Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 278 - Crime Caravan

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CRIME CARAVAN
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
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? XIX.
I.
HAPPY JACK began peeling the bank-roll the moment the big blue job swerved into the buying lot.
Fifteen hundred dollars was a safe bet for a first glance appraisal, and to wave the cash with the offer
was the set system of Happy Jack Smiley. "If you want jack, see Jack" was the slogan that went with
Smiley's inch-square photograph in all the used car want-ads.
So there was Happy Jack with his famous gold-toothed grin right beneath the big banner that stretched
across the double-lane entrance to the lot where cars rolled in and out as fast as he could buy and sell
them. Just by way of identification Happy Jack had a portrait of himself painted on the banner that bore
his name. Usually drivers stopped when they saw the man who tallied with the chromo.
This driver didn't.
He veered the de luxe coupe toward Happy Jack in a manner that meant mayhem. Those legs of Jack's
were faster than their rotund bulk betrayed, otherwise Happy wouldn't have escaped the menace. As it
was, he cleared the wooden curb of the lot with a few feet to spare and the car, encountering the barrier,
jounced along inside it.
A junk trailer blocked the path and Happy Jack expected the blue coupe to bowl in broadside upon the
station wagon that stood next in line. Instead the crash proved mild, nothing more than a clatter that
dented the trailer and stalled the coupe. Muttering something about woman drivers, Happy Jack hurried
over expecting to tell one what he thought of her.
It wasn't a woman behind the wheel of the coupe. The limp figure was a man, and his face was tilted
sideways against the glass of the front window with an open-mouthed expression of a fish coming up for
air.
Fish-eyed too, those glazed things that stared sightlessly from a face that Happy Jack knew too well.
The man was Larry Saugus and he was very dead.
Shoving the bank-roll in his pocket, Happy Jack stepped around the stalled car and waved for Clip
Rowley, who had come from the office across the lot in answer to the clatter. Seeing that no cars were
coming through the entrance, Happy Jack took time to show Clip the exhibit.
"Remember him, Clip?"
Happy Jack put the query with his customary smile, but Clip didn't catch any humor from the
gold-toothed gleam. In response, Clip's long face took on a mournful air that befitted his solemn nod.
"Saugus was one of those phone bidders," remarked Happy Jack. "They usually pick up a used buy for
themselves when the racket begins to fold. Only they generally try to sell out first."
Another nod from Clip.
"Guess Saugus thought he could swap this blue job for something in the lot," continued Happy Jack, "and
take along some cash difference in his favor. He was talking that way when I saw him last."
Clip's face underwent a contortion as he leaned forward for a closer look at the dead man. Momentarily
his expression appeared one of sympathy but it proved to be the shifting of a tobacco cud so that he
could speak. All Clip asked was:
"What done him in?"
"Monoxide," replied Happy Jack, blandly. "It always gets them that way." He reached for the door
handle, jiggled it and finally gave it a powerful wrench. "Try the inside, Clip, and see if you can get the
window down."
With those comments, Happy Jack caught the spilling body of Larry Saugus as the door came open.
Holding the victim, he watched Clip tug Larry's dead fist from the inner handle on which it had a
determined grip. That handle wouldn't yield when Clip tried it, nor would the window come down. Going
around to the other side of the car, Clip wrenched open the far door and found the same problems of a
locked inside handle and a frozen window.
Meanwhile Happy Jack wasn't idle. Still propping the dead man, he went through the latter's pockets in
professional style, coming out with contents that he transferred to his own. His final move was doubly
efficient; giving the body an upward twist, he balanced it long enough to search the final pockets, then let
it flop to Clip's side of the car. With a swing of his hand, Happy Jack stabbed a button that was
projecting from the dashboard to stop a whirr that was coming from underneath.
The whirr didn't stop.
"Bum heater," commented Happy Jack. "Saugus was just too dumb to think about it. No more mono
coming through now that the motor is stopped. It got him quick though, before it was supposed to."
Clip nodded in matter-of-fact acceptance of Happy Jack's professional knowledge of the odd quirks of
cars.
"Fix those handles," ordered Happy Jack. "Get the windows down and put the hush on the heater. I'll be
over in the office."
In roundabout style Happy Jack sauntered through the gathering dusk, passing the entrance of the lot just
to make sure that no customers were coming his way. Finishing his detour, he entered the office and
began to examine the residue of Larry's pockets.
Outside of a few bills that Happy Jack added to his own healthy roll, the only thing of interest was a card
that bore the title:
CROSS-COUNTRY DELIVERY ASSOCIATION
The card bore the statement that the bearer, name left blank, was an authorized driver of the association
and entitled to all privileges upon duplication of the signature to be affixed on the card. There was a serial
number stamped in the corner and it read "028."
About to drop the card into the desk drawer, Happy Jack paused as a car wheeled up in front of the
office. Thinking that Clip had completed a rapid repair job, Happy Jack stepped out to meet him, still
holding the card in hand.
An instant later, Happy Jack was thrusting the card away and bringing out the roll of bills. This wasn't the
coupe that had brought Larry Saugus; that car was still across the lot, with Clip working at the windows.
This was a convertible roadster that had rolled into the lot, bringing Happy Jack a customer who for once
wasn't wanted.
"Seven-fifty," announced Happy Jack, mistaking the car for a year later than it actually was. "Cash on the
line, step right in here and get it."
Happy Jack could tell that the man in the car was staring from the driver's side, wondering what was
going on across the lot. Smiley wanted to bring the fellow's attention his own way to end any curiosity
regarding Clip Rowley. The offer of seven-fifty produced an electric effect, for a young man came
bounding out the right side of the car with the astonished query:
"You said what?"
"Seven hundred and fifty dollars," repeated Happy Jack, brandishing the money toward the office door.
"Step inside and we'll close the deal. Got the owner's card and the title?"
"I sure have." The man laid them on the desk. "What's more, I'm glad to meet somebody who means it
when he says he pays top prices. The best offer I'd gotten so far was five hundred and thirty-five."
Happy Jack was looking at the owner's card. It bore the name Rodney Ballard, which also appeared on
the driver's license which the young man unnecessarily tendered. The driver's card gave specifications of
age twenty-two, height six feet, eyes blue, hair brown, and complexion light. Happy Jack checked these
as he looked up at his customer and handed back the driver's card.
"Of course none of those other fellows looked at the car," continued Ballard. "I did it all by phone. I
called one dealer, than another--next I was getting calls from them, some from dealers I'd never heard of,
upping the price five and ten dollars--"
"I know," interrupted Happy Jack. "That's the way those fly-by-nights work. They mooch into everybody
else's business. But me, I'm established. I buy and sell on a big scale, more than all those small-fry put
together."
Rod Ballard nodded. Then:
"You wouldn't have a job here on the lot would you?" he asked. "Like helping the repair man who sent
me over here?"
Happy Jack's broad smile didn't change, but his eyes sharpened as their lids closed into slits. He wasn't
pleased to learn that this stranger had stopped to talk to Clip Rowley, beside the car containing Larry
Saugus. The fact that Rod Ballard looked honest was that much more against him. Happy Jack didn't like
people who were too honest.
"You'd be wasting time here," said Happy Jack, smoothly. "There's lots of good jobs outside of New
York, the further out the better; California, for instance."
"So I've heard," returned Rod, "but I might spend half my money finding one."
"Not with this you won't." Happy Jack brought out the card that had once belonged to Larry Saugus and
with it twenty-five dollars. "Here's a free ticket clear to California covering expenses on the way. This
cash is payment for taking a driver's job. The caravan starts from over in Jersey tonight."
"You mean I can drive a used car West?"
"That's right. Take the one you just sold me. I'll phone ahead and fix the details. Here"--Happy Jack
beckoned to the desk--"sign this receipt while I mark the road map. You can deliver the papers when
you join up."
Five minutes later, Happy Jack was waving Rod Ballard through a one-way lane marked "Exit." As soon
as the roadster was out of sight, Happy Jack changed his gesture to a beckon. The blue coupe rolled up
beside him with Clip Rowley behind the wheel. Slumped low against Clip's shoulder was the inert form of
Larry Saugus.
"How much did that guy see?" snapped Happy Jack. "Enough to count?"
Clip shook his head.
"He must have talked to Saugus though," decided Happy Jack. "He said he'd been trying to sell his car
by telephone which was a pretty heavy hint." The narrowed eyes gave an ugly glare at Larry's body.
"One thing I didn't expect was to have Saugus drive in here when he was supposed to be on his way to
Jersey."
"What should I do?" queried Clip. "Take him over there?"
"Not a chance," returned Happy Jack. "This calls for something different. You go East, over by the
Queensboro Bridge."
"To Long Island?"
"I said over by the bridge, not across it. Remember that dead end street where you picked me up last
Thursday night?"
Clip nodded.
"Take it," ordered Happy Jack, "and keep right on going. Leave those windows down and make sure the
door don't stick. Better have it open before you pull that throttle button."
The blue coupe slid out through the exit. Turning on his heel, Happy Jack Smiley strode back across the
buying lot. By the time he reached the entrance, his big fist was holding the even larger roll of bills from
which he was ready to peel the exact amount of any appraisal.
Under the illuminated banner that bore his own jolly portrait, Happy Jack was again the man who
guaranteed results to everyone who drove a used car into his buying lot.
In a way, his rule applied to Larry Saugus!
II.
STANDING beside the broad French window, Lamont Cranston looked across the tiny garden toward
the darkening waters of the tide-swept East River. This scene was always best at dusk, when the
glittering lights of the Queensboro Bridge threw their twinkling reflection into a sunset-tinted sheen. It
would have taken a dozen rapid-fire artists to capture the changing moods of this iridescent panorama
viewed from Marldon's living room. Like many visitors before him, Cranston seemed enraptured with the
sight, utterly intent upon watching it until night laid its blotting pall upon the vista.
Actually, Cranston was playing a polite bluff.
What interested him far more than the outdoor transformation was the conversation taking place in the
luxurious living room behind him, where Cranston's friend, Police Commissioner Weston, was talking
business with Thomas P. Marldon.
In his capacity as police commissioner, Ralph Weston held to one ironclad rule. That rule was to watch
for symptoms of crime and be prepared to stop it. As Weston argued, very correctly, crime had trends.
Crooks were opportunists who would align with any profitable game. It was the business of the law to be
ahead of crime's next move.
These sentiments were merely echoes of suggestions that Cranston had given Weston. For it was
Cranston's business to stop crime too. He did it by adopting another personality called The Shadow, and
as such he frequently invoked the aid of the law. But The Shadow often moved so far ahead that the law
had trouble keeping up with him. Hence, in private life, as Lamont Cranston, he was always prodding his
friend Weston into new fields where crime might strike.
Arranging this interview between Weston and Marldon had not been at all difficult. The idea had
originated with Marldon, so Cranston had merely kept reminding the commissioner about it. This
meeting, therefore, passed as Marldon's own opportunity to inform the law of certain matters which
demanded prompt attention.
In the darkening panes of the French window, Cranston could see Marldon's stout but rugged face, with
the troubled look that was worried enough to have produced the gray streaks in the man's close-clipped
hair. In the lavish surroundings of this riverside residence, Marldon should have been enjoying ease, but
he wasn't.
"My business problems are my own, commissioner," Marldon was saying in a firm, decisive tone. "In the
buying and selling of used cars I have followed a strict standard, as these other men can testify."
In the room's reflection Cranston could see the commissioner nod as Marldon gestured toward half a
dozen other men who sat in the background. All were dealers of Marldon's ilk who were more than glad
to attend this conference.
"Our method is to find the markets," emphasized Marldon. "Individually we learn that cars are needed in
Texas, California or Oregon; we then proceed to offer prices for used cars that will offer us a reasonable
profit allowing for the expense of delivery."
"A sensible procedure," commented Weston in his brick style, "providing the supply can fill the demand."
"It can't," declared Marldon, "but that proved only a preliminary problem. We found that the delivery of
cars was difficult. Sometimes they never reached their destination; when they did, they were often in bad
shape from rapid driving. So to maintain a standard and fulfill our promises we formed the
Cross-Country Delivery Association."
"I have heard about it," nodded Weston. "You send the cars in caravans from an assembly yard in New
Jersey, don't you?"
"Yes. They are handled by authorized drivers who work in shifts. The cars are never driven more than
thirty miles an hour, they follow routes where traffic is light, and they are inspected at designated places
along the way. We have men who check the cars and arrange the accommodations for the drivers who
are free to join up and leave as they please, since their jobs are not steady."
"An excellent system," approved Weston, "but this business comes outside my jurisdiction."
"Not quite," returned Marldon. He rose from his leather arm-chair and stepped to a table where he
paused to fill his pipe from a large glass humidor. "These caravans are composed chiefly of cars bought in
New York. Since we support and maintain the cross-country driving service"--he made a sweeping
gesture to include his fellow dealers-- "we need cars to complete our caravans. Unfortunately we are not
getting them."
"Because the supply is short--"
"No." Marldon interrupted Weston emphatically. "Because the fly-by-nights are moving in ahead of us,
buying up cars by trick bidding through different names, or offers of prompt cash. They buy by
telephone, appraise by guesswork, and even offer driving jobs in our caravans as part of the purchase
price."
Cranston turned from the window. Darkness had settled so there was no reason to keep watching the
outdoor view. Marldon was handing a sheaf of papers to Weston, hence no one noticed Cranston when
he casually took a chair and joined the group.
"Our present caravans are going to California," explained Marldon. "To get them started we accept any
cars that come along. It costs fifty dollars to cover a driver's pay and expenses and that cost is charged at
the other end. Is that plain?" Weston nodded that it was.
"One of us makes an offer for a car"--again Marldon gestured to his companions--"through an appraiser
who goes to examine the car. The fly-by-night gets the seller on the phone, hears of our fair offer, and
raises it anywhere to fifty dollars at the same time talking up the wonderful opportunity of a trip to
California. He hands the man an application blank to become an associated driver, saying it is worth
twenty-five dollars in expense money. If he pays cash besides, he collects it back from us, because he
has listed twenty-five dollars as a driver's fee, paid in advance."
Cranston watched Weston twist the tips of his pointed mustache. Obviously the commissioner was
groping for some method to curb this gyp racket, but finding trouble in the process. At last Weston
shook his head.
"Your caravans need cars," summed Weston, "and they need drivers. In your anxiety to obtain both, you
have laid yourselves wide open. The only solution is to limit the caravans to cars that you personally
purchase."
"We can't," said Marldon ruefully. "because we would then be operating a monopoly in interstate trade.
We had hoped that you could clamp down on the buyer's racket, commissioner."
"That would be impossible, Mr. Marldon. There is nothing the law could do at prevent--"
"Except this"--Marldon thrust a newspaper into Weston's hand and pointed to a page of ads for used
cars. Weston noted that certain advertisements were marked with a blue pencil, as Marldon added: "You
can investigate these so-called dealers who are ruining a legitimate business; that is, if you can catch up
with them at any of their various addresses."
"But it will do no good at present."
"I'm not speaking in terms of the present. I'm asking you to investigate their past. From what we have
learned, some of these newcomers are not only ex-racketeers; certain of them have criminal records. In
that case, they may be working toward some future design--"
It was enough. Weston snatched the newspaper as though he had acquired a rare prize. Cranston could
almost hear the ticking of the commissioner's clockwork brain. Started on a trail like this, Weston would
never stop until he raised a big alarm in the form of a general round-up. As for Marldon, he was quite
amazed at the sudden result.
The commissioner was picturing those names in front page headlines instead of want ads, with the
newspapers announcing new activities on the part of known criminals. What Weston wanted was to beat
the news-hawks to such an exposure and add another exploit to his credit in the way of stopping crime
before it began. But as he glanced down the columns, Weston couldn't find any leading names.
All the fly-by-night ads were listed under such titles as "Apex," "Quick Deal," "X Y Z," and similar
names, usually with the word "Service" or "Company" as an addition. It wasn't until his eye reached the
final column that Weston saw anything involving personality. There he was attracted by the picture of a
fat, beaming face accompanied by the name Happy Jack. The ad was marked with a blue pencil.
"I never saw this fellow," commented Weston. "What do you know about him?"
"Happy Jack Smiley," identified Marldon. "He's only on the doubtful list. I would class him as a sharper
rather than a criminal."
"How does he operate?"
"On a quick cash basis, as his ad states. I can't say that he actually misrepresents."
"Then why is his name marked?"
"Because of his connections. Time and again our appraisers have made appointments only to find that the
cars have gone to Happy Jack."
"You mean these others send prospects to Happy Jack when their telephone deals fall through?"
Marldon's nod was corroborated by his associates. All were emphatic and prompt in stating that Happy
Jack rated as the lone appraiser in the wild-cat field. That satisfied Weston, since it marked Happy Jack
as the logical lead to further information. Thrusting the newspaper in his pocket, Weston shook hands all
around and suggested that he and Cranston get their hats and coats.
Weston's departure was a signal for a general exodus. Stopping in the hallway the group were getting
their hats and coats, when Weston suddenly raised his hand for silence.
At the open front door, Marldon stood riveted at Weston's signal, for Marldon too could hear the distant
sound.
It was the weird trill of a police siren, somewhere in this area, a foreboding omen to all residents of
Beekman Hill, a neighborhood where murder had flourished much too often.
As they listened, the others heard the sign, for it was approaching the dead end street that led past
Marldon's brownstone house!
Only the most practiced ear could have determined that fact at the outset. Cranston was thus gifted, for
within a dozen seconds he had scrawled a note with a handy fountain pen. Folding the note and sealing it
in an envelope, almost in a single move, Cranston thrust the message in the commissioner's overcoat
pocket.
Turning about, Cranston reached for his own hat and coat. They were right at the door of the now vacant
living room. Oddly, instead of taking the garments, Cranston seemed to peel them. That was, he drew a
hat from within a hat while he seemingly whipped the lining from the overcoat.
A roar of motors came suddenly from the side street along with the double howl of converging sirens.
Commissioner Weston sprang out through the door and others teemed after him, some forgetting their
coats, carrying Marldon along with them. But Lamont Cranston wasn't part of that human outpour.
Lamont Cranston was simply gone and the only answer to his evanishment was something that no one
saw: the silent closing of the large French window that offered a view of the river from the far end of
Marldon's living room!
III.
THE car that spurted across First Avenue was literally a blue streak.
That was all that Weston, Marldon or anyone else could see of it. Unquestionably the car had a driver or
it wouldn't have gone straight, but it was plain that he couldn't make his brakes serve him as well as the
steering wheel.
Hitting close to sixty and with a sloping dead end just ahead, the wild driver had only two alternatives: a
crash or the river.
He took the river.
True, he was using the brakes, for their shriek drowned the wail of the police car sirens that approached
the corner. Perhaps the brakes cut the blue car's speed by half, but they didn't change the result. There
was a splintering clatter as the fugitive car ripped a frail wooden barrier that temporarily blocked the
dead end; then, after what seemed a long succession of moments, there came the sound of a tremendous
splash.
Jabbing their own cars to a halt, the patrolmen stopped half way down the dead end street and jumped
out to be joined immediately by Commissioner Weston, who arrived on the run, giving his arm an
officious sweep to identify Marldon and other followers as friends.
It had all happened too fast for anyone to follow it. Only a man who arrived ahead could have witnessed
all that occurred when the coupe took its long, wild plunge.
There was such a man, a figure cloaked in black. Only a minute before he had been Lamont Cranston,
now he was The Shadow, strange creature of the night. He might better have been defined as a part of
night itself, so singularly did his cloak and slouch hat, both jet black, blend with the darkness that had
sullenly settled over the East River.
What The Shadow had seen, few eyes could have detected. Indeed, he could hardly claim that he had
seen it; rather he had sensed what happened when the car splintered the temporary rail. Then and there
The Shadow had caught the impression of a figure flying askew from the leaping car and landing on the
very edge of the embankment.
This happened on the far side of the car, but the somersaulting vehicle didn't wait to obscure the whole
occurrence. Moreover, The Shadow caught a flapping motion of the far door before the coupe hit the
water. As a result, The Shadow, stooping low, was already making his way past the gap that the car had
clouted in the wooden barrier.
Searchlights suddenly geared themselves to that open space. The glare from the police cars actually
picked out The Shadow, but only for an instant. His form faded like a patch of river mist and the police
were staring at an open stretch of water which roughly marked the spot where the blue car had
disappeared.
It was Commissioner Weston who suggested some attempt at rescue.
Marldon had an old rowboat in his cellar, so three patrolmen hurried there to bring it out while the fourth
recounted how the chase had begun.
"It was this way, commissioner," said the cop. "The coupe was coming across town when a sedan picks
up after it. The one guy beats it and the other tails him. That's where we come in and the one car goes
out."
"Which car?"
"The sedan. It ducks off and we signal for another patrol to follow it, only I guess he loses it, because he
shows up again."
"Who showed up again?"
"The other patrol car. Meanwhile, we're tailing the coupe and the fellow in it don't like the idea, because
he tries to give us the shake and quick. He headed this way and you saw what happened to him,
commissioner."
Weston nodded. Stalking about impatiently, he waited for the boat to be brought from Marldon's cellar.
In the course of his stalk, Weston paused to eye a car that was nosing past the entrance to the dead end
street. He thought for a moment that it was another patrol car; then voices from Marldon's garden
captured the commissioner's attention.
The boat was out and the patrolmen were launching it. One man was going into Marldon's to call
headquarters and summon a police boat. Glumly, Weston was cataloging the whole endeavor as useless.
By this time the driver of the sunken coupe must certainly be drowned.
The Shadow didn't share that opinion.
All this while, The Shadow was doing some stalking on his own, not of Weston's circular variety that led
nowhere, but a direct sort along an established trail. The Shadow had confirmed his impression of a flying
figure that had flung itself from the whirling coupe.
North of Marldon's street, a man was picking his way along the embankment, choosing narrow stretches
of paving that led beside the houses, working from street to street and looking for a convenient alley. The
man happened to be Clip Rowley, though it was impossible to identify him in the dark.
The trail was due for an abrupt ending. The reason was the abutment of the big bridge that spanned the
river not far above Marldon's. Either the man ahead would have to dodge back toward the avenue, or
change his course from the horizontal to the vertical.
Clip decided to try it the hard way.
The reason for his choice was the sudden gleam of searchlights down the final dead end street.
Apparently a search was starting through the neighborhood on the assumption that a lurker such as Clip
would be found there. Fading back into darkness on his own side of the street, The Shadow saw Clip
dive into an opposite alley just as a probing searchlight added its gleam to the head-lamps. Spotting
nothing, the occupants of the car backed it out to the avenue.
Instantly The Shadow sped across to the alley, made a quick trip through and reached the abutment of
the bridge. There he heard the clang of feet upon an iron ladder that served as a fire escape for an old
building close against the bridge. Silently The Shadow followed to the roof, where, looking upward, he
saw the dim outline of a stocky climber against the twinkle of the bridge lights.
The man The Shadow wanted, the human key to the riddle of the river-seeking car, was scaling the
abutment itself, using the rough stones of its corner as an improvised ladder. It was up to The Shadow to
follow.
It was a chase in slow motion, with the odds entirely favoring The Shadow. If Clip had looked down
when he paused, he could not have seen the cloaked figure in the darkness below him. The Shadow was
banking on that fact and could afford to continue the climb until he gained the complete advantage that he
wanted. That time came when Clip reached the actual superstructure of the bridge.
Then, like a thing materialized from nowhere, a hand plucked Clip's foot. Along with that phantom clutch
came a sinister voice which Clip took for a ghostly voice of doom. It seemed impossible that anyone
could have trailed him here, other than the ghost of Larry Saugus, whose body Clip had consigned to the
river. Teeth chattering, eyes showing white in the darkness, Clip strove madly to break loose, nearly
losing his grip on the ironwork in the process.
Tired from his climb, terrified by its conclusion, Clip Rowley would have capitulated and confessed all, if
something hadn't broken the strain.
Something did.
From a street below the bridge, a shaft of light raced up the abutment, probed along the bridge and
spotted the two figures clinging beneath. At least it spotted something human, seemingly a half-cloaked
shape, for The Shadow at that moment obscured Clip to some degree. Hardly had the light focussed
itself before guns began to jab along its path.
The men in the car were using the searchlight's narrow circle as a bull's-eye!
摘要：

CRIMECARAVANMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?I.?II.?III.?IV.?V.?VI.?VII.?VIII.?IX.?X.?XI.?XII.?XIII.?XIV.?XV.?XVI.?XVII.?XVIII.?XIX.I.HAPPYJACKbeganpeelingthebank-rollthemomentthebigbluejobswervedintothebuyinglot.Fifteenhundreddollarswasasafebetforafirstglan...

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