Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 168 - The Lone Tiger

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THE LONE TIGER
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," February 15, 1939.
When the law failed; when a $100,000-reward offer brought no success, The
Shadow set out to capture The Lone Tiger.
CHAPTER I
JUSTICE RENDERED
THERE was a murmur, a stir, throughout the well-thronged courtroom.
Buzzing sounds were silenced by the stern rap of the judge's gavel. The quiet
that ensued seemed chilled with fearful omen, particularly to the three
prisoners who awaited the verdict.
The judge's eyes were fixed upon that trio. His gavel looked like a
weapon
more formidable than any that these prisoners had ever before faced. Those
raps
that the hammer had delivered were fateful strokes that ended all hope of
future freedom.
Steadily, grimly, the judge droned the names of the defendants, adding
the
aliases that the three men had used in crime. Then, to emphasize the identity
of
the culprits, he added:
"You are the last members of that notorious band that styled itself the
Tiger Mob. Seven others of your outlaw organization have already received the
penalties that they deserved. I need not repeat their names, nor the details
of
their individual capture.
"Suffice it, that you three managed to avoid justice during the two-year
period while the others were being apprehended. With your arrest, the score
became complete. Law and justice have gained a tenfold victory!"
There was a pause. The judge's austere face retained its solemnity, but
his expression indicated that he was thinking of other persons, and
contemplating past events.
"Most heinous of the crimes committed by the Tiger Mob," resumed the
justice, "was the raid upon the home of Joseph Mileson, esteemed New York
citizen and philanthropist. Not satisfied with the large loot obtained through
that robbery, the ten fiends subjected Mr. Mileson and his family to gross
mistreatment.
"The Milesons, together with their servants, were locked in an airtight
wine cellar, to await their fate. It has been pleaded" - the judge's voice was
cold again, his eyes returning to the prisoners - "that the criminals did not
realize that they were leaving helpless persons to die. But the law can make
no
allowances for the oversight of individuals engaged in crime."
The judge was leaning forward again; the culprits quailed beneath his
stern gaze.
"Chance saved you," he told the prisoners. "Your victims, luckily
released, escaped death; hence I cannot sentence you for murder. But there was
one member of that party who was in ill health. She was Joseph Mileson's only
daughter, Dorothy."
A sob stabbed through the courtroom. The judge sat silent, while
sympathetic attendants aided a black-veiled woman toward the door. She was
Mileson's wife, mother of the girl that the judge had named.
A gray-haired man was seated in the chair next to the one just vacated.
He
was Joseph Mileson; his face, handsome and of kindly mold, was fixed in an
expression that gave it the appearance of granite. Great though the ordeal,
Joseph Mileson was determined to see it through.
"DOROTHY MILESON died soon after that horrible night," continued the
judge. "Forced from her bed, insufficiently clad against the chill of the wine
cellar, she suffered a relapse that made her illness fatal. The law,
unfortunately, cannot declare that death to be murder; but Joseph Mileson has
always regarded it as such.
"He has thrown his entire effort into the capture of the Tiger Mob. He
has
been unsparing of his wealth, in his desire to see every member of that evil
band brought before the bar of justice. I commend him for that work, and
herewith affirm that he deserves all credit for the law's complete triumph.
"Scattered everywhere, the members of the Tiger Mob used every device to
keep themselves hidden and unrecognized. Only Mileson's perseverance could
have
ferreted them out. Only his willingness to leave no stone unturned, no penny
unspent, could have produced the mass of indisputable evidence that made the
conviction of each mobster a foregone result, with each capture."
His own eyes meeting Mileson's, the judge flashed emphasis of his
approval. He understood the nod that the gray-haired man gave. Mileson wanted
to hear the words that would bring the trial to an end. The judge turned to
the
shrunken prisoners.
"You have pleaded guilty," he told them crisply. "Under other
circumstances, that might bring leniency. With the weight of evidence against
you, it has no bearing in this case. I sentence each of you to a term of
twenty
years in the State prison."
From somewhere in the courtroom came a vague, whispery tone; it seemed
the
echo of a strange laugh, sinister, unearthly. The judge heard it, and started.
But the prisoners were the ones most impressed. Taunted by that weird, evasive
mirth, they quivered like frail saplings in a wind.
Only a ghost of a laugh! But it brought them terror that would persist
long after they had become accustomed to the penitentiary cells!
The laugh of The Shadow!
STRANGE whispers were drowned by a scurry at the rear of the courtroom,
where reporters were dashing out to flash the news that marked the end of the
Tiger Mob. Photographers were crowding the doorway, to take flashlight shots
of
Joseph Mileson when he came out.
His granite pose gone, Mileson was again a pathetic father saddened by
the
loss of his daughter. Sympathetic friends jostled the photographers and
clapped
hats in front of camera lenses. Reaching the corridor, Mileson hurried shakily
toward a stairway. He was stumbling, clutching for the rail, when a firm hand
clutched his arm.
Helped down the stairs, Mileson stared at his rescuer. He saw a tall man,
whose countenance was masklike, hawkish in its mold. Yet those fixed features
conveyed a greater sympathy than any that Mileson had previously received.
"Lamont Cranston!" Mileson gulped his recognition. Then, huskily: "You
were there in the courtroom?"
Cranston nodded. Outside the building, he guided Mileson into a large
limousine, then shut the door in the faces of reporters and cameramen, who
came
dashing over. As the limousine started, Cranston spoke through a tube to the
chauffeur:
"Mr. Mileson's residence, Stanley."
Mileson smiled his gratitude. This ride in Cranston's limousine was
saving
him a lot of difficulty with reporters. Riding along, Mileson became quite
composed; then asked, casually:
"What did you think of the trial, Cranston?"
"Excellent!" returned Cranston, calmly. "As far as it went."
"As far as it went? Why, it marked the finish of the Tiger Mob!"
"Not quite."
There was something in Cranston's tone that made Mileson stare. With
piercing eyes, the gray-haired man studied his friend's masklike face.
Cranston's expression was inscrutable - a fact which impressed Mileson even
more.
"It is obvious," observed Cranston, "that no member of the Tiger Mob was
of sufficient caliber to head the organization. Two or three claimed temporary
leadership, which satisfied the law. But there must have been a hidden brain
behind the mob's long campaign; one clever enough to preserve his identity
even
from his own followers."
"You have guessed it, Cranston," declared Mileson. "There is such a man.
I
know it, yet I cannot prove it. I saw him, that night at my home: the Lone
Tiger!"
Cranston's eyes seemed to flash a question. Mileson smiled.
"You wonder where I coined that name," remarked the elderly man. "Let me
tell you the details."
Settling back in the cushions, Mileson stared into the early dusk that
was
gathering over Manhattan. Then:
"ON that terrible night," Mileson related, "I was in my study when the
mob
invaded it. Masked men marched me to the living room, where others held the
rest
of the family, and the servants, under the threat of guns.
"I counted ten in the mob. So did the others who were imprisoned with me.
But twice - once outside the study; again, during the march to the wine cellar
- I glimpsed a leader who kept in the background. I saw his face - first
against a window shade; then with a door as background.
"He had a hideous profile; a nose that bulged outward like a vulture's
beak. A hooked nose, as ugly as the lips beneath it. I might be wrong on other
details, but the nose was so conspicuous, that I remembered it."
Mileson paused. His thoughts traveled to a later episode.
"We were rescued," he recounted, "by a stranger who arrived an hour after
the Tiger Mob had gone. It was he who unbarred the door, while I was trying to
force it from the inside. I, alone, saw him, and spoke with him later. He was
a
being clad in a black cloak, who called himself The Shadow."
Cranston's look seemed almost doubtful.
"These are facts!" insisted Mileson, "Facts that I have never before
mentioned to any one, Cranston! All during my search for the Tiger Mob, in
which I employed hundreds of investigators, I received mysterious messages
from
The Shadow. The facts that he supplied enabled me to gain results.
"It is The Shadow, not myself, who deserves credit for what has been
done.
Always, with his communications, he has reminded me not to forget the Lone
Tiger. It was The Shadow who coined that apt title for the hidden chief of the
Tiger Mob."
Doubt was erased from Cranston's face. Mileson was pleased when he
observed that his friend was convinced. Then came Cranston's even-toned
question:
"Have you forgotten the Lone Tiger?"
Mileson lifted his head. Again his face had taken on a granite
appearance,
that made the elderly millionaire seem a symbol of righteous vengeance.
"I have not forgotten!" Mileson's tone had risen. "I have merely waited,
hoping that some culprit would testify regarding his hidden chief. Not one has
done so; therefore, the next move will be mine. Tomorrow, Cranston, New York
will be startled by the greatest man hunt in the city's history!
"Crook will turn against crook. Men who have fought against the law will
aid in the search for the Lone Tiger. Every stone will be turned; from beneath
those stones will crawl slimy humans, who will voice their testimony regarding
the Lone Tiger.
"The greatest of all rogues will be found! He will be treated like the
smallest of his followers. The law will recognize both his existence and his
hidden part in crime. This time" -Mileson's final words were emphatic - "I
shall insist that credit for the triumph be given to The Shadow!"
THE car had reached Mileson's home, a large, old-fashioned mansion on the
corner of a secluded avenue. Around the grounds was a high stone wall designed
to keep out intruders, but which had served, ironically enough, to hide the
operations of the Tiger Mob, after they had invaded Mileson's premises on that
tragic night, two years ago.
Stepping from the limousine, Mileson gripped Cranston's hand with a firm
parting shake. The elderly philanthropist had felt a letdown after today's
trial, but that had passed. Inspired by his own account of the task that lay
ahead, Mileson was again an instrument of justice, intent upon waging
ceaseless
war until the final score was settled. Though Mileson had not specified just
what the morrow's move would be, Cranston seemed quite satisfied as he settled
back in the rear of the limousine. A lone passenger in the big car, he let his
thin lips form a smile; one of conviction, not of doubt.
That Lamont Cranston believed Mileson's statements regarding a master
crook known as the Lone Tiger and an amazing crime hunter called The Shadow,
was proven when a soft laugh came from Cranston's smiling lips.
Though repressed, that tone carried the same sinister touch that had
characterized the mirth heard in the courtroom. Weird, persistent in its
sibilant echoes, the laugh was the sort that no other lips could imitate.
The tone revealed Cranston's deep interest in things to come; his desire
to make the most of opportunities that would arrive when Joseph Mileson
released tomorrow's bombshell.
For this person who posed as Lamont Cranston, gentleman of leisure, was
none other than The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE TIGER HUNT
THREE days had passed since the trial. Those days had produced the very
excitement that Joseph Mileson had promised. The excitement was not over; in
fact, it seemed just beginning, as Lamont Cranston could have testified as he
sat in the spacious reading room of the exclusive Cobalt Club.
Spread before him, Cranston held a newspaper; for the hundredth time, he
was studying a full-page advertisement that had appeared in every edition
during the last three days. Heading the ad, in big, smashing type, was:
WANTED - THE LONE TIGER!
Under that line were paragraphs stating briefly that the men convicted
three days ago were not the last of the Tiger Mob; that bigger game was still
at stake, in the person of the Tiger himself. Then, plastered across the
middle
of the page, in bigger type than any other, was the announcement:
$100,000 REWARD - DEAD OR ALIVE!
Most such rewards had strings attached. Not this one. The cash was ready,
waiting, for anyone who could prove who the Lone Tiger was, and thereby lead
to
his capture. If death had already found the unknown crime master who had
controlled the Tiger Mob, proof of that fact, along with evidence of the man's
identity, would result in payment of the hundred thousand dollars.
The next paragraphs covered such details, stating also that no questions
would be asked; that any informant's name would be kept from the public, if so
desired. At the bottom of the ad was the name of the man who offered the
reward, along with his printed signature, in facsimile: "Joseph Mileson."
The plan was everything that Mileson had claimed. It was a direct appeal
to the underworld, urging the surrender of the Lone Tiger, could he be found.
It offered opportunity to anyone who, through some past chance, might have
learned that such a supercrook existed.
Mileson was right. Money talked; it would turn crook against crook. The
Shadow had checked on that fact personally, through many visits to the
badlands. Day and night - mostly the latter - he had prowled the worst
districts of Manhattan, sometimes in garb of black, other times in one of his
many disguises. His present visit to the Cobalt Club was merely a breathing
period, for he found it restful, here in the reading room.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Mileson was spending more than that on advertising alone. As The Shadow
laid the newspaper aside, he could hear the music of a steam calliope
penetrating to the almost soundproof reading room. Glancing from the window,
he
saw the calliope truck go by along the street, its side plastered with printed
sheets proclaiming: $100,000 REWARD. The music cut off and a voice came from a
loud-speaker, bawling the words:
"Wanted, dead or alive - the Lone Tiger! Wanted, dead or alive -"
From his pocket, The Shadow produced another newspaper, the pink-covered
edition of the tabloid Classic. The tabs, like the larger newspapers, carried
the $100,000 advertisement, and with good reason, for they circulated widely
in
districts where hoodlums dwelt.
The Classic had done more than print the advertisement. On its front page
it had a picture of a tiger dressed in clothes, stalking along a New York
street, with the caption: "The Lone Tiger - Who is He?"
Turning the pages, The Shadow came to a two-paragraph story signed by a
writer named Clyde Burke, and carefully scanned its lines. Burke, it chanced,
was an agent of The Shadow, and a very useful one, for he handled crime
stories
for the Classic and could therefore be assigned - by The Shadow, as well as
the
newspaper - to important sectors in the underworld.
STROLLING out into the foyer, The Shadow entered a telephone booth and
put
in a call. Soon he was talking to Joseph Mileson, asking him, in Cranston's
style, if anything had developed.
In a disappointed tone, Mileson replied that nothing had. Many letters
had
been received, most of them anonymous, offering to sell information on all
sorts
of crime for prices ranging as low as fifty dollars; but no one had guaranteed
facts regarding the Lone Tiger.
Mileson invited Cranston to drop in, whenever he chose, and look over the
correspondence, and received Cranston's assurance that such a visit would be
made.
Calling another number, The Shadow was answered by an even-toned voice:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report!"
No longer was The Shadow's tone the drawl that suited Cranston. He spoke
the word "report" in a sinister whisper that Burbank recognized. The reports
came, as given by many agents. All workers for The Shadow reported through
Burbank, as their contact man.
One report particularly interested The Shadow.
"From Hawkeye," stated Burbank. "Pug Lorby showed up at the Pink Rat.
Said
he just got back to town. He called Steve's Place, to say he'd be there by
seven
o'clock."
"Instructions -"
The Shadow was assigning his agent Hawkeye to new duties. The matter of
Pug Lorby was one that The Shadow could handle on his own. It offered
excellent
prospects, for the simple reason that Pug was wanted by the police. No crook
in
his situation would have returned to Manhattan unless important work was
afoot.
The Shadow had instructed his agents to be on special lookout for any
hoodlums in Pug's category.
Though streets were darkening, the sky was still bright when The Shadow
stepped from the door of the Cobalt Club. The doorman grinned when he saw the
aristocratic Mr. Cranston stare upward like other gawkers who lined the
sidewalks. They were watching a sky writer.
With streams of smoke from his toy-like plane, the airman had just
completed a sky message that read:
"$100,000."
Cranston's limousine wheeled from across the street. Its owner stepped
aboard, spoke an address through the tube. Stanley grimaced, but drove
stolidly
ahead. The chauffeur didn't like Cranston's habit of visiting dingy districts.
Oddly, Stanley did not see Cranston leave the car when it parked at the
designated place. Yet Stanley was used to that. His employer had a remarkable
ability at sliding in and out of the limousine unnoticed. Maybe the fact would
have no longer puzzled Stanley, had he seen Cranston draw a black cloak and
hat
from beneath the limousine's rear seat, while they were nearing the
destination.
ENVELOPED in blackness, The Shadow shrouded his course through alleyways
and other passages that seemed to open in the dusk as he approached them.
Easing to a door, The Shadow blackened himself against it.
The door was latched, but not bolted. It was the rear exit from Steve's
Place, a grogshop popular with hoodlums. The door was meant for quick
departure
of patrons.
Making entry into the rear room of a stone-walled basement, The Shadow
picked his way past liquor cases and cans of alcohol. Turning the knob of a
rickety door, he gained an inch-wide view into the main room of the grog shop.
Though it was only quarter of seven, The Shadow had not arrived too early.
Pug Lorby, who had a nose that someone had pounded a few degrees off
center, was seated at a corner table nursing a fifteen-cent glass of
amber-colored liquid that the undiscriminating patrons of Steve's Place
accepted as whiskey.
Pug was near the telephone, which occupied a closet near The Shadow's
door. He was keeping his eye on the improvised phone booth, while he
occasionally rubbed his left ear, which was of the cauliflower variety.
Five minutes proved The Shadow's wisdom in arriving early. The phone
rang;
Pug hurried to answer it. Though he kept his lips close to the mouthpiece, The
Shadow was close enough to hear him growl:
"H'lo... That you, Goofer?... Sure, this is Pug... Yeah, I got your
letter, that's why I'm here... What's that? I don't get it, Goofer -"
The message was being repeated. Meanwhile, The Shadow was linking the
name
Goofer with Pug's return to New York. To a certainty, the caller was Goofer
Shayne, a mob leader who had specialized in strong-arm work for racketeers.
Goofer's thugs were usually of Pug's sort: fighters who were better with
fists and brass knuckles, than with guns. That was no guarantee, however, that
they did not carry revolvers. Tonight's business, it seemed, was to prove more
important than the mere slugging of a few laundry truck drivers whose owners
had failed to pay "protection" fees.
Stirred by what was coming across the telephone wire, Pug had shifted the
receiver from his cauliflower ear to his good one. The lips beneath his
twisted
nose showed eager enthusiasm.
"So the guy knows about the Lone Tiger!" gruffed Pug. "You bet I'll be
there to help you put the heat on him! You'll be cutting me in, same as all
the
rest, hey, Goofer? Yeah, it won't be my fault, if I ain't there in time to
help
grab him.
"Whered'ya say the place is?...Yeah, I get it - half a block east of the
Hotel Romany... Sure, I know the joint... All right, I'm going east, then
what?... Just past the shoemaker shop... A little door in a big one -"
"I got it, Goofer... Yeah, I'll grab the subway and be up there inside of
twenty minutes. Hold off the heat until I show up... No, don't let no lugs get
started with a hunk of hose, until I show 'em how -"
Banging down the receiver, Pug stepped from the shallow closet and
started
for the bar, fumbling in his pocket to produce payment for his drink. His lips
showed contempt as he looked at the coins in his hand. Pug was visioning a fat
roll of bills as his share of the Mileson reward.
While Pug was going out through the front of Steve's Place, The Shadow
vanished by the rear exit. His trip back to the limousine was swift; entering
the car, he startled Stanley by his early return.
"Back to the club, Stanley," came Cranston's order.
There was method in The Shadow's return to the Cobalt Club. He could not
have picked another destination. It happened that the Cobalt Club was only a
half block north of the corner occupied by the Hotel Romany, the landmark from
which The Shadow intended to locate his next goal.
The Shadow still had time to arrive before crooks "gave the heat" to some
unfortunate, who might have some clue to the Lone Tiger's identity. Therefore,
The Shadow was figuring on the future; not the past.
He was picturing the corner of the Hotel Romany, where grimy walls
beneath
old-fashioned high-built windows would offer a perfect spot for cover. It
would
be easy, too, to drop off at that corner as Stanley slowed for the final turn.
The Shadow's whispered laugh foretold that Goofer Shayne would be sorry
he
hadn't assembled a larger crew, before tonight's events were finished.
CHAPTER III
THE SILENT WITNESS
THE Hotel Romany was exactly as The Shadow had pictured it - an old,
forbidding structure, dim except at the high-stepped entrance some fifty feet
from the corner. The Shadow intended to avoid that lighted area; but some
persons found it desirable.
Marion Delmar was one. On a quiet avenue like this, a girl as attractive
as Marion was apt to receive unwanted greetings from strangers, unless she
stayed in the shelter of the lobby entrance. That was why Marion always waited
here when Kremp was bringing the car.
This was Marion's night off. Usually, she worked evenings, going over the
rental ledgers in the little office that formed part of Mr. Cadbury's
apartment. Retired from active business, David Cadbury was making the best of
unwise real estate investments by renting properties.
Cadbury had only two employees: Marion, his secretary; Kremp, his
chauffeur. Tonight, Cadbury had told Kremp to meet Marion at whatever time she
stated and take her to Times Square. Marion had named the Romany, because she
was having dinner there and because it was near the garage where Kremp kept
the
car, when downtown. She had set the time at quarter of seven, but Kremp was
already fifteen minutes late.
Kremp had a habit of being late, as Marion could have told Cadbury; but
she felt it poor policy to criticize another employee. However, with her watch
showing seven o'clock and no sign of Kremp, she decided that she could at
least
call Mr. Cadbury and let him form his own conclusions. She had a good enough
excuse; she had remembered that a fire insurance premium was due, so she could
remind Cadbury to send the check.
Finding a telephone in the lobby, Marion dialed Cadbury's number, but
received no answer. She was starting to dial again, when the noise of a
raucous
radio, shouting through the lobby, made her decide that a call would be
useless,
since Cadbury was hard of hearing and would not be able to hear her voice,
since
it would be mixed with the radio noise.
Besides, maybe Kremp had arrived by this time. If he had, he'd blame
Marion for being late.
Again, there was no sign of Kremp outside the hotel steps. Marion began
to
look about for a cab; then she had a better idea. She knew where the garage
was
- only a few minutes walk away. It wouldn't be a bad idea to find out just
what
was keeping Kremp.
WALKING along the side street, Marion came to the garage. The big door
was
closed tight, but there was a little door cut in it and the little door was
unlocked.
Marion opened it, stepped into a long, gloomy space filled with cars.
Away
at the back, she could see a little door that led to the rear street.
No one was about, not even an attendant. But Marion saw Cadbury's sedan,
parked beside the wall. She opened the rear door and stepped into the car.
Closing the door again, she lighted a cigarette and began to think of
something
sarcastic to tell Kremp when he arrived.
Lost in a reverie, Marion did not hear the sneaky footsteps that entered
the garage through the very door that she had used. The first token that told
her of an arrival was the low rap of a hand knuckling a peculiar signal
against
woodwork.
There was the creak of an opening door. Marion located it, just as the
door closed. Her alarm was merely momentary. It faded when she decided that
the
signal had probably admitted another player to a crap game in a side room of
the
garage. Probably that was where Kremp was - shooting dice with the attendants.
Concentrated upon the door, Marion failed to notice a new occurrence.
Again, a person was entering the garage, but with a stealth far greater than
the man before. In fact, the being who was entering gave no proof that he was
of solid substance.
Rather, he was a shadow. A black blot against the grimy white of the
garage wall, the figure faded in elusive style, shifting uncannily from spots
where light was prevalent. Almost before Marion's gaze, the strange invader
blended with the dark surface of a black sedan.
Then the shape was against the very door that Marion was watching. It
clouded there, creeping upward, until the door was blotted. Marion blinked,
wondering what was the matter with her eyes. She decided that she had been
staring too intently into the gloom, so she relaxed.
Had there been any betrayal of light from beyond the door, the girl would
have noticed it; but there was none. The black-clad intruder had his own
method
of entering doors unobserved. His arm raised, crooked itself, to block light
from above. The door opened noiselessly; when it closed, the figure was beyond
it.
INSIDE a peculiarly-shaped room, The Shadow had gained an excellent
advantage. The room was lighted, and occupied by men; but the portion that The
Shadow had entered was a sort of alcove, and the occupants were beyond the
corner. They had chosen a remote spot, so that the sound of their voices would
not carry.
As he moved forward to the main portion of the room, The Shadow saw a
hiding place that offered a perfect chance for closer observation. Just past
the corner were some stacks of tires, set out a few feet from the wall.
Squeezing in back of them, The Shadow crouched low and tilted his head against
a tire that was slightly off center in its stack.
Through that lookout space, he saw the scene at the inner end of the room
- a drama that was dominated by a rangy, sallow-faced man whose flattish nose
and wide, greedy-looking lips were topped by eyes that flashed black and ugly
with every thrust of the fellow's bulldog chin.
The fellow was Goofer Shayne; he was the only well-dressed man in the
ill-assorted group that surrounded him. Not that Goofer was fastidious; it was
contrast, alone, that made him look conspicuous. The rest of his band, four in
number, were rough-clad hoodlums much like Pug Lorby, who had joined the
throng
just before The Shadow entered and was a member of the quartet.
It was Pug who had attracted Marion's attention by his raps at the door;
and the crooked-nosed slugger was already trying to make himself important.
On the floor lay a man in chauffeur's uniform, except for his cap, which
had been tossed beside him. Goofer was threatening the prisoner, and Pug, his
ugly face shoved forward, was nodding approval of every word.
"You'll talk, Kremp" - Goofer's voice had a bite like steel - "and you'll
talk plenty! I'm telling you what's good for you - or else -"
"Or else this!" supplied Pug, exhibiting a short length of rubber hose,
which he wagged in front of Kremp's upturned face. "Listen, mug; the coppers
are boobs when it comes to handling a hunk of hose. I oughta know; they tried
it on me more than onct. You know what I done? I laughed at 'em!"
"Pipe down, Pug!" growled Goofer. "I'll tell you when to talk. Listen,
you" - he shoved his face close to Kremp's - "I'm going back to the other
proposition! Savvy?"
Muscles showed taut, as Goofer's left hand clutched the front of Kremp's
jacket and yanked the chauffeur to a sitting position. Kremp was helpless,
though unbound; the paleness of his sharp, pointed face proved that he knew
his
plight.
"Here's what we know," snapped Goofer. "You were with the Tiger Mob
before
they pulled that sour job at Mileson's. But you didn't get out of the mob
because you got feeling soft. Nobody ever pulled a run-out on that outfit.
"They let you quit because they were told to. And there's only one guy
who
could have shoved that order through. That guy was the Lone Tiger. The mob was
smart, keeping their lips buttoned about the big-shot.
"Maybe none of them knows who he is. But if any guy knows, it's you! It's
a cinch you're still tied up with the Lone Tiger. He told you to get a
chauffeur's job, just for a blind. Have I got it right?"
FOR the first time, Kremp gave acknowledgment in the form of a weak nod.
He wasn't looking at Pug; but the latter took credit, by nudging the rubber
hose and staring about, expecting approval from the rest of the mob.
"You picked a soft job," continued Goofer, "with an old cluck, this guy
Cadbury, who don't overwork you. That gives you plenty of time to do jobs for
the Lone Tiger. Whenever he wants you, huh?"
"He hasn't wanted me," Kremp said, huskily. "Not since Mileson has been
running down the mob. He's laid low, the Tiger has, like I have."
"Jittery, huh?"
"No. He's gone into another racket. He cleaned up plenty out of that
Mileson job."
Goofer wiggled both hands, as a sign for his four followers to move back.
However, Pug remained; with a glare, Goofer pulled a blackjack from his hip
pocket.
"Want this behind the ear?" he asked Pug. "If you don't, get back! Why
don't you talk to yourself through that hunk of hose? Try it with that
funny-looking ear. Maybe you can hear something, if you can remember what you
tell yourself."
Pug edged back with the others. Goofer squatted beside Kremp. His growl
became a low, convincing roll, as he talked with the helpless chauffeur.
"Here's the go," declared Goofer. "You give me the dope - I collect the
hundred grand. I'm going fifty-fifty with the boys, here. But there's only
摘要：

THELONETIGERbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"February15,1939.Whenthelawfailed;whena$100,000-rewardofferbroughtnosuccess,TheShadowsetouttocaptureTheLoneTiger.CHAPTERIJUSTICERENDEREDTHEREwasamurmur,astir,throughoutthewell-throngedcourtroom.Buzzingsoundsweresilencedbythesternrap...

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