Crime, Insured s-129 Read online

  Crime, Insured

  ( Shadow - 129 )

  Maxwell Grant

  Gilded death strikes ruthlessly and brings The Shadow to Miami to investigate the suicides that weren't suicides!

  CRIME, INSURED

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. CRIME'S FORECAST

  WALLY DRILLICK stood before the big mirror in the living room of his swank apartment. He was adjusting his black bow tie with the utmost care. Wally was most particular about his appearance when he wore tuxedo attire. It was necessary in his specialized profession.

  Wally was a crook who worked on a deluxe scale. A good dresser, a smooth talker, he could wangle his way into any social circle. Wally was handsome; and conscious of it. That also helped his cause. All in all, Wally had proven himself most useful to big-shots like "Duke" Unrig.

  Wally was thinking of that very fact when he finished preening himself in the mirror. He placed a cigarette in a monogrammed holder and seated himself in an easy chair to enjoy a smoke. It was not quite time to start on tonight's expedition; hence Wally had opportunity to consider recent events.

  Crime had gone ultra-modern in Manhattan. Big-shots - like Duke Unrig - had discarded old-fashioned methods. They staged their latest jobs with clock-like precision, accompanied by streamlined speed.

  Tough-mugged hoodlums had been shoved to the background. Instead, the big-shots used smooth workers like Wally - who spent their leisure hours in smart night clubs and high-priced taprooms, instead of underworld dives.

  Of course, there were the "finger men" - the lads who slipped the information to the big-shots. They worked as doormen, waiters, or other attendants in clubs, hotels and apartments. Some of the finger men were chauffeurs or butlers in private homes; good places from which to point out spots for crime.

  Duke Unrig was one big-shot who handled the racket right. From dope that his finger men gave him, Duke mapped his campaigns. His orders went to chaps like Wally; and the well-oiled machinery moved.

  Wally had found every job a cinch. Loot was plentiful; the hauls were large. Duke received the proceeds and saw to it that Wally and the other gentlemen crooks received enough cash to live in lavish style.

  Duke still had tough guys on his pay roll: "trigger men" who liked to use their gats. Those "torpedoes"

  were necessary, in case of emergency. They were under strict orders, though, to use the soft pedal; to keep out of sight unless the jobs went sour.

  So far, none of Wally's expeditions had produced the slightest difficulty. In Wally's conceited opinion, Duke's trigger-handlers were totally unnecessary.

  In fact, Duke had been ready to dispense with his gunmen, until some other big-shots had encountered trouble. Oddly, some smooth jobs had been slipping lately. Wise criminals had been running into unexpected obstacles; sometimes the police had received timely tip-offs.

  The newspaper on Wally's mahogany table told how the law had bagged a well-dressed crook and four wanted thugs who were disguised as truckmen. The five had been loading rare paintings into a moving van, from a millionaire's Long Island residence.

  The millionaire's servants had actually been helping the thieves, thinking that the pictures were going to an art exhibition. The police had arrived in time to interfere. Who had passed the tip-off, was still a mystery to the big-shot who had arranged the game.

  That was but one case of thwarted crime. Roughly, Wally estimated that the percentage of successful jobs had been cut in half during the past month. His opinion - again an egotistical one - was that the field had overcrowded, making less good workers available. Big-shots other than Duke Unrig were handicapped. They did not have the services of men like Wally Drillick.

  THERE was a thumping at the apartment door. Wally discarded his cigarette and strolled over to answer the knock. A pasty-faced delivery man extended a box of laundry. Wally paid him three dollars and forty cents.

  As soon as the man had gone, the crook opened the package. Between two starched shirts, Wally found an envelope.

  It contained a message from Duke; it referred to the "Melrue job" and mentioned contact at the Top Hat Club. With the message was a table reservation at the night club, also a faked membership card to a fraternal order that bore the name of James Ludas from Cincinnati. Wally had used credentials like these before.

  Duke's note added two other details. After he burned the message, Wally took care of those points.

  He went into a bedroom; opened a bureau drawer and produced a thick silk handkerchief that had two thin slits, artfully cut near the center of its expensive fabric. Reaching behind the drawer, he brought a stubby revolver from a hidden compartment. He placed the weapon in his hip pocket.

  Going out through the living room, Wally stopped long enough to pick up the newspaper and turn to the society page. He smiled suavely at the printed portrait of a light-haired girl, whose eyes carried a vivacious sparkle, apparent even in the coarse-screened newspaper photograph. Her features were of even formation, with the possible exception of her chin, which showed determination. That pleased Wally.

  "You're a good-looker, kid," he said, in a low-purred tone. "Too bad you won't be around when I call.

  Maybe it's all for the better, though. I'll remember the address. Maybe I'll drop in some time, without this."

  By "this," Wally meant the silk handkerchief that served him as a mask. He dangled it in front of the photograph, then pocketed it. He studied the picture once more.

  He read the name beneath it: Francine Melrue. The caption stated that she was to be on the reception committee of a charity ball that was being held tonight.

  What the society report did not mention was the fact that Francine Melrue had recently become heir to half of a million-dollar estate left by her deceased uncle. The girl's brother, George, had received an equal amount. In the apportionment, Francine had been given family gems valued at one hundred thousand dollars.

  Those jewels, Wally happened to know, were somewhere in the apartment that Francine Melrue occupied. Wally's job was to pick up the gems during the girl's absence. The task was entirely smoothed over, the final details would be awaiting at the Top Hat Club.

  Donning a light overcoat, Wally made sure that a pair of gray kid gloves were in the pocket. They were important, for they eliminated finger prints. Standing in front of the mirror, Wally adjusted a natty derby hat upon his head. Lighting a fresh cigarette, he strolled to the door.

  He paused long enough to transfer the revolver to an overcoat pocket. Since a gun had been mentioned in Duke's orders, Wally preferred to have it handy.

  THERE was only one inconvenience about the apartment house where Wally Drillick resided. It was rather secluded; and taxis were not always on hand. Wally made it a practice to allow for a few minutes'

  delay in case the doorman had to summon a cab.

  Tonight, Wally was in luck. When he reached the sidewalk, he saw a shiny, streamlined cab parked in the hack space out front.

  The driver opened the rear door as soon as Wally appeared. The crook saw an eager, pointed face peering from the front seat. The hackle questioned:

  "Where to, sir?"

  Wally named the Top Hat Club as he stepped aboard. The driver nodded to show that he knew the address. The door slammed shut; the cab was in motion. Wally settled back to draw a long puff from his fancy cigarette holder. He heard a slight stir in the darkness beside him.

  Quickly, Wally shifted. A passing street lamp gave his eyes a momentary view of a black-cloaked figure.

  Wally caught the glow of burning eyes beneath the brim of a slouch hat. He sped his ungloved hand for his overcoat pocket, plucked out the stubby revolver and swung the muzzle toward the being beside him.

  The glimmer of
the gun was seen by those burning eyes. A black-gloved hand sped forward with trip-hammer speed. Before Wally could hook the trigger with his forefinger, his wrist was twisted in a clamping grip. The crook doubled to the floor, writhing in the clutch of an expert jujutsu hold.

  In three brief seconds, Wally guessed the identity of his powerful antagonist. He was in the grip of The Shadow, superfoe to crime!

  To The Shadow, all crooks were alike, whether they dwelt in the scummy badlands or posed as members of society's upper crust. The Shadow had his own methods of handling evildoers. He demonstrated them in the case of Wally Drillick.

  As the stubby revolver thudded the floor of the speeding taxi, The Shadow's free hand gained a grip on Wally's flailing left arm. The crook performed a half somersault; came up to tug at a hand that held his throat. Wrenching his neck free, Wally planked his head against the cab door; it tilted his chin upward at a desirable angle. The Shadow's fist delivered a well-placed jab.

  Wally Drillick felt the jolt in two places: against his lower jaw and the top of his skull. It had a telescopic effect, as if his head had suddenly compressed. The tuxedoed crook crumpled on the cab floor. That punch was the sort that remained good for ten minutes.

  The Shadow spoke an order to the cab driver. The taxi changed course; threaded among narrow streets.

  Meanwhile, a tiny flashlight glimmered in the back seat.

  The Shadow plucked objects from Wally's pockets and examined them in the glow. A soft, whispered laugh sounded from invisible lips beneath the hat brim.

  Rolling Wally face downward, The Shadow peeled off the criminal's topcoat. He replaced all items, including the revolver, in the overcoat pocket. Wally's derby was lying on the seat. The Shadow bundled it with the topcoat, and laid both in a corner.

  The cab stopped in front of an empty side-street house. The door opened. The Shadow stepped to the curb and gave a sibilant hiss. Two men arrived from the shelter of the house steps; at The Shadow's order, they hauled Wally's senseless form from the cab and carried it through a basement door beneath house steps.

  From the sidewalk, The Shadow spoke an order to the cab driver. The taxi wheeled away. Obscured in the darkness, The Shadow moved in the opposite direction. He was gone when his two agents came from the house, locking the basement door behind them.

  The Shadow had temporarily disposed of Wally Drillick. The smooth-working sharper was out of the running tonight. That did not mean that Duke Unrig's plans would not go further. On the contrary, The Shadow had arranged for them to continue; but not with Wally as the active worker.

  Tonight's crime was to reach a point that The Shadow desired. That point would mark its finish. Like Wally Drillick, Duke Unrig was to experience a jolt. One that the big-shot would remember.

  Crime that seemed sure was due for failure. Such was The Shadow's forecast.

  CHAPTER II. WALLY'S SUBSTITUTE

  HALF an hour later, the streamlined taxicab stopped at the glittering entrance of the Top Hat Club. The cab had picked up a passenger on the way - a keen-cut young man who made a better appearance than Wally. When he stepped from the cab, this new passenger was wearing Wally's derby and topcoat.

  The young man was Harry Vincent, The Shadow's most trusted agent. It was Harry's job to take over Wally's route so that crooks would not know that tonight's crime was slated for failure.

  At the cloakroom, Harry left the hat and topcoat. He was wearing a tuxedo of his own; and he had transferred all Wally's belongings to its pockets, with the exception of the gray kid gloves. They remained in the topcoat pocket.

  The Top Hat Club was not overlarge. Its tables were placed on steplike tiers, forming three sides of a hollow square. The central space was for dancing; later, there would be a floor show. The entertainers alone used a small stage at the far end of the dance floor.

  Lights were dim. It was difficult to recognize people as they walked between the tables. That suited Harry Vincent. It was one reason why The Shadow had sent him here openly. No one would remember Harry afterword.

  It was not a case of Harry passing for Wally Drillick. The Shadow had been watching Wally for some time, and knew how the smooth man of the underworld worked. Duke Unrig never arranged contacts at the places where Wally usually went. Information always awaited Wally at some night spot where he was unknown. If something went wrong, Wally would simply pass as a chance visitor.

  Proof that Wally was unknown at the Top Hat Club was apparent from the card that bore the name of James Ludas. That card was at present in Harry's pocket.

  So was the card that held the table reservation. Harry found the table - a small one set for two persons.

  It was just past a large pillar, two steps up from the dance floor. Harry showed the reservation to a waiter and took one of the chairs.

  There was a lighted lamp on the table; it was shaded. Harry had no difficulty shifting to a position where his face was away from the glow.

  It was not long before an assistant head waiter arrived, to inquire:

  "You are expecting someone else, sir?"

  Harry nodded. He was watching the dance floor while he fitted a cigarette into Wally's fancy holder.

  Since the table was set for two, Harry decided that a nod was the right answer.

  It suited the head waiter. Apparently, he expected stalling tactics from the man at the table. The fellow put another question:

  "May I see your reservation again, sir?"

  The tone signified something more. Reaching into his inside pocket, Harry produced two cards: the table reservation and the identification card that bore the name of James Ludas.

  As the head waiter drew the upper card away, he saw the lower one. He gave an understanding whisper.

  Harry pocketed the Ludas card.

  The head waiter spread a menu on the table. His lips were close to Harry's ear. In an undertone, the man repeated:

  "Apartment. Time - 9:05. Over hatbox. Chime."

  THE head waiter was gone. Harry glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes after eight. He watched the dance floor for a short while; then strolled from the table.

  Harry picked up the hat and coat at the cloakroom. As he reached the street, he felt for the kid gloves.

  His fingers crinkled a slip of paper, evidently slipped in the pocket in the cloakroom.

  Once in a cab, Harry read the note that provided added information: Bedroom window opens above next roof. Trapdoor leads to inside stairway. Use in pinch. Leave rest to outside crew.

  From a cigar store, Harry made a telephone call. As soon as he had dialed the required number, an even voice responded:

  "Burbank speaking."

  Burbank was The Shadow's contact man, who relayed information between active agents and their mysterious chief. Harry gave the facts to Burbank; quietly, the contact man told him to stand by.

  In five minutes, there was a return call.

  Harry was to go to the Adair Apartments, where Francine Melrue lived. He was to proceed as Duke Unrig expected Wally to perform; but he was to force the pinch that Duke mentioned but did not want.

  To produce the emergency, Harry had merely to wait in the apartment until trouble began.

  THE Adair Apartments fronted on a side street just off Lexington Avenue. Harry arrived at the entrance a few minutes after nine. Eyeing the street, he saw that it was deserted.

  There was a service entrance just past the far wall of the apartment house; and there were some good lurking spots farther down the street. Those could serve the outside crew; but they were too far away for any one of them to note a difference between Harry and Wally Drillick.

  What Harry did not notice was a house directly opposite the apartment building. Its first floor was a small restaurant. Its second story was dark.

  There were eyes watching from a blackened window on the second floor. A well-concealed observer spotted Harry Vincent. Harry had a minute to wait until five minutes after nine.

  When Harry entered the foyer of the a
partment house, he saw an office near the elevator. A clerk was busy at the switchboard, answering a deluge of calls that were crowding in all at one time. The elevator operator, a dull, long-faced fellow, was leaning over the counter. Harry heard him ask:

  "Is Fred on the telephone, Mr. Deedham?"

  The clerk answered impatiently.

  "Get back to the elevator, Eddie. If Fred calls, I'll tell you!"

  "But he's supposed to relieve me at nine o'clock."

  "I know! He's late. He'll be docked for it."

  "That won't help me. I got an important date."

  Harry was entering the elevator. Eddie came back to run the car. Muttering his opinion of Fred, Eddie scarcely noticed the tuxedoed passenger who was aboard. He started the car upward.

  Harry said "Sixth" and Eddie stopped at that floor. The operator was still mumbling when Harry left the elevator.

  FRANCINE MELRUE'S apartment was No. 6H. Harry found the door unlocked. He entered and noted pitch-blackness. He closed the door and turned on the lights.

  Window shades were drawn; the door to the bedroom was closed. Unquestionably, someone who worked in the apartment house had seen to these details. That person would have a perfect alibi later.

  Such was the way with the finger men employed by Duke Unrig. They paved the way for workers like Wally Drillick, but were careful to do nothing more. That completely misled the police when they studied scenes of crime for signs of an inside job.

  So far, Harry had followed Duke's instructions as capably as Wally could have. His next step was to look for a telltale hatbox. Harry saw it, resting beside the wall, near a corner chair.

  Apparently, that hatbox had been put there accidentally. Harry knew otherwise. He looked directly above it and saw a square-framed painting on the wall.

  All the while, Harry had been wearing the gray kid gloves. The time had come for another precaution that Wally had regarded as unnecessary, but upon which Duke had insisted. It was one that was to serve Harry later, so he made preparation.