The Silent Death s-27 Read online

  Maybe this was meant for you."

  Slips grinned derisively. Cardona snapped at the opportunity. It was exactly what the detective had

  wanted.

  "So you don't think it was meant for me, eh?" questioned Cardona. "Then I guess you knew about it.

  Knew it was a plant, eh? All set to bump somebody off. That looks bad for you, Slips!"

  A WORRIED expression registered itself upon the gangster's face. Slips realized that he had put himself

  in a predicament. He saw the flash in Cardona's eyes and feared the consequences. Slips knew that

  Cardona had the facts regarding that last call which the gangster had received from Larry Ricordo.

  "Lay off me," pleaded Slips. "You've got me all mixed. I didn't know nothing about that phony phone.

  Maybe you were right, Joe. It might have been meant for me."

  "Somebody double-crossing you, eh?" quizzed Cardona derisively. "Fine guy for you to stick up for.

  Come on — it's your only chance. If you were double-crossed, you've got a right to squeal. If you don't

  talk, it proves you knew the game. That's sure enough, isn't it?"

  Confronted by this dilemma, Slips tried to play a middle course. He licked his lips and blinked his eyes as

  he tried to face his inquisitor.

  "You said you'd give me a break," he protested. "Honest, I wasn't in on any lay like this. I guess you're

  right about the double cross."

  "You see it now, eh?"

  "Yeah. Somebody wanted to get me, I guess. I'm sort of mixed up, Joe, but I guess you're right. A

  double cross, but I didn't know it. I guess Larry did want to — "

  Slips Harbeck stopped suddenly and bit his lip. He realized his mistake. Joe Cardona glared triumphant.

  The detective, unwearied, was quick on the job.

  "Larry, eh?" he questioned. "You're talking about Larry. Larry— what's the rest of his name?"

  "I don't know nothing!" snarled Slips.

  "Larry," checked Cardona, in a speculative tone. "There's a lot of Larrys who pack guns, aren't there,

  Slips? I'm trying to think of some who would be in on this."

  The detective turned to question one of his subordinates. His eyes were away from Slips Harbeck.

  "Say, Mayhew," questioned Cardona, "what's become of Larry Ricordo. You know — the guy that was

  going to be a big shot, but got cold feet."

  "I don't know," responded Mayhew. "He took out to the sticks, so they say."

  A momentary smile flickered on Slips Harbeck's sullen face. Cardona's turnabout had given the gangster

  a momentary respite.

  But that was part of Cardona's game — an old trick which he frequently worked with Mayhew. The other

  detective was watching Slips from the corner of his eye.

  "You've hit it, Joe," said Mayhew, with a grin. "Hit the bull's-eye. Larry Ricordo's the one we want!"

  This, too, was a follow-up in Cardona's game. Mayhew had learned his part from experience. Cardona's

  pretended lack of vigilance; Mayhew's sharp observation; then Mayhew's comment. These were three

  steps.

  Cardona provided the fourth. He swung back to Slips Harbeck, and loosed a sweeping volley of

  denunciation.

  "So it's Larry Ricordo, eh?" demanded Cardona. "You know why he beat it out of town, don't you?

  Because he double-crossed Louie Muth. You didn't know that, did you? Didn't know who Muth's mob

  was gunning after? Well, you know now! You'd better be glad we pinched you, Slips. If that mob had

  ever found you out — "

  CARDONA'S outburst was well calculated. His statements were fictitious. He knew that some mystery

  surrounded the death of the mob leader whom he had named. He also was subtle when he introduced the

  suggestion of a double cross. That was the very element that he had been building up in Slips Harbeck's

  mind.

  "Come clean," added Cardona, after a pause. "You asked for a break. I'm giving it to you. Come clean,

  Slips!"

  Cardona had driven the wedge. It was all that he had needed. Slips Harbeck, exhausted, no longer

  possessed the strength to battle back after Cardona had gained a definite point. The naming of Larry; the

  logical guess that it might be Larry Ricordo — these had given Cardona a step toward the fact he wanted.

  The ace detective followed up his advantage. He purred smooth questions, and guided Slips Harbeck

  toward the answers. Easing the gangster's mind as he went along, Cardona turned everything his own

  way.

  Slips resorted to uncertainty, licking his lips as he went along. He admitted that he had opened

  negotiations with a man who purported to be Larry Ricordo. He was not sure that it was Larry; for he

  had conducted all transactions over the telephone.

  Cunningly, Slips denied all connection with the affair at Alfred Sartain's, and the explosion at Wesley

  Barnsworth's apartment. He suggested that Duster Brooks must have given his name to Larry Ricordo -

  or whoever it was that pretended to be the big shot.

  All that Slips claimed to know was that a package of cash had been delivered to him at Red Mike's as

  advance payment for a job, with orders to follow telephoned instructions. He stated that he had intended

  to avoid a visit to Gardner Joyce's office.

  "I was going to scram," he protested. "Honest I was, Cardona. You can't blame me for picking up some

  loose cash, can you? It was soft. I figured if it was Larry Ricordo who was giving me the dough, he

  wouldn't come after me if I beat it out of town. I knew he was laying low."

  Slips Harbeck's plea was a shrewd one. He told his story convincingly, by using enough truth to support

  his fabric of doubts and lies.

  Joe Cardona saw the game and took advantage of it. The detective knew that it would be difficult to

  convict Slips Harbeck of any crime, for the only actual testimony referred to the telephone call at Red

  Mike's; and Gawky Tyson, the stool pigeon, had been the only listener.

  But Cardona, by concentrating upon the story that Slips told, was establishing the most important point:

  namely, that Larry Ricordo was behind the crimes that had been attempted. To prevent further criminal

  activities— and Cardona feared murder — the arrest of Larry Ricordo would be a logical step.

  If Slips was as important an underling as Cardona supposed, the capture of this lieutenant would

  embarrass Larry Ricordo, and put the big shot at a disadvantage. It was best for Slips to be absent for a

  while.

  "We're going to hold you, Slips," announced Cardona. "We'll need you later on. I'm out to get Larry

  Ricordo — and you're not going to be loose to queer it. See?"

  Slips nodded. He submitted weakly to Cardona's decision.

  The detective was somewhat surprised. He attributed the gangster's lack of spirit to a fear of Larry

  Ricordo's wrath. In that surmise, the detective went wide of the truth. Slips Harbeck did not mind a

  period behind the bars, simply because he was thinking of The Shadow. He knew that he had been

  treading dangerous ground. He was glad to get away from his predicament.

  AFTER Slips Harbeck had been removed, Joe Cardona went to his office. He classified facts that he

  had learned; then rested at his desk. The detective had worked since early in the morning, quizzing Slips

  Harbeck. The tedium of several hours was beginning to tell. It was ten o'clock now. Cardona prepared

  to leave.

  A man entered the office to interrupt. Cardona found himself facing Clyde Burke, reporter on the New

  York Classic. The newspaperman was the last person
whom Cardona wanted to talk to at the present

  moment.

  "Hello, Burke," he growled. "I can't talk to you now. Going out to get some shut-eye."

  "Been up a while, eh?" questioned Burke. "Who've you been grilling, Joe? Slips Harbeck?"

  Cardona glared at the reporter with challenging air. Clyde Burke grinned. Cardona laughed gruffly.

  "Beats me," he said, "how you news hounds guess things. Why don't you apply for a job on the force?

  We could use some smart detectives like you."

  "Not for me, Joe," laughed Burke. "I can find out more without a badge than with one. What did Slips

  have to say?"

  "You ask me? Why didn't you come around to grill him yourself?"

  "I wouldn't have minded it, Joe. But I prefer sleep during the early-morning hours."

  "Well, you slept through it then. Come around to-night. Maybe I'll have something for you."

  "The old stall. That makes it the usual story. Third degree failed — "

  "Listen here, Burke." Cardona's interruption was a challenge. "Lay off that heavy stuff. Get me? I'm tired

  out, and I'm impatient. Beat it — I'm leaving."

  "Hm-m-m." Burke seemed thoughtful. "Guess you did find out plenty from Slips Harbeck. Tell you what,

  Joe. Suppose we make it a compromise. Just a nice story that the police are holding Slips Harbeck as a

  possible suspect."

  "That's all right."

  "And in return for it" — Burke's tone was smooth—"you give me an idea of what he really did say."

  Cardona stared squarely at the reporter. He went back to his desk and motioned Burke to sit down.

  Tapping thoughtfully upon the woodwork, Cardona talked terms.

  "Just as I get through quizzing a prisoner," he remarked, "you come along and quiz me. Well, I can't

  blame you. But you know what I'm up against, Burke."

  "Yes, and you know me, Joe," returned Burke. "You know what I'm up against. If I don't get the news,

  somebody else may get it. I just want to protect myself, that's all, and I know you'll give me a break."

  "That's right. You've always played fair, Burke. Here's the terms. I'll tell you what I've found out — but

  you're to keep it out of the columns. I'll count on you to bluff the rest of the news hounds after I duck out

  of here. In return, you'll get a real story later on but you can't bust it until I give the word."

  "Absolutely, Joe. I've worked that way before."

  "I know you have. I never figured out why. The paper's paying you, but you use discretion — which

  makes you different from every other reporter that I've ever met."

  "That's agreed," said Burke quietly. "Leave it all to me, Joe. I can figure why you're holding Slips

  Harbeck. He knows something about these would-be murders."

  "He knows plenty."

  "And the man in back of it?"

  Cardona leaned across the desk and whispered the name in Clyde Burke's ear.

  "Larry Ricordo," said the detective.

  "The bird that was going to be a big shot?" questioned Burke. "I thought he had cleared out."

  "He's come back," asserted Cardona. "We're going to arrest him when we find him. You see how I

  stand, Burke."

  "I'm with you, Joe. A story now may mean no pinch later. No pinch means I never get the real story that

  may be coming."

  "You've got it, Burke. I'm counting on you, old man. What are you going to tell the rest of the reporters

  when they show up?"

  "Leave that to me, Joe. All right if I stick around here a while?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, the boys will be in. I'll tell them you went out long ago. No grilling — nothing. Slips Harbeck is just

  another gunman."

  Cardona grinned as he rose from the desk. He shook Burke's hand, and left the office. The reporter took

  the desk and called the Classic to state that there was nothing new on the case that he was covering.

  OTHER reporters arrived while Burke was phoning. The Classic reporter told them the same story, and

  left with the crowd. But when Burke had separated from his companions, he went directly to a cigar

  store and entered a telephone booth.

  It was not the Classic office which he called this time. Instead, Clyde Burke telephoned to an office in the

  Badger Building, and conversed with an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. Briefly, Burke gave

  the facts concerning Larry Ricordo.

  Clyde Burke was smiling when he left the store. His phone call had been an answer to Cardona's

  puzzlement concerning the reporter's connection with the Classic. The detective did not know that Burke,

  as a reporter, was an agent of The Shadow.

  Through Rutledge Mann, who served as contact man by day, as Burbank served by night, the name of

  Larry Ricordo would be forwarded to The Shadow. What Cardona knew, The Shadow would know

  also.

  Joe Cardona had quizzed Slips Harbeck. Clyde Burke, in turn, had quizzed Joe Cardona Another of The

  Shadow's agents had served his master well.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE VILLAINS MOVE

  LARRY RICORDO was seated in the office above Professor Folcroft Urlich's laboratory. The gang lord

  was perturbed. Before him lay a copy of the New York Classic. The arrest of Slips Harbeck was

  mentioned with the account of Joe Cardona's discovery of a death trap in Gardner Joyce's office.

  The door opened, and Professor Urlich entered. The evil-faced scientist smiled. He had been conducting

  experiments in the laboratory while Larry Ricordo had remained upstairs.

  "Excellent progress," remarked the professor, "excellent progress, Ricordo. Do not be disgruntled

  because of last night's failure. I have evolved a plan for sure success. Do you remember how Alfred

  Sartain lay face upward upon the desk in his studio — "

  "Ready for the end?" interjected Ricordo. "Yes, I remember. But he didn't cash in his checks. That was

  when The Shadow dropped in through the skylight. I've got plenty to worry about, professor. I'm

  thinking of what's coming; not what's gone."

  The scientist's brow furrowed. Urlich noticed the newspaper in Ricordo's hands. He looked quizzically at

  the gang leader.

  "They've pinched Slips Harbeck," announced Ricordo.

  "Well?" inquired Urlich.

  "That means trouble for me," asserted the gang leader. "If Slips squawks, the dicks will be on my trail."

  "And then?"

  "That will mean The Shadow, too. He's wise enough to find out anything that they learn at headquarters."

  Professor Urlich shrugged his shoulders. The gesture annoyed Larry Ricordo.

  "That's not all," added Ricordo. "I called Grewson — the guy we've got watching Jocelyn. He tells me the

  old man is all upset."

  "Over what?"

  "Over this stuff in the newspapers. I know why, too. Jocelyn heard me mention Slips Harbeck as my

  chief gunner. The old gent had cold feet all along — now he's probably getting worse."

  PROFESSOR URLICH pondered. A cunning gleam showed in his wicked eyes.

  "Just what did Grewson say?" he inquired.

  "He said that Jocelyn has been ill," responded Ricordo. "Sick in bed— doctor coming in and giving him

  prescriptions. Grewson is taking care of him. Grewson was glad I called. He don't know what it's all

  about, but he's got a hunch that Jocelyn has something on his mind."

  "He has," commented Urlich dryly.

  "Sure he has!" blurted Ricordo. "He's got us on his mind! Look here, professor. Jocelyn was in on our

  first deal, and it flivved. Since then, he's been laying low. He's wise enough to know that we must be
r />   mixed up in these new jobs."

  "Proceed, Ricordo," mused Urlich, with a smile. "You are becoming analytical. It is an excellent sign."

  "Well," continued Ricordo, "the way I figure it is that old Jocelyn may be thinking we've ditched him. That

  sort of lets him out, doesn't it? With all this hokum in the papers, he's getting worried. He's liable to do

  something about it, isn't he?"

  "What, for instance?"

  "He's liable to squeal."

  "Certainly. That is why we have placed Grewson with him. I am pleased to learn that you called

  Grewson, Ricordo. It shows intelligence on your part."

  "Suppose Jocelyn does squeal?" insisted the gang leader. "What good is Grewson then? I tell you,

  professor, I'm worried."

  Professor Urlich closed his eyes. A meditative smile appeared upon his ugly lips.

  "Ricordo," he said thoughtfully, "I do not suppose that you are familiar with the game of chess. The pieces

  on the board are like tiny human beings. The object is to checkmate the opponent. In doing so, one

  frequently finds it wise to sacrifice a major piece.

  "So far, we have dealt chiefly with pawns. The opening game is ended. We have passed the period of

  conventional tactics. My early attempts at a checkmate failed. The time has come for more startling

  strategy."

  Larry Ricordo gaped. He wondered if the scientist had lost his mind. Then he saw the professor's eyes

  open and the brilliance of their gleam reassured the gangster.

  "Tell me" — Urlich's tone was firm—"what led the police to Slips Harbeck? How did they learn of the

  trap I had you place in Joyce's office? The underworld is your ground, Ricordo. Slips Harbeck is your

  man. Give me your theory."

  Ricordo's puffy lips spread in evil satisfaction. This was his turn to analyze. Professor Urlich was asking

  his opinion. The gang leader was pleased, especially as he was sure he had the answer.

  "There must have been two guys listening in at Red Mike's," asserted Ricordo. "One was Cliff Marsland,

  The Shadow's stool. The other must have been Joe Cardona's stool. That's why Cardona grabbed Slips

  and went to Joyce's office himself. I know the way those dicks work."

  "An agent of The Shadow," laughed Urlich, "and an agent of the police. What do you suppose those two