Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 254 - Syndicate of Sin

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SYNDICATE OF SIN
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. SNATCH EXPERTS
? CHAPTER II. DEATH RIDDLE
? CHAPTER III. GUN TRAP
? CHAPTER IV. THE VANDERPOOL GALLERIES
? CHAPTER V. THE RED-HAIRED GIRL
? CHAPTER VI. A GIFT FOR TONY
? CHAPTER VII. FUGITIVES FROM HELL
? CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
? CHAPTER IX. A SNEAK RAID
? CHAPTER X. DOUBLE DOOM
? CHAPTER XI. ROGUE VS. ROGUE
? CHAPTER XII. TRIPLE PLAY
? CHAPTER XIII. PUPPETS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIV. ENTER THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME'S CONQUEROR
CHAPTER I. SNATCH EXPERTS
IT wasn't a pleasant night for driving. The wind was cold. Drops of rain spattered occasionally on the
windshield of the black sedan.
The two men in the car didn't seem to mind. The streets they drove through looked deserted. The threat
of rain had driven most of the tenement dwellers indoors.
It was a set-up that suited Bobo and Sam. Unless they were dumb, there wouldn't be any trouble. The
boss didn't want trouble tonight. He wanted two quick snatches.
"The first pickup ought to be a cinch," Bobo said, under his breath.
"Watch it!" Sam cautioned. "Here's the street."
The car turned a corner. A drugstore was there. A man was lounging in front of it.
The man on the corner recognized the black sedan. He remained where he was while the car rolled
slowly down the street.
It halted presently. Bobo and Sam got out.
A few doors from the parked car was a shabby brick rooming house. It was a hangout for petty crooks.
Bobo and Sam walked quietly up the front stoop. The vestibule door didn't give them any trouble. The
hallway inside had just enough light from a dim ceiling bulb to pass an occasional tenement-house
inspection.
The two snatch experts didn't monkey with the dim light. They faded behind the dark overhang of the
stairs.
On the street corner, the man outside the drugstore had faded, too.
There was a coin phone box on the wall of the rooming-house hallway. In a moment, its bell began to
ring.
A frowzy landlady in a soiled kimono came out of the rear room on the ground floor. She answered the
call, then grunted.
"O. K. Hold the wire."
She waddled up the stairs and came down again, went back to her room. People in this house liked to
have privacy when they took messages.
The man who came down the stairs a moment later was thin, pasty-faced. He moved with the silence of a
cat. He picked up the hanging receiver and said: "Yeah?"
No one answered.
"Who's callin'?"
Again there was silence. With a smothered oath, the man slammed the receiver back on its hook. He
started to turn.
The muzzle of a gun jammed against his spine.
"Take it easy, punk!" Bobo whispered.
Bobo had the gun. Sam stepped in front of the victim. He had a gun, too. His grin was menacing.
"Hello, Blinky," he said, "We're going places!"
Blinky didn't try to deny his identity. His left eyelid was twitching violently. Blinky had a nervous tic in his
eye muscle that he couldn't control. It was what gave him his nickname.
"You boys must be makin' a mistake. I ain't done nothin'!"
"Shut up! Let's go."
They walked Blinky out the door and down the dark front stoop. It was a nice professional job—no
haste, no gun showing.
Blinky and Sam got into the back seat of the sedan. Bobo drove. The car sped away.
The whole job had taken less than ten minutes.
HALF an hour later, the same black sedan halted in a more impressive neighborhood. It was a street east
of Central Park, in the Eighties. Not all the people who lived on this street were millionaires. But Ellery
Cotswold was.
It was Cotswold's home that Bobo and Sam approached. A dignified butler answered the door.
"Mr. Cotswold home?" Sam asked.
The butler looked at the unsavory faces of the two callers.
"I'm afraid not," he said with icy politeness. He started to close the door.
"Don't give us that!" Bobo snarled.
As he spoke, he gave the butler a quick shove, toppling him backward into the vestibule. Sam hit him
with a clubbed .38.
Bobo caught the unconscious body before it could hit the floor. Sam had already closed the street door.
They carried the butler into the foyer and shoved him out of sight. It was a gorgeous hallway, with a thick
rug on the floor and priceless art objects everywhere. But the two snatch artists paid no attention to the
display of wealth. They had a job to do.
They crept up the staircase to the second floor. They knew exactly where to find Cotswold's study. Their
boss had been a visitor in Cotswold's palatial home more than once.
The study door was open. The thugs could see Cotswold at his desk. He was talking to Herbert Strang,
his confidential secretary. Bobo and Sam waited patiently. They were in no hurry.
Cotswold's hands were trembling as he talked to Strang. He seemed to be nervous. Strang laughed
reassuringly.
"It's all a pack of nonsense," he said. "You're foolish to worry about the smuggled Leonardo da Vinci
painting."
"I wish I hadn't bought it," Cotswold replied faintly. "I was afraid it might get me into trouble. But I
couldn't resist purchasing it. Lord, how some of the other collectors would envy me if they knew I had it!
One of the most magnificent Da Vinci's in existence! Stolen from the Louvre Museum in Paris! I'll never
give it up! I paid for it. I'll keep it!"
"Of course," Strang rejoined calmly. "The only man who knows you have it is the dealer you bought it
from. And he's not going to blab. That anonymous threat you received doesn't mean a thing. Some crank,
probably. All millionaires get crank threats like that."
"But I've had a second phone call," Cotswold said. "A voice warned me that precautions couldn't keep
him from robbing me."
"Did the voice mention the Leonardo da Vinci painting? Did he accuse you of buying a smuggled
masterpiece for your secret collection?"
"No, but -"
"Then why worry?" Strang smiled.
It was at this moment that Cotswold's phone bell rang. The millionaire answered it.
"Hello?... Yes, this is Cotswold."
Cotswold didn't say any more. He seemed to be listening. His face became pale. When he finally
replaced the phone, he did so blindly. Strang looked concerned.
"Who was it?"
"The same voice! Rasping, ugly. He... he boasted that he has already made his first theft from my home...
in spite of all my precautions!"
"He's bluffing. What did he say he stole?"
"My Gutenberg Bible. One of the first books ever printed. He says it's gone. He's got it. He laughed at
me, called me a fool!"
Strang shook his head calmly.
"Now I know the fellow is a crank. That Gutenberg Bible has not been stolen; I saw it in its special safe
in your bedroom less than half an hour ago! I took it out myself and examined it. Wait! I'll prove it's still
there by bringing it to you."
Strang got to his feet. He left the room.
But he never reached his millionaire employer's bedroom. The butt of a .38 struck at his skull. Strang
collapsed without a sound. He was gagged and bound and dragged out of sight.
When Ellery Cotswold glanced up from his desk to greet his returning secretary, he found himself facing
the guns of Bobo and Sam.
"A nice night for a ride, Mr. Cotswold," Bobo said.
"Let's go!" Sam growled.
Again, a quiet little party of three entered a black sedan.
The car moved away. There was no fuss, no confusion.
THE room was small. Its air smelled stale. There was an earthy odor, as if the room might be
underground. There were no windows.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a bed. Two men were lying on the bed. They couldn't move
because they were tightly bound. Gags covered their mouths. Their feet struck out beyond the end of the
bed. Both men's feet were bare.
Their faces expressionless, Bobo and Sam watched the prisoners.
Suddenly, a hidden door opened. A man entered. He looked well-dressed, handsome. Cotswold's eyes
bulged as he saw the man. He recognized him at once.
The visitor was Mark Kemper.
Mark Kemper was a clever young man who enjoyed considerable social prestige. Photographers were
always snapping his picture in exclusive night clubs. Wealthy debutantes were flattered when he escorted
them. Few people were aware that Kemper's pose as a society idler covered a vicious mode of earning a
living.
Mark Kemper's real business was blackmail!
Cotswold was one of the people who knew. He knew because he was already in the toils of Kemper.
He had paid out large sums without a murmur. Kemper was careful to bleed people who dared not
complain to the police.
Kemper ignored the millionaire. He pointed toward the thug named Blinky.
"Remove his gag!"
Bobo obeyed. Kemper leaned over the twitching face of Blinky. He spoke quietly.
"Who's your boss—the big shot you work for? I want his name!"
"I don't know," Blinky gasped.
Kemper gestured grimly.
"Persuade him!"
It was Sam who did the persuading. He used a plumber's thick candle on the soles of Blinky's naked
feet. He didn't confine his attention to the soles. Sam was an artist at torture. He applied the flame to
Blinky's agonized toes and the tender flesh between them.
The screams of the petty crook filled the soundproof room with horrible echoes. Sweat poured down
Blinky's face.
There was sweat on Cotswold's face, too. Rigid and helpless alongside the tortured crook, Cotswold
had a taste of what might be in store for him.
The torture of Blinky didn't take long. When it was over, Kemper leaned over the moaning victim.
"Who's your boss?"
"I don't know. I never saw him. I just take orders."
"Shall I give him another dose?" Sam asked.
"Don't—for God's sake!" Blinky shrieked. "I'm tellin' the truth! If I knew, I'd squeal. I never set eyes on
the boss of the racket!"
"I believe you are telling the truth," Kemper said. "I didn't really expect a punk like you would know. But
you were the only one in his mob I was able to get a line on."
He stepped back, made a sneering gesture to Bobo.
"Give him his reward for wasting my time."
Bobo leaned swiftly over the bed with his .38. He jammed the muzzle of his gun against Blinky's temple
and shot him through the head.
Blood spattered over Cotswold's shrinking face. He was numb with terror— which was exactly the state
of mind Kemper wanted him to be in.
Kemper himself removed the millionaire's gag. Cotswold was barely able to talk. He whimpered
incoherently. Kemper's grin widened as he heard what Cotswold was trying to say.
"Yes. I know. You've always paid my blackmail demands without complaining. But tonight I'm after
something a hell of a lot more important than blackmail! I happen to know that you recently purchased a
famous Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece that was smuggled into America from the Louvre Museum in
Paris. You paid someone nearly a half million dollars for it. Is that true?"
"It's true," Cotswold faltered. His face was the color of wet clay. "You can have it. I'll turn it over to
you."
"I don't want the painting," Kemper said. "What I want is the name of the man you bought it from. A man
who has a secret cache of stolen art that is so valuable that one painting sells for nearly a half million!
That's a man I want to know. Tell me his name!"
"I can't," Cotswold gasped. "I met him only once. I never saw his face. He wore a mask."
"Where did you meet him?"
"I don't know. I was blindfolded. I drove somewhere in a car with a red-haired girl. She -"
"Where did you meet this girl?"
THERE was death in Kemper's harsh voice. Cotswold, with the blood of Blinky still warm on his face,
stammered eagerly to tell all he knew. It wasn't much.
He had received a telephone tip to go to the Vanderpool Art Galleries on Madison Avenue. Obeying
instructions, Cotswold had waited quietly in front of a painting called "The Bathers." He dropped his
cigarette case and spilled cigarettes on the floor. A red-haired girl helped him pick them up. When she
returned them, she added one of her own cigarettes to his.
"That was the agreed signal," Cotswold gasped. "When she left the gallery, I followed her. I got into her
car and was blindfolded. The blindfold wasn't removed until I was in a large room facing a man in a
mask. The room was filled with smuggled art. The masked man offered me the Leonardo da Vinci for
half a million. I accepted. I never saw him again. The painting was delivered a few days later. That's all I
know."
Kemper frowned.
"The Vanderpool Galleries, eh? A very dignified and respectable place. A smart spot to contact
prospective customers. Did you speak to either of the two owners of the Vanderpool Galleries while you
were there? To Mr. Spooner? Or to Mr. Brand?"
"No," Cotswold said. "I spoke only to the red-haired girl. That's all I know. It's the truth!"
"I believe it is," Kemper sneered. "I'm sorry to have annoyed you, Bobo, will you kindly end Mr.
Cotswold's annoyance?"
Again Bobo leaned over the bed. Cotswold screamed as he saw the glitter of the .38, but he was unable
to jerk his head away from the barrel of the weapon.
There was an explosive roar. Blood spattered from the millionaire's skull. He died instantly.
Mark Kemper stared at the two corpses with unruffled composure.
He turned toward his two henchmen.
"You know where to dump these bodies. I want both of them left in the vacant lot alongside the alley
which I described to you earlier. I want the police to find them. I want plenty of publicity. You
understand?"
They nodded.
"I want the man from whom Cotswold bought the Da Vinci to realize that he faces danger. I want him to
be scared! When you're planning to highjack a smart crook, the first thing you do is to let him know
you're tougher than he is! He'll know how tough I am when he finds out what happened to one of his
petty thugs—and one of his wealthiest customers."
"Suppose we run into trouble dumping the bodies?" Bobo asked.
"You won't. There will be plenty of protection. And now—get busy! Report to me when the job is
finished."
Mark Kemper turned and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, Bobo and Sam mounted to the seat of a small covered truck that was parked in an
alley. Inside the truck were the bodies of Cotswold and Blinky.
The two thugs chuckled. They were both in high good humor.
Bobo stepped on the gas. As he did so he saw a furry streak move across the alley. It was a stray cat
that had been dozing on the dark pavement.
"A buck I hit it," Bobo cried as he swung the wheel.
"A buck you don't," Sam grinned.
The truck lurched sideways. There was a sickening bump under the front tire.
Sam craned his neck and saw the cat's bloody carcass. Grinning, he handed his pal a dollar bill.
They laughed as the truck swung into a dark street and headed downtown. They thought it was very
funny.
CHAPTER II. DEATH RIDDLE
MARGO LANE and Lamont Cranston were driving home from an unusually successful party.
The charity entertainment that Cranston had sponsored tonight had been well patronized. Every penny of
the profit would be used for recreation facilities for soldiers and sailors. Cranston had paid all the
expenses out of his own pocket.
Margo was driving Cranston's sedan. There weren't many cars on the avenue at this late hour. It was fun
to drive smoothly through the quiet darkness.
It was Cranston who first noticed the covered truck. The truck was proceeding at a slow pace. It was
extra-careful about traffic lights.
"Looks as if the driver is determined not to get into any traffic trouble," Cranston said.
There was an odd inflection in Lamont Cranston's voice. He had stopped smiling. Margo wondered what
the source of his interest was in that covered truck.
But she didn't ask any questions when Cranston suggested that she slow down in order to keep a half
block or so behind the truck.
Margo was aware of a grim secret that few people knew. It was something that she and Cranston never
discussed openly. The wealthy clubman whose expensive car she was driving was not one man, but two.
Behind his public personality was another personage. A personage feared by criminals.
The Shadow!
Cloaked in mystery, The Shadow had many times conquered criminals who were too dangerous and
clever for the ordinary methods of the police. On more than one occasion, Margo had experienced the
thrill of helping The Shadow uphold the law.
She watched the truck ahead, but she didn't say anything. Soon she heard Cranston's voice at her ear.
"Pull up close when they stop."
The covered truck was stopping for a red light. It halted with exaggerated care, as if the driver were
afraid he might overshoot the light and draw the attention of a policeman.
Peering sideways, Margo saw that there were two men in the truck. Both had tough, unpleasant faces.
Cranston seemed to observe nothing. But he saw a lot more than Margo. He recognized the men on the
truck. Their photos were in the private rogues' gallery in The Shadow's sanctum. Mentally, The Shadow
named both of them. The truck's driver was a killer named Bobo Shreb. The crook beside him was Sam
Bindo.
There were no signs on the truck. It looked like a hired vehicle. But even if Sam and Bobo had hired it,
there should have been painted on it the address of the place where it had been hired. There was nothing
of the sort.
The license plate was badly rusted. The Shadow suspected it was not the plate issued for this particular
truck. He wondered about the closed doors at the truck's rear, the brand-new padlock that kept those
doors sealed.
But chiefly The Shadow wondered about the left front tire.
It was smeared with a splash of crimson that The Shadow thought might be blood.
He waited until the light changed and the truck pulled ahead. Margo followed at a slow pace. Cranston's
voice murmured quick orders at her ear. She wasn't surprised when she found herself suddenly alone in
the front seat of the sedan.
Cranston had slid over the upholstered seat to the rear.
It was impossible to see what he was doing. But various sounds suggested that he was busy. He
remained invisible when the covered truck ahead halted for another light.
He was invisible because he was no longer in the sedan!
The sedan didn't halt. With complete disregard of the law, Margo drove through the light at a fast clip.
She kept her fast pace until she had almost covered the next block. Then, suddenly, Margo swerved and
braked to the curb.
She didn't leave the sedan. She looked backward once, then remained behind the wheel.
None of this missed the attention of Bobo and Sam. An oath came from Bobo's tight lips.
"Is that dame up there wise to something?"
Sam's snarl was worried. "She's the same dame we saw at the last traffic light. There was a well-dressed
guy with her. Where is he now?"
The "well-dressed guy" wasn't anywhere. Sam and Bobo looked in vain for him.
THE SHADOW was directly behind the truck!
He was taking advantage of Margo's tactics to examine the truck's padlocked doors.
His black cloak merged with the darkness. Eyes like flame were shielded by the brim of a black slouch
hat. There was a thin steel implement in his gloved hands.
Laughter whispered as the padlock gave way to his practiced skill. The doors at the rear of the truck
opened soundlessly. They closed just as quietly.
The Shadow was inside the covered truck!
Meanwhile, Margo continued to obey The Shadow's orders. She left the parked sedan, hurried into the
corner apartment house outside which she had stopped.
"Maybe she lives there," Bobo muttered.
"I'm gonna make sure," Sam snarled. "Pull into the curb."
The truck drew up behind the empty sedan. Sam went into the apartment foyer. The only person in sight
was a night clerk at a switchboard.
"Has the lady gone upstairs?" Sam asked. "She dropped something out of her car a block up the avenue.
I thought she oughta know about it."
"I'll notify her," the clerk said.
He plugged in and called upstairs. When he hung up, he smiled.
"She says thank you, but it was just an empty cigarette box."
"I thought it might be her purse. Who is she?"
"Susan Phelps," the clerk said.
It was the first name he could think of. He was able to think fast because there was a crisp twenty-dollar
bribe in his pocket. He didn't tell Sam that the bill had been given him by a beautifully gowned girl, who
had ducked out a side exit of the foyer.
Sam was satisfied. He went back to Bobo and the covered truck continued down the avenue.
A lot of time had been wasted—more than the two crooks realized. Margo Lane had utilized her time
well. A taxi had driven her swiftly to a garage three or four blocks away. There she introduced herself,
presented a brief note signed by Lamont Cranston.
She left swiftly in another car. The garage man congratulated himself on doing a favor for two such
prominent society people as Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane.
Margo drove back to the avenue and turned south. Soon she caught sight of the covered truck. She was
careful to keep well behind. The sedan she now drove was different in appearance from the one the
crooks had suspected.
Margo had no trouble following the trail. She wondered what The Shadow was discovering inside the
truck.
THE SHADOW'S find was gruesome. His fingers touched the stilled face of a corpse.
The stickiness of blood smeared his fingers. As he recoiled, he became aware that there was another
limp figure alongside the one he had just touched. Again his probing hand touched a dead face.
Rising cautiously inside the dark vehicle, The Shadow made sure that there was no way for the criminals
on the front seat to detect a light inside the truck.
He snapped on his cigarette lighter, used the tiny blue flame as a torch.
His eyes narrowed grimly as he saw the two dead men.
He recognized Ellery Cotswold at once. The other corpse he didn't know.
The clothing and appearance of the second dead man suggested that he might be a crook. Since The
Shadow didn't know him, he was probably a petty crook. His identity could be verified later from The
Shadow's crime files.
Staring at these two oddly assorted corpses, The Shadow tried to fathom the link that connected them in
death.
Both had been shot through the head. Their terror-twisted faces suggested that both had known they
were doomed before they died. Their shoes and socks had been removed. The bare feet of the dead
thug showed he had suffered flame torture before he was shot. Ellery Cotswold's feet had not been
harmed.
No attempt had been made to hide the dead millionaire's identity. The labels in his clothing were all intact.
His wallet with various identification papers had not been taken. The set-up suggested that the two thugs
on the driver's seat expected the corpses to be quickly identified.
Sibilant laughter sounded in The Shadow's throat. His skill and intuition had taken advantage of fate to
place himself in the midst of an incompleted crime.
His plan was simple. He intended to ride unseen to the spot where Bobo and Sam planned to dump the
corpses.
The Shadow would make a grim swap. He would exchange two corpses for two living prisoners! Sam
and Bobo would never return to their unknown boss. Instead, they would go to a scientific laboratory of
The Shadow's.
There they would taste a little torture themselves. Not the kind they had meted out to their victims. This
would be bloodless torture— inflicted with sound and light and color. Bobo and Sam could be made to
talk! Once they talked, The Shadow would know how to plan his next move.
His eyes studied a small white card in his hand. He had taken it from the breast pocket of the dead Ellery
Cotswold.
It was an engraved admission card to the Vanderpool Art Galleries.
摘要：

SYNDICATEOFSINMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.SNATCHEXPERTS?CHAPTERII.DEATHRIDDLE?CHAPTERIII.GUNTRAP?CHAPTERIV.THEVANDERPOOLGALLERIES?CHAPTERV.THERED-HAIREDGIRL?CHAPTERVI.AGIFTFORTONY?CHAPTERVII.FUGITIVESFROMHELL?CHAPTERVIII.ASTRANGEDISAPPEARANCE?C...

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