Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 152 - The Rackets King

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THE RACKETS KING
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE RUB-OUT
? CHAPTER II. CLOAKED RESCUE
? CHAPTER III. TWO IN A CAB
? CHAPTER IV. BANISHED KILLERS
? CHAPTER V. TORN EVIDENCE
? CHAPTER VI. TRAVELERS MEET
? CHAPTER VII. TRAILS RENEWED
? CHAPTER VIII. UNWANTED PAYMENT
? CHAPTER IX. CROSSED TRAILS
? CHAPTER X. IRENE'S STORY
? CHAPTER XI. THE MISSING ALIBI
? CHAPTER XII. THE FORCED MEETING
? CHAPTER XIII. QUICK CAPTURE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE LOST HOUR
? CHAPTER XV. CRIME CONFESSED
? CHAPTER XVI. A MURDERER ACTS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SUICIDE SHACK
? CHAPTER XVIII. FACTS FROM THE PAST
? CHAPTER XIX. STROKES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XX. THE PATH RETRACED
? CHAPTER XXI. MURDERER'S METHODS
CHAPTER I. THE RUB-OUT
TEX DYBERT was lounging in the living room of his garish apartment, reading an evening newspaper.
News interested him tonight, for a stack of other journals lay beside his big chair. Tex had a large pencil
tucked behind his ear; occasionally, he withdrew that pencil, to mark a newspaper paragraph.
Dropping the last newspaper to the top of the pile, Tex arose and stretched. He patted the paunchy
stomach that bulged beneath his purple dressing gown. The amused look on his flattish, wide-jawed face
turned to an expression of annoyance.
Pretty soon, he'd have to go on a diet, like the doc had ordered. That was about the only thing in life that
worried Tex Dybert.
Thick lips resumed their grin. Hard eyes glittered as Tex walked over to a window. From this third-story
outlook, Tex could see the brilliant lights of Broadway, with the milling throngs that surged in Manhattan's
Rialto.
The lights were softened slightly by the greenish tinge of the thick window glass. The pane was
bulletproof, like the steel doors and walls that protected this apartment. Tex's abode topped a
three-story extension that formed a blunt wing of the Hotel Trebold. It had been fitted specially to suit
Tex's requirements.
Tex Dybert owned the Hotel Trebold.
He'd own New York, too, if he kept on long enough. He'd own the town by becoming supreme dictator
of the underworld. Tex Dybert was the only man who could accomplish that, for he had the right system.
Ostensibly, Tex was neither a criminal nor a racketeer. He was the mystery man of Broadway. Nobody
knew his business; he kept no records of any enterprises. Even the Feds couldn't learn where his money
came from, for there was no proof that money ever reached Tex Dybert, except through legitimate
earnings, like the profits from the Hotel Trebold. Tex admitted those, and paid income tax on them.
Yet Tex's system of acquiring stupendous sums was a simple one. His method was to take over existing
rackets.
Crime, as Tex analyzed it, was a type of business. Rackets depended on the law of supply and demand;
they were subject to competition like any other enterprise. As soon as a new racket started, everybody
crowded into it. That was when Tex got busy.
Tex knew the pulse throbs of the underworld. He had connections everywhere. He saw to it that new
rackets were undermined. When they ceased to be profitable, they needed a receivership, like any
bankrupt concern. That was where Tex took over.
Each crooked organization retained its old setup, but under new and more efficient management. The
hidden overlord was Tex Dybert.
The law figured that Tex ran a good percentage of all the rackets in New York; but the law couldn't
prove it. Police officials constantly harried Tex. He answered questions coolly, but revealed no useful
facts.
The only documentary evidence was his huge collection of newspaper clippings, a veritable cyclopedia of
racketeering activities. But the law couldn't arrest a guy for keeping scrapbooks.
When was a racket not a racket?
The answer to that riddle was: "After Tex Dybert, king of the rackets, took hold of it." From then on, the
racket was a sure-fire proposition that the law couldn't touch.
Tex thought of that as he planted a cork-tipped cigarette between his puffy lips. He was thinking of new
plums that he intended to add to his collection. When racketeers thought that they were getting to be
big-shots, they heard from Tex Dybert. He threatened to wreck them, expose them to the law, unless
they handed over a big percentage.
They always did; it was the easiest way out. Tex invariably had the goods on them.
A DOOR opened on the far side of the living room. Tex wheeled from the window, only to see
"Lopper," his squatty, rough-faced bodyguard. Lopper picked up the stack of newspapers, questioning
huskily:
"Want these pasted up, Tex?"
"Later." Tex's reply was smooth-toned. "Right now, I want you to go downstairs for a while. I'm
expecting a visitor."
Lopper looked toward a corner of the paneled room. There, in the wall, was the secret entrance to Tex's
private elevator. It could be opened only from this side; a tiny panel in it could be slid open to reveal a
peephole equipped with bulletproof glass.
If Tex ever saw the wrong person in that lighted elevator, he kept the fellow there until he summoned a
reception committee to wait downstairs. Then Tex pressed the button that sent the intruder down. It
wasn't healthy for uninvited persons to board that elevator.
Lopper's rough face showed a grin. He was thinking of a visitor who was due. He questioned:
"Lou Channing?"
For the moment, Tex glowered. Lopper was too inquisitive. Then the big-shot gave an indulgent sneer.
"Channing's due, all right," voiced Tex. "Either tonight or tomorrow. I haven't forgotten the twenty grand
he owes me from that poker game. He made a sucker out of himself, that trip. What's more"— Tex's
eyes stared hard—"he shot off his face about it! I don't like that, Lopper."
The bodyguard gave an understanding nod. Tex pointed to the newspapers that Lopper had picked up.
"Read some of the cracks those column writers are making," said Tex. "Stuff like, 'Who owes who, but
won't pay?' They're even talking about how big a gun it takes to crack a bulletproof window!"
"You mean Lou Channing says he's going to get you?"
"That's what they say he said. Only, he's lammed from town. I put a private dick on the job to trace him.
Wasted dough, I guess, because" - Tex's tone was confident—"sooner or later, Lou Channing will come
up in that elevator. When I look through the peephole, he'll be flashing twenty grand in his mitt, wanting to
pay me!"
Tex sat down in his chair. Lopper piled the newspapers on a corner table and went out through a little
hallway. He peered through a tiny loophole before he opened the outer door. With all clear, Lopper
unlocked the door and took the key with him.
Closing the door from the outside, he locked it. This was Lopper's key; Tex had a duplicate. Lopper
rang for an elevator and went downstairs. He reached the lobby and strolled over to the desk.
The Trebold wasn't a big hotel; it was easy for Lopper to watch the lobby. Moreover, all the help was in
Tex's hire.
Lopper's arrival told them that Tex expected a secret visitor. Lopper wouldn't go up again until Tex rang
for him. Meanwhile, if anything occurred below, Tex could be informed.
FIVE minutes passed. A taxi pulled up outside the front entrance. Lopper gave a casual look, then
showed a sudden glower. The clerk heard the bodyguard's snarl, saw the reason. A stocky man was
stepping in from the street.
Lopper had recognized the man's swarthy, poker-faced visage. The arrival was Joe Cardona, New
York's ace police inspector.
Cardona's visits to Tex Dybert had become a routine matter. Whenever crime took a sudden spread,
Tex was the man to see first, on the sheer guess that he knew the reason, even though he wouldn't tell.
There had been a wave of rackets lately, and Cardona was investigating them. He'd been in to see Tex
once, recently; the big-shot hadn't expected him back this soon.
This arrival of Cardona's was an untimely one, from Lopper's viewpoint. The bodyguard knew that Tex
didn't want to be disturbed.
"Hello, Joe!" greeted Lopper, trying to be affable. "Stick around and talk a while. Tex will be calling the
desk pretty soon. I'll tell him you're here."
The invitation meant little to Cardona. Nevertheless, he decided to handle Lopper tactfully.
"All right, Lopper," gruffed Cardona, "I'll chin with you. Maybe"— Joe's face kept steady—"you can tell
me a few things I want to know."
"About what, Joe?"
"These rackets that are getting too hoggish. They've put a couple of big businesses on the rocks. Maybe
you've read about it in some of Tex's clippings."
Lopper shook his head.
"I don't have time to read 'em, Joe. I keep too busy pasting them in those scrapbooks."
"Is that all Tex keeps you for?"
Lopper started an indignant reply, then decided that he was talking too much. A grin came to his harsh
face.
"I guess that's about all," said the bodyguard. "That, and keeping mugs from blowing in here to bother
Tex." As he spoke, Lopper dangled the big key to Tex's apartment. "You'd think Tex was in stir,
sometimes, the way he sticks in that apartment. I feel like a trustee, every time I lock him up. He's got a
key of his own, though."
Cardona looked interested in the key. His gaze showed admiration of its intricate design. He reached out
his hand, with the query:
"Special pattern, isn't it?"
A nod came from Lopper; he let Cardona take the key. The inspector eyed the open door of an
elevator; he gave a sudden clap to Lopper's shoulder.
"Thanks a lot for the key," chuckled Joe. "Tex will have a real surprise when I drop in on him!"
Before Lopper realized it, Cardona was heading for the elevator. The bodyguard sprang after him,
shouting:
"Hey, Joe! You can't get away with that stuff!"
"No?" Cardona shoved a resisting operator to the corner of the elevator. He slashed the sliding door in
front of Lopper's face. Then, to the elevator man: "Get going! To the third floor!"
THE fellow ran the elevator up. Joe stepped out and made for Tex's apartment. He could hear the ringing
of the telephone bell; Lopper was evidently calling from the desk. Cardona didn't intend to give Tex time
to answer. He shoved the key into the lock.
When Cardona entered, the bell still jangled loudly. Stepping through the entry, he saw Tex in the big
chair, his arms lying crossed, his head tilted forward. Tex had evidently fallen into a deep doze, for the
bell hadn't awakened him. Cardona figured a shake would do it.
Stepping to the chair, Cardona gripped the racketeer's shoulder. With Joe's first jostle, Tex's arms
dropped limp and his head rolled crazily, then tilted upward. For the first time, Cardona saw Tex's eyes.
They were glazed in a fixed stare.
Cardona saw something else. That was Tex's shirt front, where the purple dressing gown had spread
open. There was a dye there as vivid as the purple. The splotch was crimson. It was creeping like a
spreading ink blot, to cover a larger area.
All the while, the telephone bell kept up its strident clangor, loud enough for any living ears. But Tex
Dybert wasn't listening. That sound couldn't cleave its way into his dreams, for Tex was having none. He
wasn't asleep. He was dead!
Joe Cardona had come to question the biggest racketeer in New York. Instead, he had uncovered a
scene of murder.
CHAPTER II. CLOAKED RESCUE
JOE CARDONA began to think hard. The incessant ringing of the telephone bell disturbed him. He took
the instrument from its hook, to silence it. On the little telephone table, Cardona saw a pair of gloves.
They weren't Tex's; they were too small for his bulky hands. They wouldn't do for Lopper, either.
Maybe the murderer had worn them, to avoid fingerprints. On that hunch, Cardona pocketed the gloves.
An instant later, he was standing with a drawn revolver.
Joe was thinking of the murderer. Where was he, anyway? Who was he; and how had he gotten into this
impregnable room? Perhaps the killer was still here; if so, it would be Joe's job to handle him.
Only one light was glowing in the living room. It was a large reading lamp in back of Tex's shoulder.
Glancing toward the darkish edges of the room, Cardona decided that the place was empty. The killer
could not have come through the entrance door, with its formidable lock. Cardona decided to test the
windows.
He found that the bulletproof panes were steel-framed. Tex never opened the windows; it wasn't
necessary, for the apartment was air-conditioned. Nevertheless, Cardona made a discovery at one
window. Its clamp was partly loose.
At first, Cardona thought he had the explanation. A skilled worker could have jammed a wedge up
between the frames, to fiddle with the clamp. There was a balcony outside the window; black in the
darkness, it could afford a resting place.
A moment later, Cardona let his theory fade. It didn't fit the circumstances.
Some one could have opened that clamp from the outside; but getting it shut again, after departure, was
another matter. The fact that the clamp was only halfway loose was proof that the killer could not have
used the window as an exit. Cardona began to stalk the living room.
He came to a paneled corner. A switch took his eye and he pressed it. Immediately, the wall slid back;
Cardona stared into a tiny, lighted elevator.
So that was it! Somebody had come up to see Tex. The racketeer himself had admitted the visitor. They
had gone into conference; during the talk, the visitor had given Tex an unexpected bullet.
But why was the elevator still up here?
That perplexed Cardona. The visitor, departing, could not have sent it up from the ground floor. Tex,
dead in his chair, could not have gone to the switch. Cardona looked into the elevator itself, hoping for an
explanation. What he found simply clouded the case all the more.
There were no control buttons in the elevator at all. Its entire operation was handled from switches on the
wall of the apartment. The murderer could not have left by the route that he took to get here.
Cardona had a way of reasoning out crime from the crook's angle. He realized that the killer had walked
into a mess. Probably, he had supposed that he could manage the elevator, only to find that such was
impossible. Cardona found himself chuckling at the murderer's dilemma; suddenly, his short laugh ended.
Though the living room looked empty, it couldn't be. There was no way that the murderer could have left
it; he had no knowledge of the duplicate key for the entrance door carried by Tex. The killer was still
present, alone with Cardona, and the ace had foolishly turned his back when he looked into the elevator.
AT any instant, Tex's slayer might decide to add Joe as a victim. The prospect wasn't pleasant. Joe
sensed that death would be his, if he made a false move. Tautly, he kept fumbling about the elevator,
hoping that the killer wouldn't guess that he was wise.
There was a creep from across the room. Cardona's straining ears heard it; he caught the sound of a
sliding chair. Joe remembered a big chair opposite Tex. The murderer must have hidden behind it.
Pretending that he heard nothing, Cardona sensed the direction of the murderer's move. It was a logical
one. He was heading toward the doorway to the hall. Cardona, himself, had opened that route for the
killer's departure.
Grimly, the ace detective decided that he wasn't going to let the murderer go. There was a way to box
him in a perfect trap. That was the little hallway leading to the outer door of the apartment. Once the man
got out of the living room, Cardona would be clear to act. He waited through long, tense moments; heard
the creeping noises dwindle.
Timing his own move, Cardona spun about and aimed for the entrance to the passage. He started a quick
move in that direction, then broke into a sudden drive.
Joe was right; the killer was on his way out, but he had outguessed the police inspector. He was swinging
back toward the living room, poking a revolver muzzle past the corner of the wall.
Cardona dropped low, making a lunge below the looming gun. The killer fired; the slug whistled over
Cardona's head. Then Joe was shoving his own gun upward.
Working from hands and knees, Joe thought he had his chance. He was wrong. He waited just too long.
His foeman's gun-weighted fist sledged down. Joe's free arm broke the blow, but he sprawled
backward, at the killer's mercy.
A prompt hand aimed downward at the rolling inspector. The killer, barely visible in the gloom of the
passage, was intending a well-calculated shot to dispose of Cardona. He thought he had time to pause,
where Cardona hadn't. Like Joe, the murderer was wrong.
There was a ripping noise from the front of the room. The window slashed upward. A probing instrument
had silently completed the loosening of the clamp. Fierce lips taunted a challenging laugh as a black-clad
figure hurtled the sill. From the passage, the killer saw a cloaked outline, topped by a slouch hat, against
the dull glow of the reflected Broadway lights.
It was The Shadow, foe to all men of crime!
TONGUES of flame stabbed from The Shadow's automatic, each new blast flashing as the one before it
faded. Those shots were for the lurking murderer, but The Shadow did not expect them to reach their
target.
The killer had dived low when he heard the window lift. Picking him off in the gloom was almost
impossible, for he had rolled too close to Cardona.
The Shadow's main purpose was to bring answering shots in his own direction. They came—hopelessly
wild, for The Shadow was in from the sill. Fading toward a side wall, he was out of the murderer's
range.
There was no danger for Cardona while the killer was trying to get The Shadow. That put a double kick
in The Shadow's strategy.
Moreover, it left Cardona free to get the man he wanted. Joe pitched on the twisting killer, grabbed for
his gun. Shots halted; The Shadow watched while the pair went lunging toward the little elevator. The
killer balked as they neared the lighted space. He didn't want Cardona to glimpse his face.
By the wall, he made his last wild effort: a vicious gun blow for Cardona's skull. Joe ducked
automatically; the murderer broke free. He turned to look for The Shadow, saw him standing near the
glowing light that flooded Tex Dybert's body.
The Shadow held the killer covered. He voiced a command for the foe to surrender. The murderer's
fingers dropped the gun. His hands went reluctantly above his head.
He stepped forward from the gloom; in three more seconds, he would have shown himself in the
lamplight. All that saved him was the intervention of a blunderer who chanced upon the scene.
It was Lopper, arrived from downstairs. The bodyguard had heard the shots; he was sneaking in from
the passage, a gun in his fist. All that he saw was The Shadow standing beside Tex's corpse. Lopper's
hoarse shout was one of wild vengeance. He thought that The Shadow had finished Tex.
Lopper's cry, his slow tactics with his gun, were the elements that served The Shadow in this emergency.
He wheeled away from Tex's body, performed a fade-out toward the wall, bringing Lopper after him.
Suddenly wheeling in from the other flank, The Shadow locked with the chunky bodyguard.
The murderer took advantage of that intervention. Snatching up his revolver, he dashed for the outer
door. He didn't waste shots at The Shadow; they might have clipped Lopper instead. The murderer
didn't care about the bodyguard, but he knew that Lopper might stave off pursuit from The Shadow.
It was lucky for the killer that he didn't pause. Joe Cardona was on his feet, stabbing bullets at the
fellow's back. The unknown killer slid past the passage corner unscathed. Cardona's last bullet chipped
plaster from the wall, but didn't wing the man.
Heading for the passage, Joe heard the door slam from the hall. Lopper's key was still in the outside
lock. The murderer turned it.
No use firing at that door. It was of steel, like all the doors on Tex's premises. A murderer was gone,
thanks to Lopper's foolish entry. Cardona himself had supplied the outlet for the trapped slayer. All that
Joe could do right now was help The Shadow with Lopper.
Rescue by The Shadow had saved Cardona's life, but it hadn't thwarted a criminal's escape. Pursuit, as
Cardona saw it, was useless.
But in the mind of The Shadow, there were different thoughts.
CHAPTER III. TWO IN A CAB
THE SHADOW no longer needed Cardona's aid. Lopper was coiling on the floor when the ace
inspector turned. The Shadow had downed him with the butt of an automatic. The stupid bodyguard was
too groggy to witness what followed. The Shadow pointed toward the little elevator, urged Cardona in
that direction.
By the time the inspector reached the elevator, The Shadow was in it. Cardona saw the black-cloaked
figure more plainly than he ever had before, yet he couldn't make out The Shadow's features. The slouch
hat hid them; so did the upturned cloak collar.
All that Cardona viewed was a pair of commanding eyes. He heard an order, sibilant from hidden lips:
"Send me down! Then summon a police cordon!"
Cardona caught the idea. The Shadow could use the escape route that had failed the murderer. For The
Shadow had some one who could operate the elevator from the apartment wall switch; namely, Cardona
himself!
The door slid shut. Cardona found a button marked "B," knew that it meant the basement floor. When he
pressed the button, he heard the elevator rumble downward. The Shadow was on his way.
Reaching the telephone, Cardona jiggled the hook until he received an answer. There was good news
from the hotel clerk. He had heard the shooting over the open wire; that was why Lopper had started
upstairs. Realizing that Cardona was in Tex's apartment, the clerk, a henchman of Tex's, had played safe.
He had called the police. They were already surrounding the hotel.
The Shadow learned that when he came from a doorway at the bottom of the elevator shaft. He was in a
darkened courtyard; from spaces between building walls, he could hear the shrill of whistles, the shrieks
of sirens. The cordon was here before Cardona had called it.
The Shadow had reached the ground almost as soon as the murderer— assuming that he had descended
by stairway. That meant that the killer was boxed, but still dangerous. It was The Shadow's task to stalk
him, avoiding the police at the same time. Moving through passages between buildings, The Shadow
began his search.
There was no sign of the murderer. At the end of four minutes, The Shadow heard shouts instead. Police
were passing the word; it had reached them from Cardona. They were to grab any one they found at
large.
That made it bad for The Shadow. The man hunt was becoming too intensive. He would have to leave it
to the law.
Sidling toward a street, The Shadow saw cops searching parked cars along the curb. The automobiles
were empty, except for two taxis. An officer searched the first cab; finding no one, he told the driver that
he could move away. As that cab started, the bluecoat looked in the second taxi.
That cab was empty, too. As the cop went along the line, the cabby was pressing the starter. The
Shadow did a quick glide across the sidewalk. Opening the door of the cab, he stepped silently into the
rear seat without the driver hearing him.
THE first cab was halted at the corner, the hackie arguing with a cop. Word came along to let the taxi
through, since it already had been searched. The same applied to the second cab.
Crouched low in the rear seat, The Shadow remained unseen when the vehicle crossed the avenue.
Peering from the rear window, he saw that a policeman was taking the license numbers of the cabs, so
that the drivers could be summoned later.
The Shadow had used his present process in the past. His method was to let the driver get far away from
the trouble zone. After the cab parked somewhere, he would announce himself as a passenger. The
driver would think that he had stepped aboard at the new destination.
To prepare for that, The Shadow loosened his cloak, tilted back his slouch hat. His features showed
dimly; they made a thin hawkish profile. That face was a well-known one. It was the countenance of
Kent Allard, famous aviator who had won fame by his long-distance flights.
Allard, presumably, had been marooned for years among the Xinca Indians in Guatemala, after a crash.
Actually, except for a month or so, he had been in New York all that while, fighting crime as The
Shadow. When he had appeared publicly, Allard had adopted various disguises to keep up the belief that
he was still lost in the Central American jungle. One of the most used was that of Lamont Cranston.
As Kent Allard, and likewise as Lamont Cranston, The Shadow was a member of the exclusive Cobalt
Club, where he had been proudly introduced by none other than New York's police commissioner,
Ralph Weston. Tonight, during a chat with Weston, Allard had heard that Joe Cardona intended to visit
Tex Dybert. That had decided The Shadow upon a similar trip of his own.
The Shadow had not expected Cardona to learn much from Tex, although the racket king sometimes let
information trickle out regarding rivals that he didn't like. One of Tex's strongest weapons had been to
bulldoze lesser racketeers by threatening that news would reach the law.
Such a policy was quite unethical in the underworld. It explained why Tex never visited the "badlands";
why he lived in back of steel doors and bulletproof windows. But it didn't hurt Tex's status with the
crooks who took his orders. Money talked with them, and Tex always had plenty of it to spend.
It had been The Shadow's plan to handle Tex after Cardona finished with him. There were questions that
The Shadow could ask, much more pointed ones than any that Cardona could produce. That opportunity
was ended with Tex's death.
Moreover, The Shadow had not witnessed the murder. He had just been starting to pry the window
catch when Cardona had arrived. Like Joe, The Shadow had supposed that Tex was dozing.
The telephone bell must have alarmed the murderer. That was why he had hidden before either The
Shadow or Cardona could spot him. A cool, calculating slayer, to come up in Tex's own private elevator
and rub out the racket king in his own bailiwick.
So far as The Shadow knew, only one man had ever talked openly of bumping Tex Dybert. That man
was Lou Channing, the gambler who owed Tex twenty thousand dollars. Tex had retaliated by saying
that Lou had better pay, or else. With Tex, the phrase "or else" meant a great deal.
Though Lou Channing had boasted that he might get Tex Dybert, the gambler had not been heard from
recently. There were plenty of other shady persons who would have liked the privilege of eliminating Tex,
even though they had never stated so.
The Shadow was reviewing possible names, as the cab rolled southward on an avenue.
AT last the taxi stopped. It parked at a hack stand near a small hotel. The Shadow saw the driver peer
from his window, but he didn't glimpse the fellow's face. The rear-view mirror was awry; the driver still
was out of sight when he settled down behind the wheel.
The Shadow slipped off his cloak and hat, reached for the door beside him. He opened it, slid out
toward the step, then reversed.
In a precise, even tone, he told the driver: "Take me to Sixth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street."
The driver's shoulders jogged suddenly, as though the man had been startled. Settling in the rear seat,
The Shadow slammed the door. He was quite confident that the ruse had worked as always; that the
driver had taken him for a fare who had just stepped into the cab.
At the Sixth Avenue corner, The Shadow expected to transfer to a cab operated by one of his secret
agents, that should be waiting there. That would give him a chance to stow away his black garb and
return to the Cobalt Club to chat with Commissioner Weston.
As Allard, The Shadow expected to hear the results of Cardona's futile search.
It happened, however, that The Shadow's meeting with Weston was to be long delayed.
The cab went eastward on a cross-town street; it overran Sixth Avenue, but that was not unusual, for the
street was ripped beneath the elevated. Car tracks were being taken up; a new subway was under
construction. Sixth Avenue wasn't a good street for a northward drive.
Approaching Fifth Avenue, a "no turns allowed" sign seemed the reason why the driver kept right
through. But there wasn't any reasonable explanation for his course after that. The cab swung into a dingy
street, jouncing over rough paving.
The Shadow looked back; he saw immediately why the cabby had picked this street. His arrival was a
signal. A low-built sedan was pulling out from the curb.
The taxi swung a corner; another machine took up the trail. This one was a battered touring car, the sort
preferred by mobbies who liked plenty of space to use their guns.
It was The Shadow's first thought that this taxi had been posted near Tex's by the murderer, its driver
waiting to pick up the killer as a passenger. Perhaps the hackie thought that The Shadow was the killer;
therefore, the fellow might be following understood instructions.
A few moments later, The Shadow banished that idea. The murderer had intended to handle Tex without
discovery. He wouldn't have kept a cab posted so close to the Hotel Trebold. The real answer flashed to
The Shadow's brain.
It explained why this taxi driver had been clever enough to detect The Shadow's ruse at the hack stand,
even though he hadn't known that he had taken The Shadow there.
Undoubtedly, the driver had been thinking of The Shadow all during the ride, for the simple reason that
he had met The Shadow only a short while before the trip began.
摘要：

THERACKETSKINGMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THERUB-OUT?CHAPTERII.CLOAKEDRESCUE?CHAPTERIII.TWOINACAB?CHAPTERIV.BANISHEDKILLERS?CHAPTERV.TORNEVIDENCE?CHAPTERVI.TRAVELERSMEET?CHAPTERVII.TRAILSRENEWED?CHAPTERVIII.UNWANTEDPAYMENT?CHAPTERIX.CROSSEDTRAI...

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