Tower of Death

CHAPTER II FROM THE UNDERWORLD

WHILE Mallet Haverly was making terms in his garish uptown apartment, lesser men of crime were holding confab in a less pretentious establishment. Gangsters of ill repute were gathered in an underworld dive known as the Black Ship.

This was a hangout for gorillas. Here one could find the toughest thugs in all Manhattan. Desperadoes who would kill for paltry prices convened at the Black Ship to while away the intervals between the murders which they perpetrated.

The Black Ship was a bad place for stool pigeons. Squealers who worked for the police avoided the dive. The regular customers were a keen lot, always on the lookout for spies of the law. Only mobsters of recognized repute were admitted to the place.

Moreover, those gangsters who were wanted by the law made it a practice to keep away from this hangout. The Black Ship was patronized only by those who enjoyed a clean bill of health.

Toughened gorillas wandered in and out of the dive. Apparently, the Black Ship was their resort. Yet often, those who strolled forth were bound on crime. Whispered orders from messengers sent here by gang leaders were frequently the cause for prompt departures.

Though the police suspected this condition, they were practically helpless. If detectives or stool pigeons loitered in the Black Ship or its vicinity, they would be promptly spotted. The tip would pass about. Gorillas would be wary. They would choose some other rendezvous.

Tonight, the Black Ship was buzzing with muffled conversation. Mobsters, gathered in small groups, were talking affairs among themselves. Sometimes raucous laughter broke the mumbles. All was well at the Black Ship.

AMONG the habitues of the dive was a firm-faced young man who sat at a table near one side of the room. He was talking with an unshaven individual who sat opposite. Both of these men were well-known at the Black Ship.

The one with the chiseled face was Cliff Marsland, recognized as a freelance mobster with an enviable reputation. The unshaven fellow was “Lugger” Gates, a dock-walloper who sometimes acted as recruiting agent when new gorillas were needed for the crew that he represented.

Of all the patrons of the Black Ship, this pair stood highest by reputation. No one would have suspected either one of being here under false colors.

So far as Lugger Gates was concerned, the man was exactly what he appeared to be — a dock-walloper. But Cliff Marshland was one who relied upon pretense.

Cliff had served time in Sing Sing. He had bargained with big shots; he had handled crews of gangsters. Yet he was not a man of crime. Actually, his reputation was the cover for his real activities.

Cliff Marsland was the underworld aid of The Shadow. Stationed in the badlands, welcomed in every dive, this firm-faced young man served the mysterious fighter whom all gangdom feared.

Time and again, Cliff Marsland had notified The Shadow of impending crime. Always, Cliff had managed to preserve his false reputation among crooks. The Shadow, when he matched his giant mind with schemers of the underworld, moved Cliff like a knight upon the squares of a chessboard.

Of late, The Shadow had been smashing the plans of crooks and racketeers. Mallet Haverly had admitted that fact to Speedy Tyron. Marauding bands, bound on errands of crime, had encountered The Shadow instead of the helpless quarry whom they sought. The underworld was throbbing with nervous awe.

The Shadow’s campaign had not ended. That was why Cliff Marshland was in the Black Ship tonight. Stationed in the heart of the enemy’s terrain, unsuspected by the craftiest of skulking crooks, Cliff was watching for new indications. He was picking potential foemen against whom The Shadow could pit his might.

CLIFF was using Lugger as a blind. While he chatted with the dock-walloper, The Shadow’s agent was keenly alert upon events about him. Lugger, imbibing freely from a bottle, was guffawing at his own uncouth jests. Cliff, taking advantage of his companion’s unobservance, kept tabs upon conversation that was going on close by.

A trio of mobsters was at the nearest table. These men were talking in low tones. Snatches of their statements were audible to Cliff. Gorillas who had served with different gangs, these were the type of mobsmen whom Cliff had been set to watch.

“Looks like there’ll be nothin’ doin’ tonight—”

“How do you know? Remember that night we stuck around until two o’clock?”

“Wait’ll Burnetti blows in. Maybe he’ll have somethin’ to tell us—”

These were the words that Cliff Marsland caught. The Shadow’s agent knew their meaning. These mobsters were working with a roving gang leader named Burnetti, whose allegiance belonged to big shots who were willing to pay for his services.

Burnetti had been conspicuously absent from the Black Ship of late. Cliff sensed that his appearance here would mean the assembling of his crew for murderous work. Tonight, perhaps might be a blank. That would mean a new vigil for tomorrow night, provided this same trio of thugs should be at the Black Ship.

While Cliff was musing thus, the street door opened and a squatty, evil-faced ruffian slouched into the Black Ship. Cliff’s momentary gaze was keen. The newcomer was Burnetti. Cliff noticed a tenseness among the trio of gorillas.

Lugger Gates was talking. His bleary eyes were looking toward Cliff. The Shadow’s agent grinned and nodded in reply to the dock-walloper’s incoherent statements. All the while, Cliff watched Burnetti as the newcomer strolled among the tables, grunting greetings to friends.

As if by chance, Burnetti arrived at the spot where his three gorillas were parked. He dropped into a vacant chair, signaled to a waiter for a bottle, and poured himself a drink. His voice came in a cautious growl.

“Forty-sixth… Opposite the Majestic… You’ll see the cab pull up… Watch for Dirk… Two cars… Yeah… He’ll be gettin’ out…”

An utterance from Lugger drowned further words. The dock walloper was gripping Cliff’s arm. Cliff nodded as he centered upon Lugger. He had heard enough; the game now was to avoid suspicion.

Burnetti had finished a second drink. He had strolled over to another table. The three gorillas were rising. Cliff saw them slouch from the Black Ship. He caught a glimpse of Burnetti, finishing another drink and rising to follow, alone.

“Where are you going, Lugger?” questioned Cliff.

“Dunno,” gulped the dock walloper. “Uptown, maybe. Got a car outside. Wanna come along?”

“Sure thing.”

CLIFF arose. Lugger tried to follow suit. He staggered. Cliff caught him. Bracing the dock walloper’s shoulders, he piloted the big fellow toward the street door while watching mobsters grinned.

Lugger Gates was on another bender and Cliff Marsland was giving him a lift. That was all.

Lugger staggered sidewise as they reached the street. Cliff guided him toward an alley which the dock walloper indicated. A coupe was parked beside the curb. Cliff yanked open the door on the driver’s side and shoved Lugger in beside the wheel. Lugger’s big paw went to his forehead.

“Wait a while, Cliff,” suggested Lugger. “I ain’t drivin’ yet. Shay — that booze was lousy—”

“Take it easy, Lugger.” Cliff shoved the dock walloper sidewise across the seat. “Take it easy. We’re in no hurry.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lugger closed his eyes. He sprawled comfortably across the seat. Cliff watched for a moment, then closed the door quietly and strolled away. Reaching the corner, The Shadows agent quickened his pace. He reached a small cigar store. He entered and found an obscure telephone. He dialed a number.

“Burbank speaking.”

Cliff responded as he heard the quiet tones across the wire. Burbank was The Shadow’s contact man. He relayed messages to the hidden chief.

“Burnetti and a mob”, informed Cliff. “Two cars by the Majestic Theater, on Forty-sixth Street. Watching for Dirk Halgan to bring a victim into a taxicab. On their way now.”

“Report received,” returned Burbank. “Await instructions.”

Cliff hung up. Minutes ticked by while The Shadow’s agent strolled over and purchased some cigarettes from a mild, wizened old storekeeper. As Cliff was lighting a cigarette, the telephone rang. Cliff stepped over to answer it, apparently assuming that the call was for him.

“Corner west of the Majestic,” came Burbank’s statement. “Join Vincent in his coupe. Follow the two cars.”

“Instructions received.”

Cliff Marsland sauntered from the store. He walked along a side street, quickened his pace as he passed beneath an elevated structure and reached an avenue that fringed the badlands. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to an address on Forty-sixth Street.

Cliff Marsland was on his way. With Harry Vincent, another agent of The Shadow, Cliff was to follow the gorillas who plotted crime tonight. Two men set to counter crime. The task would have seemed formidable to any but Cliff Marsland.

There was something, however, in Burbank’s order that gave Cliff Marsland confidence. He knew that he and Harry Vincent would not be alone tonight. They would serve as aids, not as principals, in the counterstroke.

Cliff knew that The Shadow, himself, would be on hand. Using the information which he had gained through his agent, the master fighter would bear his share in the work that lay ahead. Cliff Marsland congratulated himself upon the completeness of the data that he had obtained for The Shadow.

There was one point, however, that had escaped Cliff Marsland. It was a fact that Burnetti had not mentioned to his gorillas — the reason why the Majestic Theater had been chosen as the place where men of crime should watch. The old theater, a darkened spot on the uptown side street, was directly opposite the apartment house where Mallet Haverly and Speedy Tyron were still engaged with Luskin!