taking up a trail.

For Hawkeye had come to Mosey’s hock shop. While The Shadow had entered by the rear wall, Hawkeye had been out front.

Hawkeye had seen a man come lurching from the doorway by the hock shop. He had taken up that trail.

Right now he was less than half a block behind a thickset man who was heading through the darkness.

Hawkeye’s quarry reached the nearest avenue. He started to walk along at a rapid pace. He — like Hawkeye — could hear whistles; the whine of a siren. They were too close for comfort. The fellow kept moving.

Hawkeye looked about in anxious fashion. His eye spied a taxi parked near an “el” station. Hawkeye grinned. No cab would be here as a rule, especially when the dragnet had this district on the go.

Hawkeye hurried to the cab.

Leaning in by the driver’s seat, he blurted quick words. A nod came from the shrewd-faced man behind the wheel.

The cab shot forward as Hawkeye dropped clear. Ducking into a doorway, Hawkeye watched the vehicle head up the street.

The man at the wheel of that cab was Moe Shrevnitz, another of The Shadow’s emergency aids. Cruising about the bad lands, Moe had been helping in the search for Miles Crofton’s hideout. Moe had happened to be at the spot where Hawkeye needed him.

The cab rolled along easily. It passed the thickset man who was pacing up the avenue. Moe jammed the brakes and swung over by the curb.

“Taxi?”

Moe saw the man nod. He caught a glimpse of a hard face. He opened the door. His fare clambered aboard. He growled a destination:

“Hotel Revano.”

“Where is it?” questioned Moe, leaning close by the window.

The man gave the address. Moe nodded. All the while, his right hand, on the seat beside him, was scrawling the name Hotel Revano upon the top sheet of a handy pad. Moe straightened up. He released the emergency brake. His hand yanked the paper loose and crumpled it.

The cab swung out from the curb. The ball of paper went spinning clear, unnoticed by the growling passenger. One minute later, the cab had turned a corner. But Hawkeye was coming up. He had seen that wad of paper fall.

It took Hawkeye just four minutes to get to a telephone. He put in a prompt report of Moe’s cooperation. Then he strolled out from the little store where he had found the phone booth. Wisely, Hawkeye headed away from the bad lands.

MEANWHILE, Moe was driving for the Hotel Revano. He made good speed at the start, getting clear of the district that he knew his fare wanted to forget. But after that, Moe picked his streets badly. Traffic crossing avenues; thoroughfares half barricaded with repair work — these increased his running time.

The passenger was peeved by the time they reached the hotel. He paid Moe the fare and walked into the lobby, growling as he went. Moe leaned from his cab and waved to the door man. The uniformed attendant approached.

“Say, buddy,” volunteered Moe, “I’m sorry for you. If all the guys that come here are like that cheap skate, your job must be tough.”

“How much did he tip you?” asked the doorman.

“Not a jit,” returned Moe.

“What did you do?” questioned the hotel attendant. “Take him five miles out of his way?”

“No. Why?”

“That guy usually hands out a tip. Maybe he was sore about the way you drove him. Maybe he was just in a hurry.”

“Him? That cheap guy? Say — I guess I’m lucky to have got my fare out of him. He don’t look like a bird with dough.”

“Guess again,” laughed the door man. “That’s Chuck Galla. Friend of Trip Burgan, fellow that lives here.”

“Trip Burgan?”

“Yeah — used to be a big-time gambler. Got money and hands it out pretty free, too.”

“That don’t sound bad. I guess maybe this guy just forgot the tip. Well, that’s the way it goes. Say, buddy, there’s two taxis here at your stand already. Think I’ll get a break if I fall in line?”

“Sure. There ought to be some cab calls any time now. Better roll in while you can.”

Moe backed his cab. As soon as he was in line, he scrawled out the information that he had received. He tore the paper loose and folded it with one hand. Then he settled behind the wheel and waited.

Not long. Alert though he was, Moe failed to hear the rear door open. His first inkling that any one had entered the cab came when a soft hiss was voiced through the window by Moe’s ear.

The taxi man lifted the folded paper. A gloved hand plucked it from his grasp. The door on the street side of the cab opened softly. Blackness emerged; the door closed. Moe’s job was done.

The Shadow had called Burbank. He had learned Hawkeye’s news. Moe’s dallying had enabled The Shadow to reach the Hotel Revano a few minutes after Chuck Galla.

Joe Cardona had found a trail to Crazy Lagran. That trail had ended with Crazy’s death. But there, The Shadow had entered. Through his agents, he had gained where Cardona had lost.

Already The Shadow knew the name of Crazy’s murderer. He had learned the identity of Chuck Galla; he had located Trip Burgan, the big shot whom Chuck was serving. The man hunt in the underworld had brought results at last.