The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER I. AT RED MIKE’S

EVENING had come to the bad lands of Manhattan. The fading of dingy dusk had brought an insidious gloom to the district which marked the strongholds of the underworld. Skulking figures of shifty mobsters, quick steps of persons bound on innocent business, the stalwart forms of patrolling policemen — these were the manifestations that marked the beginning of a new period of danger.

Gangdom had come to life after dark. Ways of crime, neglected while daylight held sway, were once more in the making. Every empty house, every deserted alleyway, might be the lurking spot where evil men awaited the word to wage war against the organized forces of the law.

This district was the breeding place of crime. Mobster hideouts and meeting places were all too frequent. Yet the police, although they knew the evils that existed, were handicapped by the very law which they served.

Unless violence broke out within the precinct, or orders were received to arrest men wanted for crime, the patrolling officers could make no legal inroads. They were forced to ignore the dives where crime was instigated; to wait until rats of the bad lands came forth and committed evil in respectable districts.

Then would come the task of stopping the rats as they scurried back to cover. But once the furor had ended, the old routine would rule the bailiwick of crime.

This night was typical of underworld activity. There was no doubt that crime was being fostered almost within hearing distance of the patrolling policemen. The men in uniform could not learn such details.

Marked as men of the law, they were handicapped.

Spies, alone, could gain the secrets of the underworld. Yet even detectives who appeared within this area were easily spotted by shrewd-eyed watchers. Stool pigeons served as secret workers for the law; they, too, were insufficient, for they were outcasts who feared mob rule.

Indeed, the denizens of gangland were contemptuous of the law. So far as the police were concerned, they feared no interference with their plans. There had been a time when plotting gangsters moved abroad with very little effort to cover up their actions. Yet on this night — as on many more before it — the stealthiness of those who skulked was evidence of some hidden foment beneath a surface that seemed more than usually calm.

ON one narrow street where passers-by hastened on their way and every doorway seemed to shelter prying eyes, a man was strolling alone. There was both caution and challenge in his attitude. His step, though regular, was not quick. His course, though favoring the shelter of darkness near the buildings, was not furtive.

A patrolling policeman eyed this passer as the man came within the dim glare of a street lamp. The officer saw a firm, square face that denoted self-assurance. The features were not of the usual gangster type; they lacked the uncouth coarseness so prevalent in the underworld. Nevertheless, the man’s confidence marked him as one who was familiar with this district.

The policeman sauntered on. When he paused to look over his shoulder, he noted that the man had disappeared. He supposed that the walker had increased his pace to reach the next corner.

He was wrong. The man with the firm face had made a quick turn into a side alley and was now moving easily toward a sunken doorway some distance from the street that he had left.

Arrived at his destination, this individual descended the short steps to the door and rapped for entrance.

As soon as the portal opened, he shouldered his way into a stone-walled room. He nodded curtly to a brawny, red-haired fellow who stood behind a rough wood counter at one end of the room. He took his seat at a table; the proprietor brought him a bottle and a glass.

There were more than a dozen men seated about this stone-walled room. They were a hard lot, these rowdies of the underworld. Their conversation seemed to lull as they paused to throw sidelong glances at the man who had entered. Then the subdued buzz was resumed. Evidently the face of the arrival had gained recognition.

Such was the case. This hangout was known as “Red Mike’s,” in honor of its ruddy-faced proprietor.

Only the most capable of gunmen were allowed within the place. Admission here was a mark of gangland’s approval.

The man who had entered was known to most of the patrons at Red Mike’s. Conceded to be one of the most dangerous characters in the bad lands, he was welcome. Thick, bloated lips announced his identity in an undertone.

The arrival was Cliff Marsland, one of the coolest handlers of a gat that the underworld had known.

CLIFF MARSLAND, steady-faced and firm-eyed, knew that his appearance here had caused a buzz of comment. Yet there was nothing in his action that indicated any notice of those about him. Cliff was a man who kept his impressions to himself; he was one whose superiority showed itself among these vicious fighters of the underworld.

Cliff, by his demeanor, seemed to consider the present atmosphere as a normal one. In his thoughts, however, this steady-eyed man could see that all was not well at Red Mike’s. Here, of all places in the Tenderloin, subdued talk was unnecessary. Yet it persisted, and Cliff knew the reason why it did so.

A threat was hanging over gangdom. Fierce ruffians had felt the menace of a hand that they feared. A powerful enemy, dreaded by those who scoffed at the law, had shown his might with devastating results.

Supercrooks had met defeat when they had encountered a superfighter known as The Shadow.

The underworld had hurled anathema at this common foeman. Vicious men of crime had sought to end the strange career of a menacing being garbed in black, whose spectral form appeared wherever crime was loosed. But in every combat, The Shadow had prevailed. Uncanny in his findings, unyielding in his tactics, The Shadow had struck down all who had opposed him.

Some time had passed since the thunder of well-directed automatics had marked The Shadow’s last victory over hordes of evil. Yet The Shadow, silent, was as great a threat as ever. Hence, when mobsters plotted, they chose ways of secrecy. For it had been bruited about within the underworld that The Shadow might be anywhere — or everywhere.

Deeply educated in the ways of gangland, Cliff Marsland had the explanation why the tense atmosphere existed at Red Mike’s. It had been the same in every other hangout which Cliff had visited to-night.

Every newcomer, such as Cliff himself, was spotted by those who patronized the dives. Each arrival was discussed in murmurs. Mobsmen were ready to challenge all who failed to meet their twisted standards of approval.

It was known that The Shadow, a master of disguise, had visited the bad lands in the past. He had joined mobsters, posing as one of their ilk, and had dealt devastating blows to their ranks.

It was also believed that The Shadow utilized agents. That these men must be of unusual ability was a positive conclusion. Hence suspicion rested on all denizens of the underworld, save those whose reputation put them in the elite of gangdom.

Cliff Marsland knew all this. The smile that flickered upon his poker face was an indication that he knew the repute in which he was held. No one would challenge Cliff Marsland. In fact, he would be one of the first upon whom other men of gangland would call should they desire aid in tracking down a suspected underling of The Shadow.

It had been reported that Cliff was gunning for The Shadow. That accounted for the fact that he remained aloof from gang associations. A freelance who roamed at will throughout the crime district, a fighter de luxe who bore a reputation as a killer, Cliff Marsland had a unique prestige.

FIFTEEN minutes after Cliff Marsland’s arrival at Red Mike’s, his entry had been forgotten. Mobsters at a nearby table had raised their voices to a pitch where Cliff could hear their buzzing conversation.

They were talking of affairs in gangland; their chatter, however, was of little consequence until two new arrivals appeared within the doorway of the hangout.

Cliff Marsland, like the other patrons, eyed the newcomers. One was a pasty-faced, shrewd-eyed little fellow whose body carried a peculiar hunch. Cliff knew him as “Birdy” Zelker, an intermediary between gangsters.

The other, a brawny, flat-faced ruffian was one whom Cliff did not recall. He noticed the broadness of this gangster’s nose; the puffed cauliflower ear which the fellow wore.

Birdy Zelker and his unknown companion spoke to Red Mike. The proprietor of the hangout nodded and motioned toward a doorway at the side of the stone-walled room. The two went through the opening. As soon as they had departed, Cliff caught the buzz of the mobsters seated closest to him.

“You know who that guy was, don’t you?” quizzed one.

“Sure,” came the reply. “Birdy Zelker. He’s O.K.”

“No. I don’t mean Birdy. I mean the mush-faced guy with him.”

“Who was he?”

“Pug Hoffler.”

“Pug Hoffler!” The second mobster uttered the name in a surprised whisper. “Say — I thought he was in stir!”

“He was,” declared the first gangster. “He done his stretch up in the big house. He’s back now — an’ you can count on it he’s got somethin’ up his sleeve.”

“Yeah? What’s his racket?”

“He ain’t got none. But he knows his onions. He used to work for Tex Lowner and Rabbit Gorton.”

“All at once?”

“Have you gone goofy?” The informant’s voice was contemptuous as he surveyed his pal. “Say — did you ever hear of any gorilla workin’ for Tex an’ Rabbit at the same time? Those bimboes are cutthroats.”

“I know that. But you said—”

“I said that Pug Hoffler worked for Tex an’ Rabbit. He worked for Tex one time; after that he stuck along with Rabbit. Then the bulls got him. Some say Tex fixed it because Pug had jumped to Rabbit’s outfit. Others say Rabbit was afraid that Pug was spyin’ for Tex an’ that Rabbit saw Pug got his. Anyway, Pug Hoffler took his trip up the river.”

“Is he in Dutch with Tex an’ Rabbit both?”

“Maybe.” The responding gangster snorted. “Anyway, neither of them guys is popular with Pug Hoffler. You can bet he’s workin’ on his own from now on.”

“Yeah.” The second mobster nodded wisely. “If he’s usin’ Birdy Zelker, it’s sure enough that he’s figurin’ on buildin’ a crew of his own.”

The discussion changed.

Cliff Marsland had heard every word. To him, the conversation was illuminating. Cliff knew both “Tex” Lowner and “Rabbit” Gorton by repute. They were hard-fisted gang leaders who were sworn enemies to each other. Both were close-mouthed and kept their affairs to themselves.

“Pug” Hoffler was a newcomer in the field, now that he had returned from Sing Sing. Cliff knew that the talking gangsters must have hit upon the truth; that this ex-convict was planning mob activity of his own.

Was Pug planning to play a game of crime that would rival the closely guarded methods of Tex Lowner and Rabbit Gorton? Would a third enmity begin before Pug Hoffler had completed his schemes of action?

THESE were possibilities that concerned Cliff Marsland deeply, although he betrayed no interest in the subject. This conference between Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker — for Cliff was sure that such a talk was taking place in a side room — might mean much in the coming activities that were brewed in the confines of the underworld.

Cliff Marsland shoved his bottle and glass aside. He arose from the table and slouched toward the door.

He paused to light a cigarette. As he did so, he cast his eye along the room.

Mobsters, concerned in their own affairs, were paying no attention to Cliff’s departure. Red Mike, his back toward the counter, was arranging bottles of bootleg booze upon a shelf.

As he flicked his match across the floor, Cliff Marsland was standing beside the doorway through which Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker had gone. With a side step, he moved in that direction. Unnoticed by others in the room, Cliff slipped from sight.

Had any observed him, they would have decided only that Cliff Marsland had business with Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker. That would have excited no suspicion. If Pug Hoffler were contemplating crime, he would make an excellent first step by enlisting the services of so redoubtable a gun carrier as Cliff Marsland.

The firm smile on Cliff Marsland’s face showed that this possibility had been well considered. It also indicated, however, that Cliff Marsland had a purpose all his own when he had moved upon the trail of Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker.

Had that purpose been known to the gangsters in Red Mike’s, Cliff Marsland’s life would not have been worth a counterfeit nickel. Cliff had not stepped in this direction to join the conference between Pug and Birdy. Cliff had come to spy upon the pair.

For Cliff Marsland, the man whom gangland accepted as one above suspicion was a person whom hosts of mobsters had been seeking. He was the trusted subordinate of the being whom all mobdom feared.

Cliff Marsland was The Shadow’s agent in the underworld!