The Road Of Crime s-39 Page 2

  The big shot’s scowl slowly disappeared; nevertheless, he made no statement of approval. Instead, he tried questions on another tack.

  “You say you didn’t choose crime?” he asked. “How did you come to get into it, then?”

  “I could make a long story out of that,” responded Graham, with a sour smile, “but I can give it to you briefly, just as well. My father had a lot of money. I landed in a jam. I had to raise dough to hush things up. I ran into Wolf Daggert, here in New York. He tipped me off to some ways to pick up cash.”

  “Why didn’t Wolf try them for himself?”

  “I’ll tell you why. He was too yellow to take on the jobs he gave me. He collected a percentage on my work. Then I left New York and went out on my own.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About three years.”

  “You hit it good?”

  “For a while - yes. Then I landed back in New York and needed more money. I heard what Wolf was doing and I worked for him again. I intended to blow later on; then you picked me to head my own mob. Here I am.”

  King Furzman pondered. He could see that Graham Wellerton was one criminal in a thousand. He knew that his lieutenant had spoken frankly. This was the first outspoken conference that Furzman had ever held with Graham.

  The big shot saw that Graham had been working for a break - for the time when success would enable him to give his straight opinion regarding Wolf Daggert. Graham had chosen the right time to assert himself. King Furzman, although he did not say so, regarded this smooth-working lieutenant as a henchman far superior to Wolf.

  Furthermore, there was merit in Graham’s suggestions. The big shot, supposedly a racketeer who was coasting along on past profits, was anxious to avoid anything that would connect him with crime. Rivalry between two lieutenants was a bad feature.

  “All right,” said Furzman suddenly. “Take your mob - work on your own - but let me know where you’re going. If Wolf flops again, he’s through -“

  A rap at the door came as an interruption. The big shot emitted a growl. The door opened and Gouger poked his head into the room.

  “Wolf Daggert is downstairs,” he informed. “Shall I tell him to come up?”

  “Sure,” responded the big shot.

  Gouger disappeared. He was going to the anteroom by the other route - through the apartment. It would only be a few minutes before Wolf Daggert would arrive.

  “I’m all set, then,” declared Graham Wellerton.

  “Yes,” agreed King Furzman. “Take your mob wherever you want to go.”

  “We’ll start out tomorrow night,” said Graham quickly. “I’ll have the crew ready. I’ll come here and tell you my plans. They won’t know where I’m taking them until we’re on our way - maybe not until we get there.”

  “Good stuff,” nodded the big shot. “You’re all right, Wellerton. I’ve got your idea now. You know how to handle a mob. Keep them guessing.”

  The conversation ended. Graham Wellerton resumed his chair and lighted a cigarette. King Furzman applied a match to the cigar which he had been chewing. While neither man was observant, the long black patch upon the floor drew slowly toward the curtain at the archway. The Shadow, hidden listener to all that had been said, was retiring into a darkened corner of the next room to await the passage of another visitor - Wolf Daggert.

  Whatever might be said after the third man had arrived, The Shadow would also hear. The foe of crime, this phantom of the night had come to a spot where crime was in the making.

  His presence here a mystery, his knowledge veiled from those who plotted crime, The Shadow had heard the plans of Graham Wellerton. Now he would listen to the pleas of an unsuccessful crook, when Wolf Daggert faced the big shot.

  The Shadow’s presence was a proof that he had had a hand in thwarting crime. That presence also signified that The Shadow would have much to say ere crime again struck!

  CHAPTER III

  THE SHADOW’S PART

  GRAHAM WELLERTON and King Furzman looked up as two men entered the room from the archway. The first arrival was Gouger. The bodyguard kept on and passed through the door at the other side of the room.

  The second man stopped just within the curtains. He looked from King Furzman to Graham Wellerton; then back from lieutenant to big shot. Without a word, he tossed his hat and coat upon a table and took a chair.

  Wolf Daggert was a crook whose nickname was well chosen. His face was peaked and cunning. His teeth, which showed between sordid, roughened lips, had a fanglike appearance that was bestial. The man’s manner was one that made an observer expect a snarl at any moment.

  With half-clenched fists and ugly, sneering grin, Wolf Daggert turned his pale face toward the other men as though he expected challenging words. His gray eyes moved restlessly and his whole manner indicated tense nervousness.

  King Furzman eyed Wolf Daggert coldly. Graham Wellerton gazed at the newcomer with an air of indifference.

  In this strained atmosphere, not one of the three men happened to look toward the floor. Hence the trio failed to see the streak of blackness which was again moving steadily inward from the curtains.

  The dark splotch became motionless. Cold, steely eyes were peering from the curtain. The archenemy of crime was on the watch. The eyes of The Shadow were viewing the scene within King Furzman’s reception room.

  “Well,” barked Wolf. “You goin’ to say somethin’? Let’s have it.”

  His remark was impersonal. Either Furzman or Graham could have answered him. The big shot was the one who spoke.

  “There’s nothing much to say, Wolf,” declared Furzman. “Things seem to have gone sour - that’s all. Maybe you didn’t plan the job right.”

  “You been talkin’, eh?” Wolf glowered at Graham. “Think because your job went through you’ve got the edge on me?”

  “Lay off that, Wolf!” growled Furzman. “You’re talking to me, see? You said you were coming up here to tip me off to what queered your game. Spring it.”

  “Sure, I told you that,” agreed Wolf. “Over the phone - after the job was queered and my mob took the bump. I got plenty to tell you, too - and if this chesty guy had hit what I hit, he’d be cryin’ plenty.”

  Wolf indicated Graham as he spoke.

  “That’s your way of looking at it, eh?” quizzed Furzman. “Well, Wolf, you’ve got to show me. The Parkerside Trust was no tougher than the Terminal National - not as tough, for that matter.”

  “Maybe not,” admitted Wolf, “but I got double-crossed. That makes it different, don’t it?”

  “Double-crossed? How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean by one of your mob -“

  “I don’t know. All I can tell you is that some guy got wise - and the job was stacked against me.”

  “You mean the police -“

  “No!” Wolf snarled as he leaned forward in his chair. “The cops - bah - if they’d been wise, we’d have knowed it. I’ll tell you who queered the job - just one guy - The Shadow!”

  WOLF’S thrust struck home. Graham Wellerton, staring straight at King Furzman, saw the big shot’s lips twitch. The mere mention of The Shadow’s name was enough to cause any big criminal worriment.

  “I’m tellin’ you straight,” insisted Wolf. “If the bank was wise - if the cops was wise - there’d have been somethin’ to show for it. But here’s what happened.

  “Right inside the bank is an old stairway that goes down to the safe deposits. They blocked it off, see, when the bank was made bigger. Nothin’ but a solid wall down there now.

  “The mob goes in. They start to cover the tellers. Then right out from the rail around that old stairway comes the shots. Pickin’ the gang off like they was flies.

  “What happens? The customers duck for cover, the tellers an’ the watchman yanks out their guns. Half the mob was crippled - the rest started to scram. The bank boys had the edge. They clipped the outfit.”

  “The newspapers said nothing about
it,” interposed Furzman, as Wolf paused. “According to the accounts, the bank tellers resisted the attack.”

  “Sure,” snorted Wolf. “That’s what they did - after The Shadow started it. None of them bank guys knew who began the mess. They grabbed the credit when the cops got there.”

  “What became of The Shadow?” questioned Furzman.

  “How do I know?” retorted Wolf. “He didn’t show himself. He must have walked out with some of the customers. He’s a smart guy - The Shadow - I found that out today.”

  “What do you think of this?” asked the big shot, turning to Graham Wellerton.

  “It sounds to me like an alibi,” returned the gentleman of crime.

  “Yeah?” snarled Wolf. “You think I’m lyin’? I’ll fix you -“

  “Someone may have caused the trouble,” interrupted Graham calmly, “but it couldn’t have been The Shadow.”

  “Why not?” questioned Wolf.

  “Because,” Graham responded, looking squarely toward his questioner, “if it had been The Shadow, you wouldn’t have made a getaway without a couple of bullets somewhere in your body.”

  “Yeah?” Wolf was again indignant. “Well, it was The Shadow right enough - you can ask Pinkey Doremas if you don’t believe me. He was just inside the door when the shots began -“

  “Where is Pinkey now?”

  “Down in Red Mike’s place. He got plugged twice - I had to shove him in the car. I’ve got a sawbones down there to look after him - you know, the old doc who’s in wrong an’ who comes around whenever we need him.”

  Graham Wellerton was leaning back in his chair, chuckling merrily. Wolf Daggert stopped short to stare at him. King Furzman angrily demanded the cause of Graham’s merriment.

  “Do you want to know why I’m laughing?” questioned Graham. “I’ll tell you why, King. Wolf is yellow - up to his old tricks. He never went into that bank with the mob. He was laying outside and he helped the only man who managed to get away - Pinkey Doremas - the one nearest the door when the firing started!”

  WOLF’S lips were fidgeting. The peaked face gang leader stared angrily at Graham, then glanced nervously at King Furzman. At last he spoke, in a wheedling tone.

  “I ain’t yellow,” he pleaded. “I wasn’t in the bank - but it wasn’t because I’m yellow. You know the getaway counts, King. That’s why I was outside

  -“

  “Wait a minute!” Furzman’s exclamation was delivered in a serious tone. “We’re getting at something now. How far down the street were you, Wolf?”

  “About a hundred feet,” said Wolf reluctantly. “Yeah - just about a hundred feet -“

  “Around the corner,” added Graham calmly.

  “What if I was around the corner?” blurted Wolf. “It don’t matter where I was, does it? I know how to manage my mob -“

  Graham was enjoying another chuckle at Wolf’s expense. The yellow gang leader had admitted his cowardice. King Furzman, however, saw a more important angle to the situation. It was the big shot who ended the controversy between the lieutenants by injecting a growled interruption.

  “The Shadow was in it, all right,” decided Furzman. “You can’t blame Wolf, Wellerton. The Shadow can queer any job when he starts out. Say - this is bad all around.”

  “How?” questioned Graham.

  “The Shadow must have picked up the trail of Wolf’s mob,” declared the big shot seriously. “They say he’s always snooping around to see what the gangs are doing. He cleaned up the mob today; his next step will be to get Wolf. That may lead him here - to me - to you -“

  “All of which can be avoided,” interrupted Graham.

  “How?” quizzed the big shot.

  “Let Wolf lay low,” declared Graham. “Have him keep away from here - take his time about getting another mob. Then” - Graham followed the plan that he had suggested prior to Wolf’s arrival - “I can slide out of town with my mob and work somewhere else. That leaves you clear, King.”

  The big shot nodded solemnly. Wolf Daggert, thankful that criticism had ceased, said nothing. The arrangements which Graham Wellerton proposed, came as a logical solution to the all-important problem.

  “That’s the way we’ll work it,” decided King Furzman. “There’s no use taking chances if The Shadow is in this game. He’s dangerous - and since he had crimped you, Wolf, there’s a big chance that he’ll be after Wellerton next.

  “You’re laying low from now on - get that, Wolf? As for you, Wellerton, you can make your own plans. Stop in tomorrow night and tell me where you’re heading. When will you be here?”

  “Nine o’clock,” said Graham.

  The gentleman of crime arose, picked up his hat and coat and reached for his cane. Wolf Daggert eyed him maliciously, then turned to King Furzman.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked. “Scram? On account of The Shadow?”

  “The less you’re around here, the better,” returned the big shot. “You move along - and stay away until I call for you. That’s all for tonight.”

  Gloomily, Wolf picked up his hat and coat. He prepared to follow Graham Wellerton. King Furzman arose and went to the door to summon Gouger. Graham and Wolf watched him. The long black streak began to fade away from the floor; slowly, steadily, a large silhouette dwindled into nothingness.

  GOUGER appeared and led the two men to the anteroom. He ushered them out into the corridor; then returned. Gouger did not see the weird figure that moved stealthily after he had passed. He did not suspect the presence of The Shadow.

  On the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, Graham Wellerton and Wolf Daggert parted. No words of farewell were exchanged between these lieutenants of King Furzman.

  Graham surveyed Wolf with a parting smile; Wolf, in turn, glowered at the man who had been successful where he had failed.

  Neither noted the tall, vague form that stood within the darkness of the entry to the lobby. Neither knew that The Shadow had followed them here; that the master of darkness was watching their departure.

  King Furzman had spoken facts, not mere possibilities, when he had suggested that The Shadow, after breaking up Wolf Daggert’s game, might trail Wolf to learn who was the man behind the attempted bank robbery.

  The Shadow had heard Wolf’s telephone call to King. He had come to observe lieutenant and big shot when they met.

  In so doing, The Shadow had gained another point. He had learned that the successful pillaging of the Terminal National had also been ordered by King Furzman; he had learned the identity of the big shot’s other lieutenant - Graham Wellerton.

  To The Shadow, a skulking rat like Wolf Daggert was one who could be watched by agents, one who could be trapped the next time he attempted crime in Manhattan. King Furzman, pretended racketeer who dealt in robbery, was one whom The Shadow could strike at will.

  But in Graham Wellerton, The Shadow had discovered a crime maker of another caliber. Here was one who dealt in strategy; a man who contemplated an expedition to another city; a crook who was wise enough to slide away from Manhattan when the going became too hot.

  From his hidden observation post, The Shadow had studied this young chap who had the clean-cut appearance of a gentleman, but who dealt in crime as a profession. Graham Wellerton, with a trusted mob at his heels, was planning crimes that must be stopped at the outset.

  As Graham Wellerton and Wolf Daggert walked in opposite directions, The Shadow emerged from the entry. His tall form became a vague outline that moved swiftly and invisibly along the street, following the path that Graham Wellerton had taken.

  The Shadow was on the trail of the gentleman who dealt in crime. Before this night was ended, the master of detection would learn more - perhaps all - concerning the affairs of Graham Wellerton, bank robber deluxe.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE SHADOW VISIBLE

  GRAHAM WELLERTON gave no thought to possible followers as he strolled along the street to a subway station. During the ride downtown, he had no idea
that anyone was on his trail.

  When he emerged from the subway, he walked to the pretentious apartment building where he lived, and rode upstairs in an elevator. He entered his fourth-floor apartment, raised a living-room window to gain some cool air, and seated himself in a comfortable armchair.

  Idly speculative, the gentlemanly crook gave no thought to events outside that window. The opening was on a courtyard, not far from a fire tower. While Graham sat smoking a cigarette, a silent action took place upon the intervening wall between tower and window.

  Hazy in the illumination from the tower, a tall black form of human proportions stretched out along the wall. Clinging to the bricks in batlike fashion, it began a precarious passage toward the open window.

  Squidgy sounds, lost in the dull murmur of basement machinery, told of The Shadow’s progress. With rubber suction disks attached to hands and feet, the stealthy intruder was moving steadily along a vertical wall.

  The Shadow’s form was shrouded in blackness when it arrived at a spot but a few feet distant from the open window. Keen ears were listening for any sound from within Graham Wellerton’s living room.

  The Shadow’s head moved forward. His keen eyes were about to peer upon the lighted scene, when a rap at the door of the apartment caused Wellerton to arise quickly from his chair. The Shadow eased back into darkness as Graham approached the window, lowered the sash and drew the shade.

  Hardly had the gentleman crook headed toward the door before The Shadow was at work. A black-gloved hand, freed from the rubber cup, extended itself and pushed the window sash several inches upward. Speedily, blackened fingers manipulated the window shade.

  All this was done while Graham was walking across the floor. By the time the young man had reached the door, The Shadow’s eyes were peering through a three-inch space between the window sill and the sash and shade above.

  When Graham Wellerton opened the door, he stepped back and his face came into the light. The Shadow, keenly observant, saw a look of mingled anger and dismay upon the young man’s face. This was caused by the unexpectedness of the visitor - a woman - who wore an expensive but gaudy garb.