The Wealth Seeker

CHAPTER IV. FACTIONS FIGHT

CLIFF MARSLAND, startled though he was by the sudden arrival of Red Mike, was quick to realize the position in which he stood. He knew, immediately, that the proprietor and the two gunmen with him had heard only the last words spoken by Birdy Zelker.

To these men of the underworld, the situation was plain. Cliff Marsland, gangster of repute, had caught a stool pigeon in the act of squealing. He had done the right thing by cornering the rat.

Contempt showed on Red Mike’s ruddy features. The big-fisted proprietor stepped into the room and Birdy Zelker cringed against the wall. After a surly, threatening glance at the stool, Red Mike turned to Cliff.

“These fellows just came in from the Black Ship,” he explained to Cliff. “Said that Duster Yomer ain’t down there to-night. He’s over at the Pink Rat. I came back to tell you so you could call there.”

“Thanks, Mike,” returned Marsland calmly.

“And this guy?” Red Mike nudged a thumb toward Birdy.

“He was phoning when I walked in,” answered Cliff. “I didn’t put in my call to the Black Ship after I heard what he was saying.”

“Calling Joe Cardona?”

Cliff nodded.

The gangsters around Red Mike growled. They looked approvingly at Cliff. One of them walked up to Red Mike.

“Leave the rat to us,” suggested the gangster. “We’ll take him for a ride. You don’t want no one shooting up this joint, Mike. Leave him to us.”

“Wait a minute.” Cliff was cold as he interposed. “Where do I come in on this party? Who do you gazebos think you are? I heard this squealer double-crossing Pug Hoffler. I’m the guy who’s going to fix Birdy Zelker. Outside, bums.”

“Cliff’s right, boys,” growled Red Mike.

The gangster whom Cliff had challenged proved surly. He was falling back on the code of the underworld. His companion showed the same expression. Like hounds, they wanted their chance to join in the kill that had been uncovered.

Cliff knew this and his challenge had been gruff on that account. He had no desire to see Birdy Zelker die. Much though he despised stool pigeons, he knew that those of Birdy Zelker’s ilk were tools of the law. The Shadow seldom protected stools, for they were offshoots of crime; but Cliff, through practical consideration of this case, knew that it might be advantageous to let Birdy Zelker live. Hence he had tried to bluff the mobsters who wanted Birdy’s death.

RED MIKE, by arguing in Cliff’s behalf, had strengthened the case. He had served almost as a judge, so far as the customs of gangdom were concerned.

With no more hesitation, Cliff shoved his automatic into Birdy’s ribs and ordered the stool to move along.

Birdy obeyed. Cliff, seeing him in motion, dropped his gun hand and followed the cringing stool to the outer room. Red Mike and the pair of surly mobsters brought up the rear. It was when they reached the outer room that Cliff saw trouble brewing.

The patrons of Red Mike’s hangout knew that something had occurred. Had Birdy come out of the corridor head up, Cliff could have marched him to the street, leaving explanations to Red Mike. But Birdy’s hang-dog look marked him as a squealer. Snarling mobsters gathered for an explanation.

Cliff looked to Red Mike. The proprietor responded. He pounded on the counter for silence and gained attention. He nudged his thumb toward Birdy Zelker.

“Birdy’s a stool,” he announced. “Cliff Marsland caught him calling Joe Cardona over my phone. Three of us heard Birdy asking Cliff to let him go.”

“Put the stool on the spot!” came a response.

Again, Red Mike pounded for silence.

“That’s Cliff’s job,” he decided.

“Yeah?” It was the mobster whom Cliff had challenged who again thrust his way into the discussion.

“What about the rest of us? We know Birdy’s a stool. We want to see him get the works.”

“If you’re waiting around to see me hand out hot lead,” broke in Cliff, as he faced the challenging mobster, “you’ve got a long while coming. Unless” — silence reigned while Cliff added these firm words— “you’re looking for some of it yourself.”

The mobster quailed. A buzz came from the assembled crowd. It was partly one of admiration; partly of disapproval. Cliff’s nerve caught the crowd, but his impartial threat was not relished by some who were present.

Cliff realized from the murmur that the mobster who had challenged him must have a host of friends in the crowd. This conclusion was justified by the surly gangster’s next action.

Striding forward, the man who had argued with Cliff, clapped his hand on Birdy Zelker’s shoulder and dragged the stool pigeon across the floor. With a fierce tone, he addressed the mob, calling upon them to apply the law of the underworld.

“Give him the works!” snarled the mobster. “Don’t let one guy tell you what to do!”

“Think it over!” challenged Cliff, covering the gangster as he spoke.

The mobsman dropped his hand from Birdy’s shoulder. He backed away under cover of Cliff’s gun.

Like a flash, Cliff realized that a fight was coming. Turning, he saw the gangster’s pal whip forth a revolver. As the weapon swung in Cliff’s direction, The Shadow’s agent responded to the movement.

Beating the drawing mobster to the shot, Cliff fired. His bullet winged the second gangster’s shoulder.

The man dropped. Cliff whirled as the first man yanked a gun. He fired again and his new aim proved its worth. The challenger who had tried to seize Birdy Zelker, fell sprawling to the floor.

Cliff had acted spontaneously. He dived for cover of the counter as revolvers began to flash. His assumption that the surly mobsters had plenty of pals proved true. Bullets winged their way past Cliff’s head as The Shadow’s agent dived for safety.

IN his quick action, Cliff had brought the storm of enemies upon him. Though his hand had been forced, he had placed himself in a terrible predicament. He had dropped two mobsters in a sudden fray; it was a threat to the entire evil crew. Quick with the triggers, sympathizing with Cliff’s crippled foemen, the whole crowd of scumland rats took Cliff as their one target.

Red Mike was on Cliff’s side, but the big proprietor was no craftsman with a gun. He dived for the cover of the corridor to avoid the fray. Cliff, behind the counter, was alone against a horde.

Birdy Zelker saw a chance. In taking it, the stool pigeon sealed his own doom. At the same time, however, he brought respite to Cliff Marsland, the man who had so far saved him. As guns played toward Cliff’s spot of temporary safety, Birdy made a dash for the outside door.

Snarls arose. Revolvers flashed as Birdy ran. Quick shots sent the stool pigeon crumpling to the stone floor.

Cliff, timing his own actions to this unexpected break, popped up from behind Red Mike’s counter and pumped lead at his adversaries. He saw two gangsters stagger. He dropped as he once more became the target.

A stinging pain caught Cliff in the left shoulder as he sank behind the counter. His drop to safety had been timed too late. A gangster’s bullet had found its mark. Cries of exultation arose as enemies bounded forward, ready to end the life of the man who had challenged them alone.

Dropping back to the stone wall, Cliff raised his right arm to fire his last remaining shots. He had loosed the murderous horde. It was coming upon him now. The Shadow’s agent saw certain doom; he could only hope to fire point-blank into the first snarling faces that came over the counter.

As he poised for the final effort, Cliff heard a change in the gunmen’s cry. Pounding feet seemed to halt for one brief interval. Sullen voices broke with a terrorized warning. Instinctively, Cliff turned his head in the only direction from which help might come— toward the outer door of Red Mike’s dive.

Cliff’s own lips uttered a triumphant gasp as he saw the figure that had appeared there. The door of the hangout had opened. Standing in plain view was a form that needed no introduction. It was the outlined shape of a being clad in black.

A cloak of sable hue clung to the shoulders beneath it. Above the turned-up collar of the cloak was a broad-brimmed slouch hat that hid the features beneath it. From gloved hands that projected from the cloak loomed the muzzles of two mighty automatics.

Like a specter from another world, this dreaded being had arrived to bring a climax to the sudden gun fray at Red Mike’s. He was one who pronounced his own identity, with a weird, chilling laugh that broke from hidden lips in that momentary lull that had followed the swift roar of battle.

He was the one whom all gangdom feared. He was the master who made his arrival and departures like the phantom of the night. He was the personage whom Cliff Marsland had notified concerning the conversation that had passed between Pug Hoffler and Birdy Zelker.

Sensing the impending trouble that had been due to break, this mighty warrior had come in person to aid his agent’s cause. Armed with his mighty guns, The Shadow had arrived to save Cliff Marsland from the doom that no other could have stayed!