Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 009 - Mobsmen on the Spot

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MOBSMEN ON THE SPOT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THUGS IN THE NIGHT
? CHAPTER II. RACKETEERS DISAGREE
? CHAPTER III. A STRANGE MEETING
? CHAPTER IV. "KILLER" DURGAN
? CHAPTER V. MARSLAND MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE
? CHAPTER VI. CLIFF MAKES PROGRESS
? CHAPTER VII. MAGNATES CONFER
? CHAPTER VIII. AT THE CLUB DRURY
? CHAPTER IX. GUNS PLAY
? CHAPTER X. ERNIE COMPLETES PLANS
? CHAPTER XI. THE BLOW-OFF
? CHAPTER XII. KILLER DURGAN LEARNS THE NEWS
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW IS REPAID
? CHAPTER XIV. GRISCOM SEEKS AID
? CHAPTER XV. CRANSTON ACTS
? CHAPTER XVI. AT THE BROOKLYN DOCK
? CHAPTER XVII. THE THEATER TRAGEDY
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW KNOWS
? CHAPTER XIX. THE FINAL THREAT
? CHAPTER XX. DEATH AND THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XXI. THE FINAL RECKONING
? CHAPTER XXII. RACKETS DOOMED
CHAPTER I. THUGS IN THE NIGHT
SIX men sat sullen and silent in the old touring car as it rumbled swiftly through the night-shrouded street.
With curtains tightly drawn, the car twisted between elevated pillars, turned sharply to the right, and then,
skidding, slued about, broadside to the road, before a row of sinister-looking houses.
The heavy-set man, who sat beside the driver up front, grunted. His coat collar was turned up. His hat
was jammed over his eyes; his right hand, plunged deep in one pocket, closed tightly about a hard metal
object.
"This is good enough," he muttered.
Understandingly, the driver snapped off the ignition switch and turned off the lights.
One of the others cautiously opened a back door. "I'm gonna dump Louie," came a whisper.
The big man twisted thick shoulders, leaned back, and spoke rapidly from one side of his mouth:
"Louie stays right where he is. How you had the brains to live this long, stops me. All you gotta do is to
dump Louie here and every flatfoot in town'll be on our trail. You'll spoil the whole racket for us and for
Tim.
"It don't take more brains than these dumb cops got to figure Louie was trying to muscle into our dough.
Louie stays. You can keep him warm."
The hunch-shouldered man in back grumbled: "I don't like ridin' next to a stiff." But the door closed again
softly.
OF the six swarthy passengers in the car, five of them were alive.
Ernie, the thick-set man who was their leader, cautiously opened the door and peered out. His squinting
eyes strained to pierce the gloom. From a distance came the lonesome rumble of an elevated train. Aside
from that— silence.
He cursed under his breath. Then, an instant later, he suddenly tensed. Through the stillness he heard
faintly the exhaust of a heavy-duty truck's motor.
Ernie's eyes glittered. The three men in the rear seat shifted slightly, their ratlike faces tense, strained.
Soon headlights flashed on the stalled touring car. The brakes of the moving vehicle, a huge storage van,
ground to a halt.
From its covered driver's seat, two men leaped out. They seemed in a hurry; impatient to get the
obstructing car out the way. They shouted gruff inquiries.
"Give 'em the works," spat Ernie. Suddenly the curtained doors of the touring car swung open. The
gangsters poured out; swarmed upon the van men.
A quick scuffle; the panting sound of blows. A metal-incased fist slammed against the jaw of the larger
man, the van's driver. He slumped to the street like a wet paper bag.
The smaller man grappled with two of the gangsters, then fell as though stricken dead when a heavy
wrench crashed over his ear.
"Bust up this load!" came Ernie's low-pitched command.
The slight, wiry forms of the thugs moved swiftly, ghostlike, through the gloom. Two of them climbed into
the driver's seat; two more ran around to the rear.
A short crowbar in the hands of one of the latter pair had already been inserted at the tailboard. He
threw his weight onto it. The board creaked. And at the sound came a low exclamation of warning from
the other gangster in the rear.
He pointed to a small, low-hung sedan, drawn up to the curb within only a few feet of them. So silently
had it arrived—rolling up with a closed motor— that none of the mobsmen had observed its coming.
The thug with the crowbar turned sharply. As he did, a peculiar, sighing sound came from the half-open
rear window of the darkened car.
The gangster cried out. The crowbar clattered to the paving. He seized his wrist.
"He's got a silencer!" grunted the wounded man. "Look out -"
Again came the sigh. The injured man's partner suddenly collapsed.
Ernie ran around, dragging at his gat.
"Drop this van—get that car!" he yelled, approaching the sedan. He yanked open the door, gun raised.
The heavy-calibered pistol swished downward. But the blow was never completed.
A powerful, unseen hand had come from the darkness; steel-like fingers had grappled on Ernie's thick
wrist.
A quick, strong twist, and Ernie found himself thrown flat on his back in the street.
In the dim glare of the van's lights, a black-clad figure swung into the fray. Like a huge bat in human form,
the figure struck with his fists. At each blow, a gangster went down.
There followed a mocking laugh—eerie, sinister. The mysterious interloper had disappeared into
nothingness. But the small, low-hung sedan was coursing away as noiselessly as it had earlier arrived.
Ernie rose to his knees in time to see the shadowlike car gliding swiftly away.
As if hypnotized, Ernie swayed, the memory of that mocking laugh still stinging his ears. But there came
then a more earthly sound to spur the gangster into action.
The shrill alarm of a police whistle!
Ernie struggled to his feet. He rested a moment on the fender of the van, then, hands deep in pockets,
hatbrim pulled down, he walked off, not too hurriedly, in the opposite direction from whence had come
the warning blast.
He knew that those gorillas—lying senseless in the street— wouldn't talk—if they wanted to take up
living again.
CHAPTER II. RACKETEERS DISAGREE
THE Hotel Spartan was an old, third-class hostelry that stood near the edge of the lower East Side. It
had been many years since the place had known its palmy days. It was surrounded by low, dilapidated
buildings, and the elevated railroad ran in front of its grimy windows.
A heavy-set man walked through the door. He noted the loungers standing about the lobby, then started
up the rubber-treaded stairs. Had he paused to glance through the broad window of the lobby he might
have seen a shadowy form melt into the darkness.
At the fourth floor he stopped in front of the door of a room and knocked softly.
"Who's there?" came a whispered voice.
"Ernie," the visitor replied.
The door opened, and Ernie stepped inside. The door closed behind him.
A few moments later, there was a movement in the hallway outside the closed door. For a brief instant,
the form of a human being came into view— then it disappeared; a shadowy figure that went back
toward the stairway that led to the ground floor.
Inside the hotel room, two men faced each other amidst a gloomy light. They formed a strange pair, in the
setting of an antiquated sitting room, with its few rickety chairs, and box couch in the corner.
"What's the matter, Ernie?" demanded the tall, rugged man who had been in the room. "What's happened
to you?"
"Nothing, Tim!" Ernie growled in reply. "Nothing that matters! Give me a shot! I want to talk to you!"
Tim led the way to an inner room, leaving the door open.
This room was small. It contained a desk, two chairs, and a safe. On the desk was a typewriter. Beside it
lay a pile of stationery that bore the heading: "Storage Warehouse Security Association."
The man called Ernie reached out as the other poured him a drink of liquor. He swallowed the fluid at a
single gulp.
"Sit down a minute, Tim," he said.
Tim corked the bottle angrily and obeyed. He looked on in amazement while Ernie turned out the light, so
that only the dim glow from the other room remained.
Tim watched while Ernie cautiously raised the blind of the window and peered downward into the
blackness of the alley. Then he lowered the blind and turned on the light.
"What's the lay, Ernie?" demanded Tim.
"If you want to know," growled the visitor, "I'll tell you! The Tim Waldron storage racket took it on the
chin tonight!"
"Yeah?" There was menace in Waldron's tone. "Yeah? What was the matter with Ernie Shires, the guy
that has the tough gorillas?"
"There's nothing the matter with me," retorted Shires. "But when it comes to them gorillas, they're
yours—not mine! You can have the bunch of 'em at a dime apiece, so far as I'm concerned!"
Waldron leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows narrowed as he threw his cigar butt in a corner and
drew another stogie from his pocket.
For a moment, his eyes were menacing; then his voice became smooth.
"Spill it, Ernie," he said.
SHIRES looked at him suspiciously. He walked across the room and leaned against the wall. The
paleness had gone from his face. The hardness of his features was more pronounced.
"Before you begin," said Waldron quietly, "I'd better remind you what I told you to-night. Remember?
I've been paying you one grand a week, waiting for something where I'd need you.
"I kept you out of the collecting end because I smelled trouble, and didn't want you mixed up too heavy
in the legit side of the business. Those gorillas—well, I supplied the dough for them—but you picked
them. Don't forget that!"
"Well, I got a bum steer, that's all," said Ernie sullenly. "I know this racket, Tim. It may be a new one, but
you're running it like a lot of other guys. Collecting the dough from all these two-by-four storage houses.
Making 'em keep their prices the same. Each one to his own territory.
"Soft, wasn't it, the way they fell in line! Until this one guy— Burton Brooks—tells you it's all off, and
gets a few other small fry to do the same.
"So you frame it nice. All set to knock off one of the Brooks vans. Slug the driver and the van man.
Make them quit, and scare the rest of them. Start the dough coming in again. Simple, ain't it?"
"Simple is right," replied Waldron. "And let me tell you something, tough guy! Those van men are
unionized, and I've been chiseling in on their outfit.
"They think a lot of their hides, those guys, and with one reason to walk out on Brooks, they'd do it!
That's why I told you to have the gorillas slug them. Did they do it?"
"They started to, but -"
"But what?" Tim Waldron's growl was as emphatic as that of his visitor.
"Some guy butted in and smeared the job!" replied Shires.
"How many guys?" quizzed Waldron incredulously.
"One guy!"
"And you had your mob there?"
"Yeah! But this guy sneaked up on us. Had a gun with a silencer. Clipped the whole mob—all but me."
"One guy, huh!" sneered Waldron. "That sounds fishy to me—and you sound yellow!"
ERNIE SHIRES leaped forward from the wall. Tim Waldron rose to meet him. For a few moments the
men glared at each other.
Then Shires turned suddenly and walked back across the room. Waldron, viciously chewing the end of
his cigar, resumed his seat.
"So you lay down on the job!" said Waldron disdainfully. "Went out to slug two guys and smash up a
van. One bird cleans you and your mob! Tough bunch of gorillas you've got!"
Shires clenched his fists, but made no reply.
"I'm going to tell you what this means," said Waldron coldly. "You think it means the end of my
racket—that's what you suggested when you came in here. Well, it don't! Get that, tough guy? It means
the end of you! That's all!
"It's putting me in a tough spot, because once a job like this flops, the suckers get cocky, and it takes a
lot of teaching to get them back where they were. Now they'll be on the lookout for trouble. They're
going to get it, just the same!
"The storage racket will be bigger than it ever was, when I'm through with them!"
"Yeah?" responded Shires. He was challenging now. "Well, half your mob got smashed to-night. But I'm
game! I'm ready, too! I'll get busy with the rest of the mob!"
"Listen, tough guy!" said Waldron. "You said these were my gorillas. You're right! They are! Ten of
them—that you know about.
"But I've been holding out on you. I've got twenty more and they're tough! Dock wallopers, some of
them. Brooks is going to get it, and so are his pals! Quick, too!
"I know this racket; and it'll be dead if I let it ride ten days. Then none of them will pay!
"But they're all going to pay! I'm giving them the works—turning my whole mob loose. One man at the
head of all of them. How do you like that?"
A thin, wolfish smile crept over the face of Ernie Shires. His animosity was forgotten. He scented big jobs
ahead, with more pay if he should prove successful.
"You're giving me all of 'em, eh?" he asked. "That's the stuff, Tim! That's the stuff! We'll knock 'em off!
And I'm out to get that guy that queered things to-night, too!"
"You think you know who he is?"
Ernie's triumphant expression faded suddenly. He glanced again toward the window. He approached Tim
Waldron and sat in a chair close to the racketeer.
"Listen, Tim"—Ernie's voice was low—"this guy was dressed all in black. All in black—get me?"
"Mourning for somebody, I guess," came the sarcastic reply.
"All in black," repeated Shires. "And when he left—he laughed!"
"No wonder. He had plenty to laugh about!"
"I'm serious, Tim! This ain't no joke!
"There's only one guy could fight like he did—only one guy who could laugh like that. And if he's trying to
hurt your racket, you'll need all them gorillas you're going to give me. All of 'em!"
"Why?"
"Because I think that guy was The Shadow!"
Tim Waldron leaned back and laughed. He glanced at Ernie Shires, and when he saw his henchman's
serious expression, Tim laughed again.
"You been hearing that stuff, too?" he questioned. "A guy in black called The Shadow? Baloney!"
"He's real, all right, Tim!"
"Yeah! Real enough to frighten kids on the radio and to jump in on snow sniffers that see things half the
time.
"But if he's out to muss up any rackets, he's due for a fade-out! And if he's beginning with mine, he's all
wet! Get me?"
SHIRES nodded, only half convinced. Tim Waldron detected the man's lukewarm expression. He was
about to reply when a telephone buzzed beside the desk. Waldron answered it.
"All right," said the racketeer, over the phone. "Tell him to wait exactly ten minutes. Then come up and
walk in. Understand?"
He hung up the receiver and looked at Shires.
"Ever hear of Cliff Marsland?" he asked.
"You mean the guy that was sent up for that Brooklyn bank robbery, a few years ago?"
"That's the one!"
"Yeah. I've heard of him."
"Well, he's out of the Big House now. He's downstairs and he's coming up to see me."
"Yeah?" Shires spoke in a menacing tone as he leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms in front of
him. "What about?"
"If he's the guy I want—and I think he is"—Waldron's tones were cold and calculating—"he's going to
draw one grand a week as the big gun of my gorillas."
"Which means -"
"That you're through, Yellow!
"To-night ain't the first trouble I've had. Somebody's been trying to chisel in on my racket. Telling the
suckers to lay off me.
"I've got the goods on this guy Marsland. He'll be working for more than that one grand a week. He'll be
doing what I tell him, so he can keep out of the Big House! Get me? He's the guy that I want!
"There's only one man that can keep this racket of mine going, and that's myself! With the right guy
working with me, it's going to be bigger than ever!
"Tim Waldron knows his own racket, and when he finds a guy that's yellow, like Ernie Shires, he -"
The sentence was never completed. As Waldron leaned toward the desk, Shires suspected something in
his action.
Like a flash, Ernie's hand came from beneath his coat. His arm shot forward, and the muzzle of his
automatic was buried against Waldron's body. There were two muffled reports. The storage racketeer
sprawled forward upon the desk.
Ernie Shires laughed sullenly. He thrust his automatic into his pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he
withdrew the weapon, wiped the handle, and dropped it on the table beside Waldron's body.
"So you've got your gorillas!" he said, in a low, sarcastic tone, addressing the inert form of the racketeer.
"That's why there were some new mugs in the lobby to-night!
"You're up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who's been spotted by your gang! Well,
let him come! See what happens to him!"
Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the
vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title:
"Storage Warehouse Security Association."
Tim Waldron's racket—which only he could control—was now no more than a name, and even that
name was now being literally blotted out with blood!
There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the
window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the
shaky old building.
The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.
CHAPTER III. A STRANGE MEETING
THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron's little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the
departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.
He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly
seated himself and lighted a cigarette.
The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to
Tim Waldron's headquarters.
He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not
have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.
His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and
well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the
gangster.
Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.
It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York's underworld. Eight years is a
long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!
As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed
accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.
When he had flicked the final cigarette into a bowl that served as an ash tray, Marsland noted the clock
on the table. He had been waiting ten minutes. He arose and glanced at the half-opened door that led to
the inner room. He stepped over and tapped on the door. Hearing no response, he entered. He stopped
short the moment that he stepped through the doorway. Neither surprise nor confusion were registered
upon his firm features. Marsland merely stood motionless as he stared at the form of Tim Waldron, with
its crazily spread arms.
Marsland's eyes were focused on that one spot in the room. He walked forward and examined the body
with the cold precision of a man to whom death is no stranger.
He picked up the automatic that lay on the table. He examined the weapon in a matter-of-fact manner,
then replaced it upon the table.
A low sound came from the end of the room. Marsland turned without haste.
Once more he stood motionless. In the corner of the room, at a spot where the light was obscure, stood
a tall man clad in black. He formed a strange, imposing figure, with a huge cloak over his shoulders. His
broad-brimmed hat, turned down in front, shrouded his face in shadow.
The only color that showed amidst this mass of black was a splotch of red, where the lining of the cloak
was folded back. The crimson hue of the lining rivaled the blood that covered the desk where Tim
Waldron's body lay.
CLIFF MARSLAND made no move. He did not even attempt to reach for the gun that lay on the desk.
He studied the man in black with a steady glance.
For a few moments neither moved. Then Marsland calmly slipped his hand into his left coat pocket. He
drew forth a cigarette, and lighted it.
A low, chuckling laugh came from the man in the corner. For the first time, Marsland was startled. The
match dropped from his fingers.
He suddenly regained his composure and stepped upon the lighted match.
The man in black stepped from the corner. He extended an arm and waved a black-gloved hand in the
direction of a chair. Marsland sat down. He still puffed his cigarette, but a puzzled expression had
appeared upon his face.
The puzzlement was mingled with awe. He began to feel uneasy. He could see no face beneath that
broad-brimmed hat—only the glint of two eyes that seemed to fathom everything.
"You are Cliff Marsland," spoke a whispered voice.
Marsland nodded.
"Why did you come here?" asked the man in black.
Marsland pointed his thumb toward the body of Tim Waldron.
"To see him," he said tersely.
"For what purpose?" came the question.
Marsland shrugged his shoulders.
A low laugh came from beneath the broad-brimmed hat. Even to Marsland, the laugh was chilling. He
shifted uneasily and stared narrowly at his inquisitor.
"Cliff Marsland!" said the whispered voice. "That was not your name - fourteen years ago—when you
were overseas -"
Marsland stared incredulously as the voice trailed away. He moved slightly in his chair, seeking to gain a
new angle from which to view the man in black. He was unsuccessful.
"Perhaps," said the voice, "you remember the village of Esternay, in the Spring of '18 or, perhaps, that
trip to Monte Carlo, three weeks after the Armistice? Do you recall Blanton, the Frenchman -"
Marsland half rose from his chair, his hands gripping the arms, his face suddenly tense, his body rigid with
suppressed excitement.
"Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely. "Who are you?"
A low, whispered laugh was the only response. Its sibilant sound seemed to come from the walls, from
the floor, from the ceiling—as if the room itself were taunting the listener. Marsland sank back in his
chair.
"Like yourself," came the low voice, "I am a man whose name has been forgotten. We shall speak no
more of years gone by. You are now Clifford Marsland. I am"—the voice halted impressively—"The
Shadow!"
"The Shadow!" echoed Marsland.
"Yes! You have never met me in my present guise. For I began my new career while you were in -"
"Sing Sing," supplied Marsland.
"In Sing Sing," said The Shadow. "There—for a robbery you did not commit!"
CLIFF MARSLAND raised his head in sudden surprise.
"How do you know that?" he questioned. "I made no defense. I never denied it—I never -"
The low voice of The Shadow interrupted him.
"The fact that I know is sufficient," came in his even tones. "Nor is that all I know.
"There was another crime a greater one—a murder—which has also been attributed to you. Not by the
police, for they do not know; but by the underworld, whose secrets belong to The Shadow!"
Marsland nodded, still staring at the man in black.
"You came here," said The Shadow, "because you were summoned. Tim Waldron knew your secret. He
used it as a threat over your head. He believed you to be a murderer as well as a convicted robber.
"He did not know what I know—that you bore one crime for the sake of another man; that you would
also accept the other if it should be blamed upon you!"
The man in the chair moved restlessly. These revelations were uncanny. He stared at the man in black;
then gazed toward the figure sprawled upon the desk. It became his turn to question.
"You did—that?" he asked, pointing toward Waldron.
"No," replied The Shadow. "It was intended for you! It was the irony of fate, Clifford Marsland, that
another crime should be planned so that it might be laid to you.
"Once again, you are a murderer—by proxy!"
Marsland gazed hopelessly at the form of Waldron.
"You came here"—the voice of The Shadow seemed far away to the listener —"reconciled to a life of
crime. You were ready to do Waldron's bidding—to cast in your lot with criminals, for you had been
branded as one.
"You are bitter because of the past. You are willing to accept any future, if it brings you gain. So I offer
you—a future!"
"Like the one Waldron had for me?"
"No! Not for the cause of crime!"
"For the cause of justice, then?" Marsland laughed bitterly. "For justice? I would prefer crime!"
"For neither crime nor justice!" came the low voice. "Your future lies in the cause of The Shadow! To do
my bidding will be your one task. Do you accept?"
A strange light gleamed in Clifford Marsland's eyes as he turned his gaze upon the man in black. The
room and its surroundings seemed unreal.
摘要：

MOBSMENONTHESPOTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THUGSINTHENIGHT?CHAPTERII.RACKETEERSDISAGREE?CHAPTERIII.ASTRANGEMEETING?CHAPTERIV."KILLER"DURGAN?CHAPTERV.MARSLANDMAKESANACQUAINTANCE?CHAPTERVI.CLIFFMAKESPROGRESS?CHAPTERVII.MAGNATESCONFER?CHAPTERVIII...

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