Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 140 - Racket Town

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RACKET TOWN
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," December 15, 1937.
Racketeers and mobsters take over an entire city! At point of gun they
enforce their edicts - until they meet up with the Master Avenger of Crime,
the
Shadow!
CHAPTER I
THE DEATH CRASH
THE Daylight Limited was chugging slowly through the city limits of
Parkland. One passenger viewed the city with an intense gaze, noting
numberless
grade crossings that explained the limited's slackened speed. He was a
swarthy,
stocky-built man, who was seated in a Pullman car. The porter had already
carried his bag out to the vestibule.
That passenger's name was Joe Cardona, and his destination was Parkland.
Cardona was ace inspector of the New York police force; he had come to
Parkland
on a mission that seemed strangely remote, as he eyed the passing panorama.
Fading daylight showed well-kept streets; orderly lines of automobiles
waiting at the gates of crossings. Where street lights glimmered, they
outlined
the fronts of prosperous-looking stores and theaters. At intervals, between
well-built houses, Joe spied the pleasant parks for which the town was noted.
Then came the city's center; an electric sign marked the modern Park
Hotel
amid a sky line of office buildings, the tallest a dozen stories high. Cardona
arose from his Pullman chair as the limited clanked to a stop at the ornate
stone station that served this city of sixty thousand inhabitants.
Nothing wrong with Parkland, from the surface view that Cardona had
gained. The city looked like a swell place to live, as well as being something
of a resort. But that wasn't the way it had been pictured to Joe, when
delegates from the city's chamber of commerce had pleaded with the New York
police commissioner to send his ace inspector to Parkland.
Those chaps had told of hidden crime that could not be spotted. They had
sworn that the town was racket-ridden; but with no crime-leader visible. The
city officials were free from corruption, with the police force loyal, but the
civic machinery seemed inadequate to cope with present conditions.
That was why responsible citizens wanted Cardona's services. They figured
he could find out what was wrong in Parkland. Every other man might be a
crook,
for all they knew. Perhaps Cardona could pick out some of the bad ones.
Certainly, he could reorganize the police force on a more efficient basis.
A TRIO of friendly greeters welcomed Cardona on the station platform. Joe
had met them in New York.
The spokesman of the greeters was a man named Walton. He had his car at
the station; he took Cardona in the front seat and put the other two men in
back. Just as the limited was pulling out from the station, the sedan started
along a street in the same direction, following the line of the railroad
tracks.
"We're going out to Mayor Carley's," explained Walton. "He's giving a
small dinner for you, Cardona. After that, he'll probably talk about the mess
here in town."
"Any new developments?" questioned Joe, "since I saw you in New York?"
"No," returned Walton, "and that's the worst of it. The money's being
drained from every business; and where it's going, or how, nobody knows. That
is, nobody who's willing to talk."
Walton paused, shaking his head, as he eyed the street ahead. The
headlights showed a tree-lined avenue. There were houses on one side; on the
other, a high hedge that screened the railroad.
"There are strangers in town," declared Walton, "but they have money and
look respectable. No, we can't accuse them of these rackets. In a way, the
whole thing seems to have started locally. It began with a huge real-estate
smash.
"Old Warren Knightson was the cause. He owned many properties; held
options on others. He controlled building-and-loan associations. Every one
followed Knightson's lead, until, suddenly, every enterprise of his went
broke.
From then on -"
Walton's words ended. Without warning, he was confronted by an emergency
that threatened sure death to himself and every one in the sedan. Joe Cardona
clutched the sill of the opened window, his own right foot jamming at an
imaginary brake pedal.
At twenty-five miles an hour, the sedan had reached a corner that was
obscured by trees. It had the right of way; but that wasn't going to save the
passengers from a trip to the cemetery.
A bulky truck was roaring down a slope from the right, about to cross the
avenue. To the left, that cross street went over the railroad tracks, where
there were no gates; merely a warning signal that was starting its blink while
a huge bell jangled.
The truck driver was aiming for the tracks before the train came. The
sedan was rolling squarely into his path.
Cardona saw the truck driver yanking at the handle of a huge emergency
brake that had no effect whatever, for the truck was weighted with a load of
crushed stone. Walton couldn't swing left, for his speed was too great to make
the turn. The move would have wrecked him on the railway tracks, in the path
of
the limited.
He saw the warning lights; the steel tracks burnished by the glare of the
locomotive's searchlight. His foot on the brake pedal, Walton realized that he
was heading for a deadly stop, for the truck was almost upon him. He did the
best he could.
Veering for the left side of the avenue, he smashed his foot to the
accelerator and gave his car the gas.
As the sedan whipped forward, Cardona saw the truck driver let go the
brake handle and start a huge tug at the wheel. He, too, was doing the natural
thing. He was yanking the truck to the right. As luck had it, that move was
offsetting Walton's spurt.
Though Cardona didn't analyze it in those exciting instants, the moment
of
the crash had simply been postponed for a matter of another second. The truck
was due to demolish the sedan a short distance beyond the corner, instead of
at
the spot where the streets actually crossed.
Rescue came, though, with a speed that eclipsed a hurricane. Rescue,
fraught with danger for the person who provided it.
NO one in the sedan was looking to the left. None saw the trim coupe that
had leaped suddenly from the other side of the railway tracks, straight across
the path of the locomotive. It was there, outlined vividly by the searchlight,
hurtling for the safety of the corner that the sedan had just passed.
An ordinary driver would have been worrying about his own plight; he
would
have had both hands on the steering wheel, as the pilot of the locomotive
almost
nosed the rear wheels of his coupe.
Not that driver. He gripped the steering wheel with his right hand alone,
as his head and left arm thrust from the open window beside him. The
locomotive
didn't worry him. He had calculated that he would beat it over the grade
crossing.
He wasn't watching the sedan. It was using his own tactics: speed to
avert
collision. What he sought was to avert the truck's mad careen to the right.
Could that be halted, the sedan would clear.
The driver of the coupe was garbed in black. The light from the
locomotive
showed a slouch hat above cloaked shoulders. The extended left hand formed a
tight, black-gloved fist that gripped a .45-caliber automatic. A trigger
finger
pressed.
The thunder of the locomotive, the screech of brakes were drowning sounds
that muffled the gun's report. But the stab from the automatic's muzzle was
plain. It tongued straight for the driver of the swinging truck. The bullet
found its mark.
The coupe was off the railroad tracks, the locomotive a blur of blackness
behind it. The sedan was slithering for safety, rescued by the fraction of a
foot. For the truck driver, slumped behind his wheel, was no longer yanking
his
juggernaut to the right.
Its wheels had straightened; it hurtled across the avenue at an angle and
bashed its big bulk against a box car on a siding.
The sedan stopped. The lights of the grade crossing were no longer
bobbing
with red when Cardona and Walton reached the demolished truck, for the train
was
past. Crushed in the truck's wreckage was the driver. The smash had killed
him.
Cardona's professional eye saw more. Joe pointed to the dead man's
shoulder.
"Somebody clipped him," declared Cardona. "That's why he couldn't handle
the brakes or straighten the wheel!"
Joe's guess was wrong. That bullet had averted tragedy, instead of
causing
it. The truck driver had faked his play with the hand brake. The shot from the
dark had halted his last deeds. Hands that were still yanking to the right
were
numbed. A pressing foot had been literally pulled from the truck's accelerator
pedal.
The mysterious rescuer was gone. He and his coupe had disappeared, unseen
by Cardona and the men whose lives he had saved. He had accomplished his
vanish
by swinging his car to the right, extinguishing the lights, as he parked
beneath
the darkening coverage of overhanging trees. Dusk was fully settled. The coupe
was lost in gloom.
Keen eyes watched from the coupe while Cardona and Walton hustled back to
the sedan. They drove to a service station around the next corner, in order to
report the accident. When the sedan had made the turn, there was a glimmer
from
the lights of the coupe.
Housed in darkness, the black-clad driver started his car forward. As he
drove beneath the hush of the tree-lined avenue, his unseen lips provided a
strange, solemn laugh, that whispered mirthlessly through the thickened dusk.
That tone was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
CRIME'S VERDICT
THE SHADOW'S deeds did not pass unseen; nor was his laugh unheard. Soon
after the coupe had left, a taxicab pulled from a driveway deep beside an old
house and headed for the center of Parkland. The cab stopped in front of a
three-story structure called the Knightson Building.
That building represented the first of the real-estate enterprises that
had made Warren Knightson a rich man. When Knightson had gone broke, the
building had been taken over by receivers. A barber shop occupied the
ground-floor office that had once been Knightson's headquarters.
The passenger alighted from the cab. He was a dapper-looking man,
fastidiously dressed. His face was mild; his manner was fussy. He gave the
driver a ten-dollar bill and pointed him in through the entrance of the
building. To all appearances, the driver was going into the barber shop to get
change.
Instead, he went past the door of the barber shop and waited at the foot
of a stairway. He was a big, ugly looking rowdy, that cab driver; but he
looked
no tougher than the dapper man, when the latter joined him. Once clear of the
street, the cab passenger dropped his fastidious manner. His chin had a hard
thrust, as he growled:
"All right, Dingo. Let's go up and talk to Mart."
They went up to the third floor, to an office door that bore the legend:
OLD LINE INSURANCE COMPANY
M. Kilgay, Manager
Inside the office, they found Kilgay awaiting them. He was a man of
medium
height, with dark hair and sallow complexion. His face was a square one, that
bore a pleasant smile. But when he saw the dapper man, Kilgay changed. His
eyes
flashed, with merciless glint. His smile hardened at the corners of his lips.
"What's happened, Ducky?" he demanded. "Didn't Wrecker make a go of it?"
"Ducky" shook his head.
"So Wrecker didn't rub out Cardona." Kilgay's tone became a hard purr.
"You'd better give me the whole dope, Ducky. Maybe we'll have to croak
Wrecker.
Guys that fliv don't go with me."
"Wrecker's already croaked," growled Ducky, in the tone which so poorly
fitted his appearance. "What's more, you can't blame the guy. He was bearing
down with all he had."
"Then what went sour?"
Ducky hesitated; then turned to "Dingo."
"You tell him, Dingo."
"There's not much to tell, Mart," said the husky cabby. "Walton was
trying
to get clear, and Wrecker had him bottled. Then, like that" - Dingo snapped
his
fingers - "out pops The Shadow from across the tracks! He puts a slug in
Wrecker, so's he can't handle the truck. So he misses Walton's bus and cracks
up when he rams a freight car."
IF Ducky and Dingo expected Mart Kilgay to show tremors at mention of The
Shadow, their guess was a bad one. The fake insurance man became savage in his
manner; but he classed the presence of The Shadow as a nuisance, rather than a
menace.
"Did he tail you here?"
Mart rasped the question. It brought a goggly look to Dingo's squinty
eyes.
The cab driver shot an anxious glance toward the door. It was Ducky who
spoke up, nervously:
"I - I don't think he did, Mart. His car was started again, before ours.
Only - well, he could have laid for us."
"And if he did," snorted Mart, "he tailed you! Which means that The
Shadow
was walking into something. Dingo Swark, a tough guy" - Mart grunted, as he
looked at the jittery cab driver - "yeah, tough enough for slugging guys in
alleys or handling a crew of gorillas!"
"As for you" - Mart turned to the dapper man - "they told me Ducky
Murrick
was the guy to handle the front of a racket. I'll give you credit for that,
Ducky. But the lugs that said you were tougher than you looked, must have
given
me a bum steer."
Mart opened the office door. From the front end of the floor came the
muffled crackle of an electrical instrument. Bluish light was flickering
beyond
a glass-paneled door. Mart grinned.
"Go to Doc Arland's office," he told Dingo. "Tell him I want to see Brace
Lurbin, the guy that's in there supposed to be getting an electric treatment.
After that, scram back to your hack; and post the boys to be looking for The
Shadow."
When Dingo had gone, Mart talked to Ducky, clipping his words with a
harsh, confident tone.
"When I came to this burg," recounted the big-shot, "it was to settle a
grudge with an old geezer named Warren Knightson. This was my home town; but
nobody remembered me when I came back, using the name I've got now. What my
old
moniker was, doesn't matter.
"Neither does the reason why I was sore at Knightson. I just never liked
the old sourpuss, from the time he threatened to have me sent to reform
school.
Anyway, putting the skids under him was a cinch. So easy, that I figured this
whole town was a sucker burg. You know the rest of it, Ducky."
DUCKY knew it well enough. The call had come from Parkland, summoning
every racketeer who was on the loose. Pickings were ripe in Parkland, for the
"right" guys who would take orders. Like "Doc" Arland, Ducky Murrick had been
among the first to arrive. Mart had made them his lieutenants.
Doc posed as a specialist in electrotherapy, giving treatments that
required no physician's license. Ducky ran a wholesale gown shop, on the
second
floor of this same building. Mart expected to buy the Knightson Building
later;
he said he got a laugh out of the name, every time he walked through the door.
Until to-night, Mart Kilgay had found plenty of cause to laugh.
Acquainted with every form of racket, he had taken over the town in
wholesale fashion. Doc and Ducky were the "fronts" who put smooth propositions
to local business men, acting always as though forced by pressure. They had
shoved the dirty work along to many of the suckers themselves, and there was
trouble for those who didn't listen.
Trouble that came from Dingo Swark, at Mart's order. For Mart had gained
secret control of Parkland's three taxicab companies, and the drivers had been
gradually replaced by Dingo's hoodlums.
If it came to a clash between Mart Kilgay and the law, Parkland's force
of
fifty-odd police would be outnumbered two to one. Mart had a hundred shock
troops; and four times as many reserves, in case of a pinch.
But Mart wasn't hoping for that. Besides Doc and Ducky, there were plenty
of other fellows who posed as new business men in Parkland. All took orders
from Mart; and all got theirs, with a cut to the big-shot. Hotels, theaters,
restaurants and night clubs were paying plenty up the line to Mart Kilgay. So
were groceries, filling stations and the like. Parkland was a racket town, and
Mart Kilgay was king.
Other crooks were welcome - if they were smooth ones. There were
pickpockets. Dope peddlers were on the job, too, which accounted for an influx
of so-called tourists who were actually hopheads. You had to have the "cokies"
here, Mart argued, so there'd be somebody to buy the "snow."
Dips and dope sellers paid their price to Mart. So did the dope users.
Mart had a squad of shake-down artists on the job, making them cough over cash
for the privilege of staying in Parkland.
A sweet set-up, as Ducky saw it. But there was plenty of trouble due. Joe
Cardona was bad enough; The Shadow made it worse. But Mart Kilgay still
maintained his contemptuous smile. He was wearing it when Doc Arland arrived
with "Brace" Lurbin.
Doc was a tall, bald-headed man, whose face had a horsy look. Doc wore a
bushy, black mustache.
With Doc was Brace Lurbin, so called because he toted a brace of
revolvers. Brace could use that pair of shooters; but he'd never had the
chance
since he joined up with Mart. Guns hadn't been needed in Parkland; but it
struck
Ducky that they would be, very soon.
Brace was Mart's ace in the hole. His wide, flat, high-cheeked features
were the face of a killer. His eyes, steely through their narrow-slitted lids,
were the sort that would be steady above the barrel of a big revolver. Brace
had his guns on him. The bulges above his hips were proof.
"YOU'RE getting a chance to use those smoke-wagons, Brace," rasped Mart.
"I got a job for you."
Brace took the news in poker-face fashion. It was Doc who shot the eager,
sharp-pitched question:
"You're having Brace rub out Cardona?"
"I guess Dingo told you that Wrecker fluked," retorted Mart, "Did he tell
you who else was in town?"
Doc supplied a headshake.
"The Shadow!" informed Mart. "That's who Brace is going to croak."
Doc Arland gaped. So did Ducky Murrick. That didn't bother Mart; he
wanted
Brace's reaction. Mart saw the two-gun man bring a slow grin to his thick
lips.
Brace spoke in a harsh guffaw.
"The Shadow, huh?" queried Brace. "That's a good one, Mart! I tell you
what; you point out The Shadow and I'll croak him."
"That's just what I'm going to do," rasped Mart. "That's why I've been
keeping you under wraps, Brace. I'm not going to flood this town with a mob of
torpedoes, when one trigger-man's enough. You want a guy to locate The Shadow
for you? All right, I've got five hundred."
The idea dawned on Brace. Dingo's taxi drivers, con men, dips, small-fry
crooks everywhere - they were the eyes that would find The Shadow. The word
had
gone out through Dingo. Whoever spotted The Shadow would pass the news along,
until Brace heard it.
"New York's made to order for The Shadow," spoke Mart, "but this burg
isn't.
"The Shadow can't keep under cover and stay here. Even our own bunch
won't
know you're the trigger-man, Brace. That gives you the edge on The Shadow. You
croak The Shadow; I'll handle Cardona. I've fixed dumb dicks before."
The glare of Brace's narrowed eyes told that the assignment suited him.
He
strolled from the office, unfastening the front button of his coat as he went.
"That guy can reach for a rod when he needs it," approved Mart, speaking
to his lieutenants. "It's curtains for The Shadow."
Doc Arland and Ducky Murrick believed the big-shot. When Mart Kilgay
pointed the finger, it meant sudden death. Crime's spies were everywhere in
Parkland, the town that Mart already owned.
This city of rackets could prove itself unhealthy for The Shadow.
CHAPTER III
CROOKS SEE THE SHADOW
THE death of a truck driver named Luke Pardee was a story that the
newspapers could not ignore. They didn't know that he was a crook, whose pals
called him "Wrecker." But they did have proof that Wrecker had been shot at
the
wheel of his truck.
That was more than accident. It brought big headlines the next morning,
with a picture of Wrecker's demolished truck.
The story was totally twisted. The newspapers had it that some one had
winged Wrecker, in the hope that his truck would bear down on Walton's car.
But
the muddled facts made it all the worse. The evidence indicated definitely
that
some hidden big-shot had tried to erase Joe Cardona, within twenty minutes
after the ace detective had arrived in Parkland.
The Shadow, in handling the murderous Wrecker, had turned Mart Kilgay's
death thrust into a boomerang, that was scaling back toward the big-shot. The
law wouldn't pin the goods on Mart, just yet, but it had a chance to cramp his
style.
Joe Cardona could do more than merely give advice to the local
authorities. He was starting with an opportunity to investigate an attempted
crime.
All that next day, the city buzzed with talk of the truck crash. It
filtered to the small-fry crooks who served Mart Kilgay. From them, it worked
up to the lieutenants. The Shadow had started trouble in Parkland. Rumor had
it
that some of the town's bolder business men were getting ready to shake off
the
shackles of the racket ring.
Glummest of all strangers in Parkland was Brace Lurbin. Brace had been
told to pick up news about The Shadow. But Mart's hordes weren't producing it.
They had too much else to think about.
The end chair in the barber shop in the Knightson Building was a swell
place to pick up grapevine information. Half of the barbers were working for
Mart Kilgay, and they formed a line leading away from inner end. Whoever
parked
in that chair could get an earful, if he belonged to the crowd.
That was why Brace sauntered in there, that evening, and took that
particular chair. He stroked the back of his neck and said he'd have a
haircut.
As the barber tucked the bib around his neck, Brace growled, in an undertone:
"Any dope on The Shadow?"
The barber shook his head. He knew that Brace was in the racket, but he
hadn't been told that this customer was looking for The Shadow. Nor had Brace
advertised that he packed a pair of rods on his person. He had a vest with
special flaps that could cover the guns when he took his coat off, provided he
kept his elbows back. That helped while he was climbing into the barber's
chair.
"Not a thing," whispered the barber, as he clicked his scissors.
"Something may be piped, though, before the night's through -"
"Psst!"
Brace's interruption made the scissors stop their clicking. From the side
of his lips, Brace gave the order:
"Take a gander into that mirror in back of you. Maybe you'll see what I
see, through the glass door."
The barber put down the scissors by the mirror. He picked up a pair of
clippers; then discarded them to take the scissors again. He was straining his
eyes as he noted the reflection of the door. Returning, he voiced to Brace:
"What was it?"
"A shadow, on the floor;" returned Brace. "It slid away, while you were
looking in the mirror. Didn't you spot it?"
"I wasn't looking at the floor outside the door," admitted the barber.
"That was too low to see in the mirror. Say - do you think it was The Shadow?"
"Maybe. Who's upstairs?"
"Only Ducky Murrick," began the barber. Then, recognizing that Brace
rated
well in Mart's organization, he added: "And the guy that handles the hackies.
Dingo Swark."
"You're sure Mart isn't up there?"
"Positive! He went out half an hour ago. So did Doc Arland."
Brace decided to let the barber finish a quick hair trim, but told him to
do it inside five minutes. Brace hadn't been ordered to protect guys like
Ducky
and Dingo, while looking for The Shadow. He'd cover up in Mart's case; but
that
was all.
THERE was good reason for The Shadow to be in the vicinity of the
Knightson Building. Mart Kilgay's rackets were undergoing a strain that
demanded important conferences among his lieutenants. A visit by Dingo to the
office building meant that the head of the taxi mob had news too private to be
piped along the grapevine.
Dingo Swark felt secure, as he sat in the little office that formed part
of Ducky Murrick's wholesale dress shop. With windows locked and shades tight
drawn, Dingo was spilling some inside information.
"The squawk's coming from the theaters," asserted Dingo. "They don't like
the strangle hold that Mart's got on their bank-night racket."
"Why should they holler?" demanded Ducky. "They stuck an extra dime on
the
admission price, didn't they? They can afford to give out five hundred bucks
on
bank night. Every one of those six houses is doing big business."
"Sure! Only they don't like the way we've got it fixed. It's risky
business, switching the number that the kid pulls out of the box, so one of
our
bunch will get the dough."
"The suckers haven't wised to it yet. We always have a different guy
there
to collect. We use enough molls, too. Listen, Dingo, you know what this racket
means. Three grand a week; and that just about pays the freight for our
outfit."
Dingo nodded.
"All I'm doing is telling you," he insisted. "The bank-night stuff is
going sour, unless you watch it. Mart ought to know it, in a hurry."
"He'll know," assured Ducky, "and he'll find the way to handle it. He'll
drop in on George Larmon, the guy that manages the Crystal Theater."
"Larmon knows who Mart is?" queried Dingo, surprised. "I thought you were
the front for that racket, Ducky."
"I was - and still am. Only, we had to sell one guy on the idea and sell
him right! So we picked Larmon. He double-crossed the rest of them. Every time
some theater manager begins to beef about the racket, Larmon tips us off. Mart
sees him personally; and they dope out some way to scare the squawker."
The news pleased Dingo. He asked if Larmon received a cut for his
services. The question brought a contemptuous snort from Ducky. That wasn't
Mart's way of working.
"Larmon doesn't own the Crystal Theater," explained Ducky. "He just
manages it. He was raking in some dough on his own, by faking the ticket
numbers. We spotted it; that's why he listened when we talked to him. He's
still working his own gyp on the owners; and they're the ones who put up the
five hundred bucks on bank night. Why should Larmon worry? If he -"
Ducky's hard tone ended. His expression reverted to a baby-faced stare.
He
looked like the Ducky who posed as a modiste. The gasp that he gave came in
falsetto pitch.
Ducky was gazing toward the door, which he had left open in case any one
entered the dress shop. There were lights in the main room; they caused the
sight that had startled Ducky. Upon the threshold of the office, Ducky saw a
streak of blackness, that was fading at an angle.
Some intercepting form had caused that shadow. The figure, itself, had
gone from sight before Ducky noticed it. Only one eavesdropper could have
possibly approached with such silent glide, to listen in on the conferring
croons and then retire.
It was Dingo who gulped the answer: "The Shadow!"
As he uttered the name, Dingo whipped a revolver from his pocket. Ducky's
nerve returned. His teeth gritted as he yanked open a desk drawer to pick out
a
gun of his own.
The blackness was gone from the doorway. Dingo, bolder than he was wise,
took a long spring out into the showroom. Ducky stopped at the door.
Ducky expected to see Dingo sprawl; clipped by quick shots from The
Shadow's guns. What Ducky was counting on was a chance to supply a return
fire.
But The Shadow had chosen stealth instead of battle. Dingo reached the
showroom
safely; stood there, gawking in sheer amusement.
Ducky joined his tough-faced pal. His expression, too, showed
bewilderment. Though the showroom was twenty feet square; despite the fact
that
its lights revealed every possible cranny, the place was empty.
The two crooks circled slowly, turning their gun muzzles in every
direction. As they finished that circle, they came face to face, staring at
each other blankly. That streak of blackness on the floor had been real; some
living being must have caused it. Nevertheless, that being had vanished in the
same ghostly fashion.
Almost under the observing eyes of two quick-witted crooks, The Shadow
had
performed a spectral fade-out that brought new astoundment to his enemies.
CHAPTER IV
THE VANISHED SHADOW
IT took Ducky a full minute to gain a sensible reaction regarding The
Shadow's disappearance. Dingo was still staring stupidly when the suave smile
came to Ducky's sallow features. He saw Ducky move back to the doorway of the
office.
"Look, Dingo" - Ducky's whisper was cautious - "over at the hallway door.
The Shadow couldn't have come in from there. I'd have seen him, because it's
on
a line with my desk."
"Yeah?" growled Ducky. "Then where did he come from?"
Ducky pointed to a rear corner of the showroom, indicating a door topped
by a transom.
"That leads into the storeroom," he whispered. "It's the only place The
Shadow could have come from."
"But how'd he get in there to begin with?"
"Through a door at the end of the hall. Maybe he came in earlier - to
stow
his black rig until he needed it. We can bag him, Dingo, if we're quick!"
"How?"
"I'll handle this door. You take the one at the end of the hall. We'll
both cut loose as soon we barge in there."
Dingo liked the idea. He realized that Ducky must be right. Dingo stepped
to the hall door, put his hand on the knob.
There was a quick, but cautious, rap from the other side of the door. It
came in a rat-tat-tat that Dingo recognized as a signal. The ugly faced crook
gave the hoarse query:
"That you, Mart?"
"No." Dingo recognized the hard tone from the other side. "It's Brace!"
Dingo opened the door. Brace Lurbin peered in from the hall. His keen
eyes
were quick to note the strained expression that was mutual with Dingo and
Ducky.
A wise expression registered on Brace's wide, flat face.
"You guys seen The Shadow?"
"We seen something on the floor," informed Dingo. "A lot of black, that
moved away -"
"The same thing that I spotted downstairs. Where did he go?"
It was Ducky who pointed to the corner door that led into the storeroom.
Brace leaned his head back; saw the door at the end of the hall. Ducky didn't
have to tell him that there were two routes into that storeroom.
"He's still there, then," decided Brace. "I'd have met him in the hall if
he'd tried to slide out to the stairs. I'll handle this hall door. You take
the
inside one, Dingo."
Dingo started for his post. Brace beckoned to Ducky. He wanted the
soft-looking crook to stand in a midway position, to give a signal that would
start the others on a properly timed attack.
But Ducky had another idea. His headshake showed that his gathered wits
were working well.
Hopping into the office, Ducky came out with a pineapple-shaped object.
摘要：

RACKETTOWNbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"December15,1937.Racketeersandmobsterstakeoveranentirecity!Atpointofguntheyenforcetheiredicts-untiltheymeetupwiththeMasterAvengerofCrime,theShadow!CHAPTERITHEDEATHCRASHTHEDaylightLimitedwaschuggingslowlythroughthecitylimitsofParkland....

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