Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 039 - Road of Crime

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ROAD OF CRIME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A GENTLEMAN OF CRIME
? CHAPTER II. THE BIG SHOT
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW'S PART
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW VISIBLE
? CHAPTER V. THE WARNING
? CHAPTER VI. THE BIG SHOT SPEAKS
? CHAPTER VII. CHANCE INTERVENES
? CHAPTER VIII. MOBSMEN CHOOSE
? CHAPTER IX. A MAN FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER X. THE SAMARITAN
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW SUSPECTS
? CHAPTER XII. DELKIN CONFIDES
? CHAPTER XIII. THE ROBBERY
? CHAPTER XIV. BIRDS OF A FEATHER
? CHAPTER XV. A FAMILY REUNION
? CHAPTER XVI. GRAHAM STATES FACTS
? CHAPTER XVII. MISGAINED MILLIONS
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE PAST RISES
? CHAPTER XIX. THE DEMAND
? CHAPTER XX. THE ANSWER
? CHAPTER XXI. THE PLOT BREAKS
? CHAPTER XXII. THE SHADOW'S DEED
? CHAPTER XXIII. A NEW ALLY
? CHAPTER XXIV. GUNS SPEAK
? CHAPTER XXV. THE STRAIGHT ROAD
CHAPTER I. A GENTLEMAN OF CRIME
"UXTRY! Uxtry! Read about the big bank holdups!"
Graham Wellerton stopped as he heard the newsboy's cry. He proffered a few pennies and received the
final edition of a New York evening newspaper. He glanced at the headlines as he walked along in the
bright illumination of Forty-second Street, then thrust the sheet under his arm as he entered a subway
kiosk.
While he waited on the platform for an uptown local, Graham Wellerton again surveyed the headlines.
His eyes ran rapidly down the columns.
After a few short minutes of swift perusal, the man quickly learned that no new clews had been gained by
the police relative to the crimes that had struck at noon that day.
Subway riders were reading their newspapers with avid interest when Graham Wellerton boarded his
local and took a seat in a corner. His own newspaper tucked under his arm, Graham surveyed the
composite crowd in the car and wondered what their varied reactions might be concerning the chief news
of the day.
For New York sensation seekers had been treated to a contrast. The columns in the evening journals
were, in themselves, food for a grim debate on crime.
Was crime profitable? One news account said no; the other said yes.
Two hordes of bank bandits had struck at noon, in different parts of Manhattan. Those who had invaded
the Parkerside Trust Company had been routed in a spontaneous fray which had left half a dozen
mobsters dead and wounded. But those who had entered the Terminal National Bank had gained swift
success. With the aid of tear gas, they had eliminated tellers and bank patrons. The robbers had escaped
unscathed with thousands of dollars in currency.
STUDYING his fellow passengers, Graham Wellerton placed them in two definite classes. One group,
he felt, consisted of those who gloried in the victory over crime - who gained high satisfaction in the
outcome of the fray at the Parkerside Trust.
The others, Graham decided, were those who held a secret envy for robbers who had looted the
Terminal National and had made so perfect a get-away.
Idly, Graham played a game of human analysis. He noted the people who were reading about the
thwarted robbery. Most of them possessed an air of stability. Those who were eagerly perusing the
accounts of the successful raid, however, were curious, bitter-faced individuals who seemed to gloat in
the knowledge that wrongdoers had gained a momentary triumph.
In considering those whom he thus classified, Graham Wellerton adopted an odd neutrality so far as he
himself was concerned. Had he included himself, he would undoubtedly have placed himself in the select
category. In dress, appearance and manner, Graham was the most distinctive occupant of the subway
car.
Tall, handsome and dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, Graham had the appearance of a polished
man-about-town as he sauntered from the car when the train stopped at an uptown station.
But the smile upon his face was reminiscent. Not so many hours before, Graham Wellerton, in another
subway car, had represented an opposite class of society. Then he had been wearing baggy trousers,
heavy sweater and checkered cap.
Graham was still smiling as he tossed his newspaper into a trash receptacle. The accounts of the bank
holdups had included descriptions of just such individuals as he had been at noon this very day. Evening
had brought the present transformation.
So far as the bank holdups were concerned, Graham's neutrality was one of balance. He was pleased
that the attempt upon the Parkerside Trust had failed; he was glad that the Terminal National robbery had
been successful. For Graham knew something that the police did not suspect: namely, that both raids had
been ordered by one master of crime.
Two lieutenants had been employed, each the leader of a band of marauders. One - "Wolf" Daggert -
had failed at the Parkerside Trust. His minions had been overpowered, his own escape had been a
matter of luck.
The other - Graham Wellerton - had succeeded at the Terminal National. By cool strategy and swift
action, he had gained his end without the loss of a single henchman.
No longer the rowdy that he had appeared to be by day, Graham Wellerton, in his gentlemanly guise,
hailed a taxicab as he stepped from the subway.
Lounging in the back seat, he lighted a cigarette and, amid the puffs of smoke, emitted soft chuckles.
From a position as a lesser gangster, he had risen to a lieutenancy which equaled that of Wolf Daggert.
Today, he had shown his superiority over Wolf.
Graham Wellerton was anxious to hear what the big shot would have to say. That was his mission tonight
- a visit to the big shot. From now on, Graham would rate above Wolf Daggert. The big shot liked
smooth workers.
Yet the smile of triumph upon Graham's face was sour at the corners. Despite the proficiency which he
had shown in crime, this handsome young man was not overpleased with his calling.
THE cab pulled up at a huge apartment house. Graham Wellerton, his face no longer showing traces of
satisfaction, alighted and paid the driver.
Wellerton strolled into the lobby, approached the doorman and inquired if Mr. Furzman were at home.
The doorman asked the visitor's name, made a short call over the apartment telephone and ushered
Graham to the elevator.
The car stopped at the fourteenth floor. Graham stepped out and approached a doorway at the end of a
short corridor.
The door was ajar. A stocky, iron-jawed individual opened it without a single word. Graham Wellerton
entered and waited until the door was closed.
"Hello, Gouger," he said to the stocky-faced man. "Is King Furzman ready to see me now?"
Gouger nodded. He opened a door at the right of the little anteroom in which they were standing, and
motioned the visitor to enter. Graham walked through the doorway; Gouger followed and closed the
door behind him.
The anteroom remained silent. A small, gloomy chamber with three doors, it served only as an entry. It
was the appointed spot where Gouger, bodyguard to "King" Furzman, awaited visitors who were
announced.
Now that one visitor had entered, there was no occasion for Gouger to remain until another call came
from the downstairs lobby. But during that interim, an unexpected visitor was due to make his
appearance.
Scarcely had the door at the anteroom closed behind Gouger and Graham Wellerton before the knob of
the door from the corridor began to make a slow turn. Something clicked softly in the lock. The door
moved inward.
A figure entered the anteroom. The door closed behind the silent visitor. Within the range of light stood
the tall form of a spectral visitant who had entered here despite the fact that the door was securely
locked.
This being was completely clad in black. His principal garb was a long, flowing cloak, that gave his form
a grotesque shape. The upturned collar of the cloak obscured the stranger's features.
Above the cloak, the silent visitor was wearing a broad-brimmed slouch hat which completely hid his
forehead. The dull light of the anteroom showed only the eyes of the mysterious arrival. From beneath the
hat brim, a pair of blazing orbs shone with sinister gleam as they peered toward the two doors that led
into the apartment.
Like an apparition, this weird stranger had followed Graham Wellerton into King Furzman's abode.
Merged with the darkness at the far end of the corridor, the black-cloaked phantom had been waiting for
someone to arrive.
Neither Graham Wellerton nor Gouger had detected his uncanny presence; neither was aware that The
Shadow, master of the night, had observed their meeting at the opened door!
THE SHADOW!
Spectral figure of darkness, he was one who sought the spots where crime was fostered. A master of
mystery, his very name was terror to the underworld! A lone wolf who battled the hordes of crookdom,
a supersleuth whose prowess of investigation knew no equal, The Shadow had entered here to learn
facts concerning bold crime.
The gleaming eyes spied the door upon the right. A soft, whispered laugh came eerily from unseen lips.
The tall form glided across the carpeted floor and reached the closed door. A black-gloved hand slowly
turned the knob. The door yielded.
Peering through a narrow crevice, The Shadow spied an empty room, which was almost totally dark.
The one source of illumination came from a narrow archway which was hung with heavy curtains.
Beyond that was a room lighted by floor lamps - a condition which signified that someone was present
there.
The Shadow entered the gloomy room and silently closed the door behind him. His tall form was totally
obscured as it clung to darkness in its path toward the heavy curtains. Only the slight swish of the black
cloak was audible.
The Shadow halted when he reached the curtains. His weird shape merged with a hanging drapery.
The eyes of The Shadow peered into the room beyond. They spied one man - Graham Wellerton. The
visitor, his coat, hat, and cane laid aside, was seated in an easy chair, smoking a cigarette.
A handsome face, above the peaked points of a Tuxedo collar - that was the visage which The Shadow
saw. Graham Wellerton, tonight, was a gentleman of crime. As such, he was awaiting the arrival of the
big shot - the man whom he called King Furzman.
Graham Wellerton's eyes, steady despite their idle appearance, were fixed upon a door at the opposite
side of this reception room - the spot from which the young man knew King Furzman would enter.
Intent in thought, Graham Wellerton gave no attention to the draperies at the archway. He did not see the
blotting patch of darkness that crept slowly inward from the other room and became an unmoving blotch
upon the floor.
That single sign of The Shadow's presence was motionless as The Shadow waited. An interview was in
the making - an important conference between Graham Wellerton and his superior, King Furzman.
The ears of The Shadow would listen, unsuspected, to whatever might be said; and in the meantime, the
eyes of The Shadow were gazing sternly upon Graham Wellerton, the gentleman of crime!
CHAPTER II. THE BIG SHOT
THE door at the opposite side of the room opened. A stout, dark-haired man stepped into view.
Graham Wellerton arose from his chair and smiled in greeting. The other man grinned broadly and gave
acknowledgment with a slight wave of his hand. Graham sat down and the stout man took a chair
opposite him.
Graham Wellerton, gentleman of crime, was face to face with King Furzman, racketeer and big shot,
whose word was law to skulking hordes of evil mobsters.
King Furzman, like his visitor, was attired in Tuxedo. But where Graham's clothes were smoothly fitting,
Furzman's, despite the efforts of the big shot's tailors, were rumpled and misshapen. Furzman's stiff shirt
was bulging and his fat bull neck stuck turtlelike from his upright collar.
The difference in the faces of the two men was apparent. Graham Wellerton did not have the expression
of a crook. King Furzman, though he sought to maintain a frank and friendly expression, could not hide
the brutal, selfish characteristics that were a latent part of his physiognomy.
This meeting was one, however, that could have but a single outcome - an expression of approval on the
part of King Furzman. Confident in that knowledge, Graham Wellerton adopted an attitude of easy
indifference and waited for the big shot to begin the conversation.
"Good work, Wellerton," began Furzman. "You pulled a clean job today. The best part of it was the way
you slipped the swag to Gouger, where he was waiting for you. He could have walked here with it."
"Certainly," agreed Graham. "We made a perfect get-away. I could have come here with the dough
myself - but you wanted me to pass it to Gouger instead, so, I did."
"Well, it's tucked away here," returned Furzman, "and you'll get your cut of the dough any time you're
ready for it."
"Better hold it for me," said Graham nonchalantly. "I'm not broke - and I can collect later on."
"You've got me beat, Wellerton," admitted the big shot. "Wolf Daggert always hollered for his split right
after the job was done. You don't seem to worry about it."
"Why should I?" questioned Graham. "I've got good enough security."
"How?"
"The cash that's coming in the next job," replied Graham suavely. "It will be bigger than this one."
"Say" - Furzman's growl voiced his approval - "that's the way to talk. I like to hear it because I know you
mean it. Wolf never talks that way; howls for his split - that's all he does."
"But he won't howl tonight," asserted Graham.
KING FURZMAN scowled as he heard the words. His face showed disapproval of Graham
Wellerton's comment. After a moment of consideration, the big shot voiced his thoughts.
"What's the idea of that crack, Wellerton?" he questioned. "The way you spoke, it sounded as though
you're glad Wolf Daggert flopped on the job today. Have I got you right?"
"You have," retorted Graham, in a direct tone. "The sooner you find out that Wolf Daggert is a has-been,
the better it will be for you - and therefore for me. Figure it out for yourself, King. I pulled a sweet job
today - Wolf Daggert made a total failure."
"All right. What about it?"
"Wolf has his gang. I have mine. Both outfits are yours. Therefore, there is a connection. Some of my
crowd may know the fellows who were killed down at the Parkerside Trust. Is that going to improve my
chances of future success?"
"No," admitted King Furzman.
"You're right it's not!" declared Graham. "What's more, it's put a crimp in the whole works. Bank tellers -
watchmen - cops - they'll all be chesty now. They'll talk about the way the mob was stopped at the
Parkerside Trust."
King Furzman began to nod. Graham Wellerton had gained his point. Yet the big shot was not entirely
satisfied.
"Wolf Daggert is an old hand," he remarked. "He pulled some good jobs on his own - and he started out
well when he began to work for me. I don't like to give him the gate, just because of this flop."
"Wolf is inefficient," asserted Graham, rising to his feet. "I knew it when I worked with him. He was lucky
to get by as long as he did. He counted on me to help him, but never gave me the credit that was coming
to me. You found out where I stood. You gave me my own mob. You've seen what I can do.
"Listen, King. When a crowd goes in to stick up a bank, everything depends on teamwork. It's a matter
of seconds. You get the jump on the people there or they get the jump on you.
"The Parkerside Trust should have been a set-up today. The tough job was the Terminal National - I
that's why Wolf let me take it. The odds were with him - the odds were against me. I came through and
Wolf didn't."
"The tear gas was a great stunt."
"Certainly. Wolf could have used it on his job, but he didn't show any brain work."
"I can't let Wolf out."
"I'm not asking you to. But I'm telling you this, King: while Wolf is working in New York, I'm not!"
The big shot surveyed his lieutenant narrowly. His fat lips took on an ugly leer.
"You're thinking of quitting, eh?" questioned Furzman. "Figuring maybe you'd better take it soft -"
"Forget that stuff," interposed Graham. "I'm not through. I'm going somewhere else - that's all. Some
place where the pickings will be as soft as in New York - some place where Wolf Daggert can't crimp
my game."
King Furzman drew a fat cigar from his pocket and bit off the end of the perfecto while he continued to
stare at Graham Wellerton.
"All right," growled the big shot. "Where are you going?"
"I'll tell you tomorrow night," said Graham. "I've got a couple of cities in mind - and I'll decide after I've
thought it over."
"Yeah? How do I know you'll be sticking with me?"
"Your men will be with me."
"Well - that's a point -"
"And you've tucked away your security. You owe me a split, don't you? All right; I won't ask for it until I
come back with some more."
King Furzman began to nod again. Graham Wellerton's arguments had been effective. The young man
watched the big shot and waited for the psychological moment to speak further. The time came.
"King," said Wellerton quietly, "you're cagy. You've got to be, in your game. You deal with an ordinary
lot of crooks, like Wolf Daggert. But I'm different. I didn't choose crime as a profession. It was thrust on
me.
"I like to talk man to man. I know how you're situated, even though you've never told me. You prefer
rackets to crime - but the rackets were getting you in trouble. Not with the police, but with other
racketeers. So you went in for crime.
"You're backing a bunch of bank robbers. You took on Wolf Daggert. I came with him. You figured I
could run a crowd of my own and double up on the gravy.
"You're covering up very neatly. You don't want to quit. I don't blame you. You've treated me square
enough - because it's profitable. I'm sticking because I'm in the game of crime. I'm working for you -
therefore I'm thinking of your interests.
"I want a free hand outside of New York. It will be better for you because I'm at a distance. It will be
better for me because I'll be clear of Wolf Daggert."
HAD an ordinary henchman talked in this manner, King Furzman would have boiled over in rage. But he
sensed from Graham Wellerton's tone that the lieutenant was working for a sensible understanding.
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 get-away 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?"
摘要：

ROADOFCRIMEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AGENTLEMANOFCRIME?CHAPTERII.THEBIGSHOT?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOW'SPART?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOWVISIBLE?CHAPTERV.THEWARNING?CHAPTERVI.THEBIGSHOTSPEAKS?CHAPTERVII.CHANCEINTERVENES?CHAPTERVIII.MOBSMENCHOOSE?CHAPTERIX.A...

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