Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 204 - The Fifth Face

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THE FIFTH FACE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 15, 1940.
Was it the face of death? Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST FACE
THREE men were gathered in a garish apartment that had an appearance of
past glory. Gold-braided curtains were frayed at the edges; mahogany chairs
were scratched and battered. Even the fancy wallpaper looked ready to peel
itself.
As for the men, they had a shabby touch. They were playing cards around a
table, and each had a stack of bills along with his chips. But they were
harboring their cash, and the sharp looks that they exchanged marked them as a
trio of leeches, each intent to bleed the others.
Three big-shots who hadn't made the grade. The term defined the trio to
perfection. All were men of evil ambitions, but with balked careers. They had
been in the money once, but never to the extent they wanted.
The man at the left was Grease Rickel. His nickname, Grease, was a
shortened term for Grease-ball. His fattish face was oily, ugly, and his
slicked hair, black like his eyes, merely added to his unlovely appearance.
In his palmy days, Grease had specialized in the hat-check racket,
gaining
"concessions" from restaurants. Smiling girls had coaxed sizable tips from
patrons, and Grease, as owner of the concession, had collected ninety cents on
the dollar. But the racket was all over. Restaurants weren't letting out
concessions to Grease Rickel any longer.
Opposite Grease was Banker Dreeb. He was long-faced, solemn, and looked
something like a banker, which, in a sense, he had been. A few years ago, when
certain people wanted money they borrowed it from Banker. The certain people
were crooks who were in trouble, and Banker supplied them bail money, along
with special services.
In brief, Banker had operated as a professional "springer" who could get
friends out of jail. But the law had become very suspicious of Banker's money
and would no longer take it. The old-line politicians who had formerly
smoothed
Banker's path were no longer connected with civic affairs.
Third in the group, the man who faced the door, was Clip Zelber. He was
sharp-faced, shrewd of eye, but quite as seedy as his two companions. Clip had
once been a very crafty fence who disposed of stolen goods, but had lately
found such merchandise too hot to handle.
The three were snarly as they talked. From their very manner, they
recognized that their card game was futile. They wanted better prey than
themselves, and when a cautious rap came at the door, the trio came to their
feet, exchanging eager looks.
"It's Jake Smarley," chuckled Grease. "You guys know Smarley, the bookie.
I told him to come around."
"So you said," nodded Banker. "Smarley is hitting it tough, too. He had
to
close his horse parlor. He's doing his own legwork, coming around to collect
bets from guys like us."
"Yeah," agreed Clip, in a short tone. "Let Smarley in. It makes me happy
to see that old sourpuss. He'll probably put on a crying act before he leaves
here."
Grease went to the door and opened it. He was right; the visitor was
Smarley. No one could mistake the decrepit bookie, who was living on the small
bets that he collected on a flimsy percentage basis.
Smarley was shambly and stoop-shouldered. His face was dryish, gaunt,
with
deep furrows stretching downward from his eyes, like waiting channels for the
"crying act" that Clip had mentioned.
From a pocket of his shabby overcoat, Smarley produced a newspaper and
placed it on the table. His dryish lips were straight, as his beady eyes
looked
from man to man. Grease picked up the newspaper and started to thumb through
the
pages.
"We'll take a look at the races, Smarley," Grease began, in an indulgent
tone. "Maybe we can spare some dough for the ponies, if you give us the right
break -"
"Wait!" Smarley's tone was a cackle. "Take a look at the front page
first,
Grease. It's got something extra special."
Flattening the paper, Grease scanned the front-page headlines. Banker and
Dreeb peered over his shoulders, fascinated by what they saw there. It was
Grease who voiced:
"One hundred grand!"
"Better read about it," crackled Smarley. "Maybe it will give you fellows
an idea."
ANYTHING involving a hundred thousand dollars could give ideas to the
ugly
three. Their faces showed elation as they read the preliminary details. The
hundred thousand was the present property of Arnold Melbrun, head of the
United
Import Co., and the sum was entirely in cash.
It had to deal with the steamship Anitoga, which, along with its valuable
cargo, had run into war-zone troubles. For weeks, the ship had been tied up in
a belligerent port, its fate a matter of doubt. Finally, it had been released,
and the owners of the cargo had agreed to pay the crew members a substantial
bonus as soon as the Anitoga docked in New York.
They had turned the money over to Melbrun; he had put it into cash, which
was guarded in his office. The Anitoga was due this evening, and the money was
going to the pier by armored truck.
There, police would be on hand while the crew members received their cash
awards. The sum total came to approximately one hundred thousand dollars.
"Say, Clip," began Grease, turning to Zelber, "if you could round up
those
rats who used to work for you, they'd make a slick mob. They could pile onto
that ship and take the dough off the sailors -"
"With the coppers on the job?" demanded Clip. "Not a chance! Banker,
here"
- he nudged toward Dreeb - "is the guy to handle it. Those smoothies that work
for him could grab off the dough while it's going to the dock."
As he finished, Clip gave Banker a sharp-eyed glance, which the
solemn-faced man returned in a cold fashion.
"My bunch couldn't knock off an armored truck," declared Banker. Swinging
to Rickel, he continued: "I'm passing the buck to you, Grease. Send some of
your strong-arm boys over to Melbrun's office and grab the dough before it
even
starts."
Grease appeared to be considering the proposition; then his oily-lips
formed a smile, as he shook his head. His smile, however, was not a pleased
one. With Grease, a smile usually indicated the opposite of pleasure.
"It would be a give-away," declared Grease. "It says here that the dough
is being watched. Melbrun has some private dicks on the job. I'll agree that
the office is the best place to stage the grab, but we can't get anybody who
will do it. They'd be marked as soon as they stuck their noses in the place."
There was a glum silence, which ended when Grease crumpled the newspaper
and flung it on the floor.
"This town has gone to pot!" snarled Grease. "There used to be a chance
to
get away with anything. Plenty of soft pickings, until one guy put the crimp
in
it. The Shadow!"
Banker and Clip acknowledged the name with scowls; nevertheless, they
gave
reluctant nods.
"It was The Shadow who swung things the wrong way," continued Grease. "He
kept busting into everything, and that got the coppers on their toes. He's
still in it, too, The Shadow is. That's why nobody will take chances, unless
they've got a perfect set-up.
"Suppose we three did the job ourselves. We couldn't go to Melbrun's
office wearing masks, or we wouldn't get inside. So we go as ourselves, and
then what? We get the dough and lam with it, before the bulls can nail us. But
we're marked, and there's one guy that will never forget us."
Pausing, Grease stared from Banker to Clip, then snarled the name that
both of his pals had in mind:
"The Shadow!"
IN the following silence, the three forgot Jake Smarley. They didn't
remember the sad-faced bookie until he broke the spell with one of his crazy
cackles.
"Three big-shots!" jeered Smarley. "Three big guys, chopped down to
midgets! Maybe you'd be useful, though" - his dryish lips took on a grin - "if
a real big-shot let you work for him. Suppose a real brain came along. Would
you play ball?"
Puzzlement, then interest, showed on the faces of the three listeners. It
was Grease who gruffed:
"On what kind of terms?"
"Forty percent for the big-shot," proposed Smarley. "You three divide the
other sixty. The big guy walks in and gets the hundred grand, and you three
have your outfits outside, to cover his getaway. And this" - Smarley was
crouched forward on the table - "won't be the only job."
No vote was needed. Grease, Banker, Clip, all voiced their instant
agreement. They were willing to serve as lieutenants under such a chief, if
Smarley could produce him. When they inquired who the bigshot was, Smarley
gave
them a dryish grin.
"Call him Five-face," suggested the bookie. "Because he's got five faces
-
get it? He gets spotted when he grabs the mazuma, sure, but even The Shadow
won't find him. Because Five-face will wipe off his map, like this" - Smarley
started to spread his hands across his face - "and be another guy!"
An instant later, the lieutenants were gawking in amazement. They weren't
looking at Jake Smarley any longer. His face had changed; it was shrewd,
rather
than drab. As the three men squinted, Smarley's hands made another sweep.
His face seemed to enlarge, to become fuller and more genial. Then, as
his
hands performed another swing, he turned his head and gave them a brief view
of
a set profile that wore an expression of disdain.
One more quick change came, as the face turned toward them, but before
the
three lieutenants could gain more than a vague impression, a sweep of the
swift-moving hands restored the drab features of Jake Smarley.
"That's just the general idea," cackled Smarley. "From now on, you'd
better call me Five-face. Because, after tonight, you won't see Jake Smarley
again. I'll need some make-up, and a reasonable amount of time, to make each
face look permanent."
Thoroughly amazed, Banker and Clip finally turned to Grease, expecting
him
to be their spokesman. With a glance at his companions, Grease took the
assignment.
"Listen, Five-face," said Grease. "You mean you'll pull this job as
Smarley, get the dough, and come back here as another guy?"
The man who looked like Smarley was nodding as Grease spoke. With a half
gulp, Grease continued:
"And then you'll pull another job, in the open, and show up different.
You'll keep on -"
"Until I've done four jobs," inserted Five-face, in Smarley's wheezy
style. "I'll get rid of four faces and show up with the fifth. That's when
we'll make the final settlement. But, meanwhile, you three have got to cover
for me. The kind of jobs I pick" - the crackly tone was sharp - "will mean
some
swift getaways. I'll need guns and plenty of them."
Grease shoved his hand across the table. The man called Smarley received
it with a scrawny grip that suited the bookie's style. Banker and Clip
proffered their hands to seal the bargain. Each was conscious that Five-face
was giving them a shake that went with his present role of Smarley.
Then, with a final chortle, Five-face stepped to the door. He looked like
Smarley, he acted like the bookie, but the lieutenants accepted him as a
master
hand of crime, a brain that they were ready to serve. Their new leader, the
man
of marvels, gave them a final admonition.
"Get posted at six," ordered Five-face, "outside of Melbrun's building.
I'll be Smarley when I go in, and Smarley when I come out. Tell your crews to
cover for Smarley; nothing more. Let them think they're working for Smarley;
they can spill that to the coppers, if any of them are ever asked."
The door half opened, Five-face paused. Still wearing the withery look of
Jake Smarley, he added:
"Because it won't matter in the future. After tonight, no one will ever
see Jake Smarley again - not even The Shadow!"
CHAPTER II
CRIME TO COME
IT was midafternoon when the incredible Five-face changed the ambitions
of
three lesser crooks and made them glad to be lieutenants, instead of
big-shots,
on their own. The plan that Five-face proposed - that of crime at six o'clock
-
was quite in keeping with the situation, and therefore satisfactory to all.
By six, darkness would arrive, offering suitable surroundings for the
lieutenants and their followers. But there was also a chance that other things
could happen prior to the hour that Five-face had set. Crime's new brain had
not fully calculated the effect of the newspaper report that told of cash in
the office of the United Import Co.
Shortly before five o'clock, a car pulled up in front of the building
where the importing company was located. Two private detectives, stationed
near
the building entrance, gave the car a wary eye, until they recognized its
occupant. The man who alighted was Arnold Melbrun, head of the United Import
Co.
Melbrun was middle-aged, but he had the buoyancy of youth. Tall,
broad-shouldered and erect, he displayed the true manner of a business
executive. His face was broad and strong-chinned, marking him as a man of
action. But his gray eyes, quick and restless, were those of a deep thinker
and
matched the tapering shape of his features.
From the people thronging from the building, Melbrun promptly picked out
the private detectives and drew them to one side. From beneath his arm, he
brought a newspaper, showed them the headlines. The detectives began to
understand Melbrun's worried air.
"I don't like it," declared Melbrun, in a crisp tone. "The newspapers
were
not to know about this matter until the Anitoga docked. I'm going up to the
office, to learn who let the news out. Meanwhile, I expect the utmost
vigilance
from both of you."
The detectives assured Melbrun that they would be on their toes. Entering
the building, Melbrun waited while an elevator disgorged a load of workers who
were going home. Riding up, he reached his own suite of offices, to find
another pair of detectives on guard. He showed them the newspaper account, and
repeated the admonition that he had given to the men below.
The employees of the United Import Co. were still at their desks. They
often worked late, and Melbrun had insisted that they stay on the job this
evening, without telling them why. As he glanced from desk to desk, the half
dozen men busied themselves, as they always did when Melbrun was about.
Near an office marked "Private" was a single desk, with a sallow man
behind it. The fellow was Melbrun's secretary, Kelson. His eyes shifted when
Melbrun's met them.
Without a word Melbrun opened the door of the private office and beckoned
for Kelson to follow. When Kelson entered, Melbrun spread the newspaper and
ordered the secretary to read it.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Melbrun," pleaded Kelson, in a weak tone. "The newspapers
called up this afternoon and asked me -"
"About the money!" snapped Melbrun. "And like an idiot, you told them!"
"But they knew about it," insisted Kelson. "They mentioned the armored
truck that was coming here, and the fact that the Anitoga was due to dock."
Melbrun stroked his chin, reflectively. Anger faded from his eyes; still,
his tone was brusque.
"I can't hold you to blame," he told Kelson. "Still, I wish that you had
used better sense. It isn't wise to let a whole city know when you have a
hundred thousand dollars in your custody."
Turning to a large safe behind his massive desk, Melbrun turned the
combination. Kelson watched, his face quite worried, while the importer opened
a metal box that contained stacks of currency.
Melbrun was thumbing through the cash, nodding because he found it quite
intact, when he noticed Kelson watching him.
"Don't stand there stupidly!" snapped Melbrun. "Go to the outside office,
Kelson, and tell the rest of the employees about the money. Show them the
newspaper, and admit that it was partly your mistake. Explain that I kept the
matter secret so they would not worry. But since all New York knows that I
have
the money here, the office staff should be informed."
BY the time Kelson had given the news to the interested office force,
Melbrun appeared. He was carrying a suitcase that he always took on business
trips. He laid it aside, while he assembled the employees and took up the
story
where Kelson had left off.
"The truck will be here at eight," announced Melbrun. "It will take the
money directly to the pier, because the Anitoga will be docked by then. I
shall
be at the pier, and afterward, I intend to leave on a business trip to Boston.
"Meanwhile, I am depending upon all of you to be watchful. I have placed
detectives on duty, and the job is really theirs; but, since you know the
facts, I expect your cooperation. Remember to keep at your work, as usual;
receive any visitors cordially and in the accustomed fashion.
"But watch them! If you have any suspicions of anyone, report promptly to
Kelson. This newspaper story means that we must adopt additional precautions.
I
shall tell the detectives that they can depend on all of you, if needed."
Before leaving, Melbrun called police headquarters and talked to an
inspector named Joe Cardona. From Melbrun's conversation, the office workers
learned that Inspector Cardona was the official in charge of arrangements at
the pier; that everything was satisfactory there.
However, Cardona had seen the newspaper account and agreed with Melbrun
that there might be an earlier danger.
Over the phone, they concluded new arrangements, which were satisfactory
to Melbrun. His call finished, the exporter sat at Kelson's desk, stroking his
firm jaw and nodding in a musing fashion. Finally, Melbrun arose and picked up
his suitcase.
"Inspector Cardona is detailing two men to watch the building," he
explained. "That will give us added protection outside, as well as in here.
Later, the inspector will arrive in person, and he has promised to have a full
squad on duty by the time the armored truck appears.
"I am depending upon you, Kelson." Melbrun turned to the sallow
secretary.
"You have the combination to my safe. But do not open it until Inspector
Cardona
gives the word. Turn over the cash box to him, for delivery at the pier."
As he concluded, Melbrun dangled a ring of keys, and Kelson nodded at
sight of one he recognized. It was the key to the cash box in the safe, a
special key that had no duplicate. The contents of the cash box would
certainly
be intact, when the box itself was delivered to Melbrun at the pier.
Methodical to the last degree, Arnold Melbrun contacted the private
detectives as he left the office, and told them of the amplified arrangements.
As he entered his waiting car, Melbrun glanced at his watch and noted that the
time was five twenty.
His suitcase on the seat beside him, he glanced back at the office
building as he rode away. Despite his new precautions, Melbrun's face looked
troubled.
The day was cloudy. Early dusk was already gathering about the building,
where only a few lights remained, those of the exporting offices. Though the
building was not large, it had taken on a vast appearance against the
darkening
sky, and other buildings looked like crouching creatures, ready to devour it.
Melbrun could picture certain loopholes in his plans, and he wondered
just
how well he had provided against them. Nevertheless, his final expression was
a
smile, which he delivered as his car neared a hotel not far from his office
building.
The custody of one hundred thousand dollars was no longer weighing
heavily
on Arnold Melbrun, as he strolled into the hotel and left his suitcase at the
check room.
If crime should come, Melbrun was quite sure that crooks would be
disappointed as a result of his precautions, plus those provided by the law.
In fact, there seemed but little reason why anyone should be worried
about
crime in Manhattan. It had been spiked very effectively during recent months,
and New York City, criminally speaking, was much like a millpond. Such
calmness, however, necessarily had an answer.
THE answer, at that moment, was riding in a large limousine that was
coming across the New Jersey Skyway, en route to the Holland Tunnel entrance
to
New York City.
His name was Lamont Cranston and he was a gentleman of leisurely manner,
who seemed quite at home in his elegant surroundings.
Cranston's face was hawkish, and had a masklike appearance. When he was
alone, and therefore unobserved, Cranston's eyes often took on a burning
glint;
their gaze became a piercing sort that seemed capable of penetrating darkness.
Had certain persons seen him at such moments, they would have realized
that this person who posed as Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.
His was the hand that banished crime. The Shadow was the reason why the
law prevailed. He had weighed the balance in justice's favor, and was keeping
it there. This present trip, at dusk, was another evidence of his foresight.
The Shadow had learned of the cash that was in Melbrun's custody. He
recognized its importance. Not only was it the very sort of loot that crooks
would most prefer; the theft of that cash would mean something more. It would
mark crime's comeback. A criminal thrust, involving sure, quick profit, would
embolden hordes of skulking mobsters throughout Manhattan.
Long had human rats been waiting, hoping for the call of some Pied Piper
who would lead them anew along a route of crime. They would be willing, ready,
to follow such a leader blindly, once he proved himself a master of crime.
To start a new reign of crime, a supercrook would first have to score a
success despite The Shadow. Melbrun's money would prove a great inducement for
anyone who sought to be an overlord of crime.
Leaning forward a bit, Cranston thumbed a dial. A voice came across the
air, tuned in by short-wave radio. It was the quiet tone of Burbank, The
Shadow's contact man, giving reports from various of The Shadow's secret
agents. They had checked the news account in the afternoon paper and had not
determined the source of the leak.
There were many channels through which it could have come. It might have
drifted from some shipping office, or been given out by someone with the
steamship company. The banks which supplied the cash knew all about it, as did
the trucking company which was to furnish the armored car.
Any one of several dozen persons could have been responsible, but that
did
not explain why the facts had been released in the first place. Behind that
point, The Shadow could see intended crime as a motive.
More reports came by short wave. Agents had checked on Melbrun's
building.
The exporter's office was on the sixth floor. Next door was a building that
had
a roof on the same level, and also offered a view of a fire tower that showed
a
rear exit from Melbrun's building. The adjacent roof was the very sort of post
that The Shadow wanted.
The limousine was entering the Holland Tunnel. Turning off the radio,
Cranston leaned forward and noted the clock on the dashboard in front of the
chauffeur.
Reaching lazily for the speaking tube, he instructed the chauffeur to
take
him to an address near Melbrun's building. The clock said quarter of six; ten
minutes would bring the big car to its destination.
Cranston's leisurely pose ended as the car sped from the tunnel. His
hands
slid open a drawer beneath the rear seat, whipped out a black cloak, which he
whisked across his shoulders. Opening a flattened slouch hat, Cranston clamped
it on his head. Drawing thin black gloves over his hands, this man of sudden
action reached for a brace of .45-caliber automatics and slid them beneath his
cloak.
A whispered laugh stirred the darkened interior of the car. Darkness had
settled over the city, too, and it furnished the very element that this
black-cloaked master wanted. Should crime be scheduled for this evening, it
would find trouble in the gloom.
The Shadow, master of the night, was on his way to combat crime!
CHAPTER III
TWISTED BATTLE
AS The Shadow's car was nearing the vicinity of Melbrun's building, a
shambling figure sidled in from the darkness and paused before the lighted
entrance. He was promptly recognized by men already on the ground: the private
detectives stationed by Melbrun. The arrival was Jake Smarley, the bookie.
One of the dicks acted as if he owned the building. Accosting Smarley, he
asked him what he wanted. The stooped bookie whined that he was going up to
Melbrun's office to see Mr. Kelson. He argued that Kelson would be there,
because he always stayed until six o'clock.
From across the street, two plainclothes men shifted into sight. They
recognized Smarley, too, and gave the private dicks a nod. Smarley, the
bookie,
wasn't the type who could start trouble. It was better to pass him through and
find out what he really wanted.
Upstairs, Smarley encountered another pair of watchers, who gruffly
demanded what he wanted. When they learned that he was going to the offices of
the United Import Co., they pointed out the door to him. As soon as Smarley
entered, the dicks moved to the door, opened it a trifle and looked in on what
followed.
The employees recognized Smarley and exchanged grins, with the exception
of Kelson. The secretary was seated at his desk, wiping a pair of spectacles.
He squinted as he saw Smarley; putting on his glasses, he recognized the
bookie. A squeamish expression promptly decorated Kelson's sallow face.
"Hello, Kelson," wheezed Smarley, in an almost fatherly fashion. "All
through your work? We can have a little chat."
"Not today, Smarley," pleaded Kelson. "I've got a lot of things to do for
Mr. Melbrun."
Smarley gave a sharp look toward the door of Melbrun's office, then
inquired in a low voice:
"Is Mr. Melbrun still in there?"
Kelson nodded. He figured that it would support his argument. On previous
visits, Smarley had always called up first, to make sure that Melbrun wasn't
in. Since his business with Kelson was a personal matter, involving unpaid
racing bets, he had not wanted Melbrun to know about it. But on this occasion
Smarley went against form.
With an ugly, dryish grin, Smarley arose from the desk and turned toward
Melbrun's door, saying, loud enough for the rest of the office force to hear:
"This has gone far enough, Kelson. You haven't paid me what you owe me,
so
I'm going to take it up with your boss."
"No, no!" Kelson rose, excited. "I forgot, Smarley. Mr. Melbrun went out
-"
By then, Smarley had opened the private door. He peered into Melbrun's
office, saw that it was empty. His face showed reproval, as he turned to
Kelson.
"So you lied to me," whined Smarley. "Tried to trick a poor old man who
trusted you. Look at me" - he tugged his pockets, turning them inside out;
then
extended his hands, palms upward, letting them tremble - "a poor old man who
hasn't a cent of his own! Yet you owe me money and -"
"I'll pay it, Smarley," inserted Kelson, anxiously. "I'll let you have
some cash, right now. Here!"
He pulled two ten-dollar bills from his pocket. Smarley eyed the cash as
though he wanted to cry, much to the amusement of the other men in the office,
who enjoyed Kelson's plight. In the hallway, the detectives closed the door
and
went back to the elevators, laughing at the situation.
It was really funny, to learn that Kelson had played the races and lost
to
a bookie like Smarley. Kelson was the sort who tried to act like a human
machine, as though he didn't have a single fault or weakness. Having found out
what Smarley's business was, the private dicks were quite willing to let him
thrash it out with Kelson.
As for the office force, they were quite delighted. They disliked Kelson,
and were finding out, to their great glee, why Smarley had come to the office
other times when Melbrun was out, to hold conferences with the private
secretary.
To their enjoyment, Smarley shook his head at sight of Kelson's twenty
dollars.
"It won't do, Kelson," whined Smarley. "I want the full amount, two
hundred and fifty dollars."
"But I don't have it, Smarley -"
"Then you can give me a note for it," inserted the bookie, loudly. "A
promissory note, for thirty days. You ought to have some of those in your desk
- the blanks, I mean."
Kelson shook his head; then, deciding that a signed note would certainly
end the frequency of Smarley's visits, the secretary changed his gesture to a
nod.
"I'll sign the note," he decided. "Wait here, Smarley, while I get a
blank
from Mr. Melbrun's desk."
PUSHING past Smarley, Kelson entered the private office. Solemnly,
Smarley
eyed the other office workers, and received their approving grins. Reverting
to
his suspicious attitude, the bookie looked into Melbrun's office again; then,
entering, he closed the door behind him.
It was done neatly, so naturally that the men in the outer office did not
link Smarley's action to anything more sinister than a desire to collect money
that was really owing to him.
Nor did Kelson guess Smarley's purpose. At Melbrun's desk, Kelson was
writing out a promissory note; he scarcely noted Smarley, as the withery
bookie
stepped past him.
There was a strong door in the rear corner of Melbrun's office; a barrier
that was heavily bolted. Smoothly, Smarley pulled back the bolts. Despite his
care, the last one grated, bringing Kelson around. Anxiously, Kelson gasped:
"What are you doing, Smarley?"
Whipping from his crouch, Smarley sprang for Kelson with a speed that
left
the sallow secretary breathless. As he came, the bookie pulled a revolver from
his hip. Reaching the desk, he planted the gun muzzle squarely against
Kelson's
ribs.
"Get busy on that safe!" hissed Smarley. "Open it up! Hand me over the
Anitoga cash!"
Kelson gulped loudly, then:
"But I don't know the combination!" he panted. "Honest, Smarley, I don't.
Mr. Melbrun was coming back."
With all of Kelson's pretense at sincerity, Smarley was not deceived.
"No stalling," he prompted. "Get busy, I tell you! If you don't, I'll
shoot!"
Quivering, Kelson approached the safe. He fumbled at the dial, as though
trying to get the combination by guesswork. Smarley nudged harder with the
gun.
"Start over." The bookie's tone was low and harsh. "No fake stuff,
Kelson.
I want results in a hurry!"
Light from a floor lamp showed the tenseness of both faces. Kelson's
sallow features were twitching; Smarley's visage was hard. It looked like a
devil's mask, that first face belonging to the man who boasted that he had
five.
The tense pair were between the floor lamp and the rear window of the
private office. The window shade was drawn; Melbrun had lowered it earlier,
when he turned on the office lights. But the shade, thanks to the position of
the floor lamp, did not hide the scene in Melbrun's office.
The Shadow had arrived upon the adjacent roof. He was viewing a drama
silhouetted against the yellow shade. Enlarged, the shadows of Smarley and
Kelson looked grotesque, but their actions were portrayed in excellent detail.
Kelson's moving hands told what they were doing. At moments, The Shadow
could see the shading from the safe dial, a lump of black against a smooth,
upright block. Smarley's hand was plain, too, and as it shifted, the outline
of
his revolver was quite visible.
A move at this moment would be fatal for Kelson. Awaiting the proper
time,
The Shadow gauged the distance from his roof to Melbrun's window. It wasn't
far;
a spring would carry The Shadow to the window ledge, which was fairly broad
and
below the level of the roof where The Shadow crouched.
The problem was to remain on the ledge, and The Shadow had a simple plan.
Drawing an automatic, he reversed it, clutching the barrel and raising the
handle of the gun as though it were the head of a hammer.
As The Shadow watched, a big shape of enlarging blackness blotted out the
silhouettes of Smarley and Kelson. It was the safe door, swinging open.
With a lunge, The Shadow left the roof. He swished through the darkness,
at a downward angle toward the window ledge. His arm was swinging as he came;
his gun struck glass an instant before his feet landed on the window ledge.
That sledging blow shattered the glass in the upper window sash; the
descending gun caught the woodwork like a grappling hook. The Shadow's cloaked
form gave a backward sway, that would have pitched an ordinary jumper to the
depths.
But this strange venturer did not fall. He still gripped the gun barrel,
摘要：

THEFIFTHFACEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"August15,1940.Wasitthefaceofdeath?OnlyTheShadowknew!CHAPTERITHEFIRSTFACETHREEmenweregatheredinagarishapartmentthathadanappearanceofpastglory.Gold-braidedcurtainswerefrayedattheedges;mahoganychairswerescratchedandbattered.Eventhefan...

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