Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 106 - The Broken Napoleons

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THE BROKEN NAPOLEONS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. ABOVE THE HUDSON
? CHAPTER II. A FOLLOWED TRAIL
? CHAPTER III. THE CLOSED DEAL
? CHAPTER IV. THE KING IS DEAD
? CHAPTER V. MEN IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER VI. VANISHED FOEMEN
? CHAPTER VII. NEW MYSTERY
? CHAPTER VIII. THE MUTUAL QUEST
? CHAPTER IX. IN BERMUDA
? CHAPTER X. BEYOND THE HARBOR
? CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW'S SIGN
? CHAPTER XII. DOOM DECREED
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH BRINGS RESCUE
? CHAPTER XIV. CROSS PURPOSES
? CHAPTER XV. WORD TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER XVI. BELOW AND ABOVE
? CHAPTER XVII. MURDERER'S PROOF
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE THREAT REVERSED
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST THRUST
? CHAPTER XX. LIFE ANEW
CHAPTER I. ABOVE THE HUDSON
ALTHOUGH there were more than a dozen cars on the heights near Peekskill, looking over the
shimmering expanse of the Hudson River, few knew what was being unfolded beneath them. Some might
have seen one of these events, but none—not even those who were enacting the scene— realized the
other.
And no one ever imagined that these two events would prove to be a joint venture.
The first event, which every one could see, took place on the river. Beating its way down the stream was
an old, rust-covered boat, the Reciprocity. It had been built fifteen years ago, and its hopeful title
indicated it would succeed in foreign trade. Unfortunately, the owners did not realize that hope, and it had
found a haven in the “ghost fleet” of the upper Hudson—the graveyard of ships too good to scrap, but
not worth operating.
Some one had picked it out of the group and intended to make different use of it. From its life of
uselessness, it was entering into a new era of usefulness.
High on the bank above the river, another scene was taking place. Two men sat in a coupe, watching the
boat sail down the stream as they talked.
Few noticed this second scene in the gathering dusk. No one realized that here a man who had gone
straight was being tempted to again enter into crime. A useless boat was entering a useful life; a good
citizen was being tempted with crime!
The one man in the coupe was square-jawed, and almost straight in profile. He looked like a fighter; but
with it, he had the air of a man who could hold his place in the better realms of society.
The other man was pasty-faced, sharp-eyed.
“Butch is counting on you, Curt,” he said. “Butch is a good guy to be with.”
“That's news,” remarked Curt Sturley, his gaze fixed upon the river. “By that, I suppose he needs me.”
“You guessed it, Curt. Say, Butch is sitting pretty. I'm not stringing you. There's nobody bigger than
Butch.”
Sturley pulled a pipe from his pocket and began to stuff it with tobacco. Eagerly, the other repeated the
claim that he had just made.
“There's nobody bigger than Butch Drongo—”
“Probably not,” interrupted Sturley, with a gruff laugh. “I've been reading the newspapers, Shim, up in
Toronto. If Butch Drongo is a big shot, I know why.”
“You mean because other guys have been taking it on the lam?”
“Absolutely. Those that are bigger than Butch have left New York. He ought to be big.”
“Shim” shrugged his shoulders. Sturley made a new comment.
“There must be some reason why they don't want to stay,” he remarked, steadily. “Maybe they have had
sense enough to get out. Perhaps Butch hasn't.”
“That's not it,” insisted Shim. “Things were crowded, that was all. Some of them have probably headed
out to Chi. There's others gone down to Miami. Butch had the brains to stick. That's why he's ready to
step out on top.”
“And why he needs me, I suppose.”
“Sure. Butch hasn't forgotten the way you helped him once. He's set to pull some big jobs; but he wants
to work them smart. Here's his proposition, Curt. Join up and you're his right bower, ahead of all the rest
of us. I'm stepping out of where I stand, on your account.”
“Nice of you, Shim.”
“No kidding. You got as good a bean as Butch. We'll all be sitting pretty if you work with him.”
CURT STURLEY leaned back behind the wheel. He puffed his pipe, stared toward the dwindling
steamship and declared:
“Tell Butch that I hold only one regret. That is the fact that I ever had any dealings with him in the past.
That is also why I kept this appointment. I wanted to tell Butch—or whoever he sent to meet me—that
he can expect no favors from me in the future.”
“But, Curt—”
“No moral reform is responsible for my decision. I am simply employing the brains which I possess—the
intelligence that you and Butch seem to admire so highly. Tell Butch that whatever his game is, he will not
have me with it.”
“But Butch is due for something big; you'll be the guy closest to him—”
“You mean that Butch would like me to be his chief lieutenant? His wishes, however, will not be
respected.”
Sturley pressed the starter pedal. He began to back the coupe from the wall, swinging it so he could turn
into the highway and take a northward course. Shim gulped another protest.
“You've got to join up with Butch,” he affirmed. “He's counting on you, Curt. Butch said—”
“Nothing that Butch said is of consequence.”
“But he said you wouldn't turn down the offer—”
“I have already refused it.”
“But Butch said you wouldn't, not if I handed you this.”
Shim had dug one hand into a vest pocket. The car was almost in the highway when the rat-faced man
pulled out his paw and thrust a gleaming object into view. Gold glittered from between Shim's thumb and
forefinger.
Curt Sturley jammed on the brakes. His eyes shone; his lips tightened. With his right hand he plucked the
bit of gold from Shim's fingers. The object was the broken half of a gold coin, the size of a five-dollar
gold piece.
Sturley's lips spoke aloud as they read letters that were stamped upon the coin:
“N—A—P—O—” He stopped, turned over the half coin and spoke the last two figures of a number,
the coin's date: “One—five—”
“That's it, Curt,” expressed Shim. “Butch told me what the coin was. It's called a napoleon; that's the half
of a broken one. An old coin the Frenchies used to use. A gold napoleon, dated 1815.”
STURLEY'S gaze was as fixed as if he had been hypnotized. His fingers, mechanical in their motion,
kept turning the coin over. He eyed the profile of the Emperor Napoleon, which was stamped on this half
of the broken coin. He read the letters—the date—both out loud. Shim could see the flash of Sturley's
eyes, the increased compression of his lips.
“Butch said for me to tell you, Curt, that—”
“What Butch said does not count,” interrupted Sturley. “What he has sent me does. This is what I
wanted.”
“Then you're coming into New York, to join up with Butch?”
“Whatever game Butch plans, he can count me in on it.”
There was a firm decisiveness in Sturley's tone. Shim saw Sturley placing the broken napoleon carefully
within a wallet. After pocketing his prize, Sturley tugged at the gear shift.
The coupe swung forward, southward bound, took the sweeping curve of the highway to New York.
Wheeling beyond a curve it roared along the heights. It passed the plodding Steamship Reciprocity; Curt
Sturley's eyes did not move in the direction of the river. His interest in navigation was ended.
The coupe was powerful. Its speedometer registered seventy miles an hour as it straightened along a level
road beside the Hudson. Sturley had turned on the headlamps. His eyes fixed upon their glowing path, he
maintained the speed that he had set.
The coupe drew up beside a speeding limited that was roaring toward New York, along the track that
lined the Hudson River. Shim saw Sturley press the accelerator farther down. The speeding train was left
behind, its whistle blaring wildly in the dusk.
Curt Sturley had become a man with but one present ambition: to reach New York within the shortest
possible time space. “Butch” Drongo had won his point; he had gained the man he wanted.
Planning for crime, the big shot had seen use for the services of Curt Sturley. Butch Drongo had obtained
those services through the inspiration of a broken napoleon.
CHAPTER II. A FOLLOWED TRAIL
MILES from New York, Curt Sturley and Shim Torson had discussed crime as it existed in Manhattan.
Their conversation had definitely indicated that unusual conditions were present in New York.
Shim had told Curt that certain crooks had left the metropolis. Curt had mentioned reading that fact in a
Toronto newspaper. The news had spread everywhere; and in its wake was mystery. The underworld
itself had no answer.
The law had made no sudden drive against crime. There had been no huge feuds among the lawless. No
sudden opportunities elsewhere had caused an exodus of criminals. Yet the fact stood: crime was latent
in New York; and that state existed because notorious men of crime were nowhere about.
Scumland, itself, looked the same. Slouchy, suspicious characters were in evidence. Hopheads,
panhandlers, stool-pigeons were in abundance. There were even a great many thuggish strollers who
looked like potential gun-toters. But the important links were absent.
Crooks who formed the backbone of notorious mobs; killers and the lieutenants who commanded them;
even certain rogues of higher aspirations who claimed to be “big shots”—none of these were in sight.
The word was piped along the grapevine that racketeers were fuming, idle. They depended upon
strong-arm crews to back their schemes of extortion. They could not find the gorillas whom they wanted.
It had been noised that a squad of torpedoes or pineapple handlers could command its own price. But no
such crew was available.
Of all the places where rumor was rife, the Black Ship predominated. It was a dive where the toughest
thugs congregated. The Black Ship produced rumors simply because it had lost the greatest percentage
of patrons.
SOON after dusk on this particular night, a rugged, poker-faced customer entered the Black Ship. He
was well-attired; his chiseled visage commanded immediate recognition. This arrival produced a buzzed
conversation in a secluded corner of the dive.
“Say!” whispered a squinty-eyed lounger. “Dat's Cliff Marsland. Lamp de guy, Koke. He's one bozo dat
ain't took it on de lam.”
“Koke,” a bleary-eyed, pock-faced thug, looked up from a glass of grog and snorted.
“Maybe he ain't, Knuckler. But there ain't nothing in Cliff still being here.”
“Why not? Cliff's a killer, ain't he?”
“Sure. But he don't travel with no outfit.”
“I get it, Koke. Dere's been nobody tipping him off to what's doing out of town, him not being wid a
mob.”
Koke nodded.
“Cliff's a smart gazebo, anyway,” decided “Knuckler,” after a brief consideration. “He ought to be wise
to something—at least dat's de way I figure it.”
“Maybe he is,” scoffed Koke. “Why don't you ankle over and ask him?”
Knuckler grinned.
“Think I ain't got de nerve?” he queried. “Keep your lamps open, wise guy, while I go and chin wid
Cliff.”
Knuckler left the table; he crossed the stone-walled room and planked himself at a table, where Cliff was
seated alone. Cliff nodded in recognition.
“Hello, Knuckler,” he remarked. “Want to talk to me?”
“Sure,” replied Knuckler. “Say, Cliff, maybe you got de low-down on all dis hooey dat's been handed
around. Where's all dese gorillas dat's moved out?”
“Why ask me, Knuckler? I don't deal with them.”
“I know dat. But you rate better den any of dem.”
“Glad to hear that. Maybe that explains why I'm still around.”
Knuckler guffawed.
“Dat's good dope, Cliff,” he agreed. “You don't need to hook up with no outfit to stick, or to go places,
neither. All de guys has been mugs dat work togedder.”
“I've heard that there's been new faces showing up in Chicago.”
“I heard dat, too, Cliff. And dere's some saying de same about Miami. Only nobody's heard from any
pals. Anybody dat's gone West or South ain't talked about it.”
“Would you, Knuckler?”
The rowdy scratched his head, then delivered a shake.
“Guess I wouldn't, Cliff. I hadn't thought about it just dat way. All I been thinking is it's a good idea to
stick here. Koke feels de same way about it.”
“Sure. When some big shot gets enough gorillas to start a squad, he may sign you birds up.”
“Dat's just it, only nobody's been starting no outfits. Dat's de tough part about it. Nobody, except—well,
I don't know who's de guy; but he's busy.”
CLIFF'S gaze was steadied. Knuckler felt uneasy. He had spoken the truth when he had stated that he
could not name the big shot in question. But his wording had indicated otherwise. Knuckler was too
squeamish to risk the antagonism of so noted a gun handler as Cliff Marsland.
“Lemme explain it, Cliff,” insisted Knuckler. “Dere's two guys, see? And it's a cinch dey's wid an outfit.
But dey ain't working at it. Ain't been seen much, neider. Dem guys is Sneak Losbach and Weed
Hessel.”
“I haven't seen them.”
“Nobody has much.” Knuckler leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “If it wasn't for me
knowing Deek Calligan, I wouldn't know nothing about dem. Savvy?”
“What's Deek got to do with Sneak and Weed?”
“Nothing—so far as Deek knows Sneak and Weed is on de look-out for him, see? I gotta hunch Deek's
due for a ride when dey get him.”
“And you're a friend of Deek's?”
Knuckler shook his head in violent protest.
“Not a chance,” he declared. “I just knowed dat Deek has two joints where he stays. One's de Hotel
Santiago. De other's a fancy apartment house called de Ladronne.
“You know de kind of lug Deek is. A wise guy dat don't talk to nobody much. Handles his jobs on his
own, or works for somebody widout spilling nothing to nobody else. Deek ain't around. But Sneak and
Weed is. One's at de Santiago; de other's at de Ladronne. Dat makes it simple, don't it?”
Cliff shrugged his shoulders. His gaze, however, belied his gesture of indifference. Narrow-eyed, Cliff's
orbs were fixed on Knuckler's squinty face in a close scrutiny. Knuckler shifted.
“I wasn't meaning nothing, Cliff,” he remarked. “Just figuring dat some big shot had an outfit, but wasn't
using his mob. On account of Sneak an' Weed being busy right now—”
“I've got the idea, Knuckler,” interrupted Cliff. “It sounded pat enough, like you'd spilled it before.”
“Not a chance Cliff. You're the first guy I've spoke to.”
“And maybe the last.”
Knuckler winced. His voice turned whiny.
“Say, Cliff—you ain't meaning—”
“I'm meaning nothing. Forget it, and forget what else you've remembered. Guesswork isn't healthy
sometimes.”
Cliff arose and walked from the Black Ship. Knuckler sidled back to join Koke.
“What'd you ask him?” queried Koke.
“Nothing at all,” returned Knuckler. “Nothing, Koke. He's a tough bird to talk to, Cliff is.”
OUTSIDE the Black Ship, Cliff Marsland was indulging in a smile. Cliff had learned facts that he had
wanted. He was interested in the whereabouts of any hoodlums who were dangerous enough to form the
nucleus of a thuggish mob.
Knuckler had named such men: “Sneak” Losbach and “Weed” Hessel. Knuckler's guess was logical; by
their activities, the two crooks appeared to be on the look-out for “Deek” Calligan. Cliff had silenced
Knuckler after the news had been spilled.
By his manner, Cliff had left Knuckler puzzled. The squeamish crook could not decide whether Cliff was
working with Sneak and Weed or whether he was a pal of the absent Deek Calligan. In either case,
Knuckler would be wise enough to keep his future guesses to himself.
Through his bluff, Cliff had kept his actual business covered. Cliff's status in the underworld was a blind.
He was interested in crime for one reason only. Cliff was an agent of The Shadow.
Serving a mysterious master whose very name brought terror to crookdom, Cliff had visited the Black
Ship in search of news like that which he had gained.
The Shadow was watching the bad lands. He knew the situation there; he wanted to learn of any groups
of thugs who were about to form new bands. The Shadow wanted information regarding the big shots
who might be backing such outfits.
Cliff had gained a lead. He lost no time in relaying it to headquarters. Reaching the outskirts of this
disreputable district, he entered an old drug store. From a telephone booth, The Shadow's agent put in a
call. A quiet voice responded. It was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man.
Cliff reported. He hung up the receiver and awaited a return call. It came, five minutes later. Burbank
supplied instructions. Faring forth, Cliff strolled toward the Bowery; he was on his way to the Hotel
Santiago.
Soon afterward, a taxicab stopped somewhere in the Sixties. A huddled, quick-shifting man sidled from
the cab. He hugged the walls of buildings, until he neared an old-fashioned apartment house. This was the
Ladronne. There the hunch-shouldered man paused.
Another of The Shadow's agents had taken his post. This was “Hawkeye,” one of the cleverest spotters
in the business. Hawkeye had frequently teamed with Cliff. Like Cliff, Hawkeye knew both Sneak
Losbach and Weed Hessel by sight.
ELSEWHERE in Manhattan was a dark-walled room, wherein a bluish light glowed upon a table in the
corner. Beneath that glow were long, white hands, moving as they handled stacks of newspaper clippings
and typewritten report cards. A brilliant gem—a magnificent fire opal— glimmered from the finger of one
hand. Its depths reflected ever-changing hues.
These were the hands of The Shadow. The jewel, a rare girasol, was The Shadow's emblem. The
Shadow was in his sanctum, that hidden abode wherein he planned his forays against men of crime.
A tiny white bulb glowed from the wall. The Shadow reached for the earphones. He raised them above
the shaded light. He spoke in a sinister whisper; a quiet voice responded:
“Burbank speaking.”
“Report,” ordered The Shadow.
“Report from Marsland,” stated the quiet-toned contact man. “Stationed near the Hotel Santiago. Weed
Hessel made a telephone call five minutes ago. Marsland did not learn the number, but he thinks it was a
routine call.”
“Report received.”
“Report from Hawkeye. Stationed near the Ladronne Apartments. Sneak Losbach made two calls, both
to the same number. The first apparently brought a busy signal. Presumably routine calls.”
A whispered laugh from The Shadow. Sneak's first call had probably conflicted with Weed's. That would
explain the busy signal.
“The number,” continued Burbank, “was Freeland 6-3824. Hawkeye saw the dial through the door of
the telephone booth. Check on special directory listings gives the name J. L. Drongo; residence, 42
Northley Place.”
“Report received.”
The Shadow hung up the earphones. The tiny light went out. The Shadow's hands disappeared; when
they returned to the glow of the bluish lamp, they carried a cardboard folder brought from a file cabinet.
Within the folder were photographs and documents, all bearing reference to the racketeer called Butch
Drongo, whose initials, J. L., were used only for such purposes as directory listings.
Minutes passed, while The Shadow studied his complete notations. Then a hand clicked the bluish light.
The sanctum was plunged into absolute darkness. A whispered laugh crept through the gloom; when it
faded, only stillness remained.
The Shadow had left his sanctum. An invisible prowler of the night, he had fared forth to investigate the
affairs of Butch Drongo. Circumstances indicated that Butch was the big shot whom Sneak Losbach and
Weed Hessel served.
SOON afterward, the drowsy chauffeur of a big limousine came suddenly to life as he heard a quiet
voice speak through the tube to the front seat.
“Wake up, Stanley,” came the words. “Drive to 42 Northley Place.”
“Yes, Mr. Cranston.”
Stanley chewed his lips as he started the car. As chauffeur for Lamont Cranston, to whom this car
belonged, Stanley encountered many puzzling experiences. One baffling point was the ease with which
Cranston entered the car and left it—unseen and unheard.
Perhaps Stanley's bewilderment would have lessened had he known more facts. Actually, the chauffeur
served two masters. One, the real Cranston, was at present absent from New York. The other was a
mysterious personage who passed himself as Cranston whenever the millionaire was away.
The occupant of the rear seat was The Shadow. Garbed in black, shrouded in darkness, he had simply
used an imitation of Cranston's voice to give the order to Stanley. When they reached their destination,
The Shadow would tell Stanley to wait. Again unseen, he would leave the big car.
After that—still unseen—The Shadow intended a secret visit to the domicile of Butch Drongo.
CHAPTER III. THE CLOSED DEAL
WHILE The Shadow was planning his trip to 42 Northley Place, other visitors had already arrived there.
Curt Sturley and Shim Torson had reached New York. They had alighted in front of a squatty apartment
building and Shim was ordering a tall, ugly-faced doorman to send Curt's coupe to the garage.
Curt was studying his surroundings. Northley Place was a dead-end street where several apartment
buildings sprouted from among old, decrepit houses. Shim chuckled as he walked Curt into the lobby of
No. 42.
“These joints was supposed to be spiffy,” explained Shim, “but they went sour. The guys that built the
apartment houses left too many dumpy places along the street. This one here—No. 42—was sold off
cheap. Butch Drongo bought it.”
“And that's why he lives here?”
“Sure. It's a good address, and Butch always liked to put on the dog. Some of the rest of us have got
apartments here. Butch will fix you up with one.”
“The doorman works for Butch?”
“Yeah. And Butch owns the garage where your car is going.”
Curt noticed a gloomy stairway leading up from the lobby. They passed it; Shim rang the bell of an
elevator. A car arrived, manned by an operator as tough-faced as the doorman. Curt and Shim rode up
to the sixth floor. There they stepped into a narrow hall. Shim nudged his thumb frontward.
“That door,” he explained, “blocks off the stairs. Butch don't want no guys sneaking up. Out there”—he
pointed to the rear of the hall, where a door stood open—“is nothing but a balcony. Kind of an upstairs
porch, like they have on all the floors; but nobody can get to it.
“This is where we're going.” Slim was facing straight across the hall, where Curt saw a single door. “It's
Butch's apartment. Takes up the whole of this floor.”
As Shim spoke, the door opened. A sad-faced, glinty-eyed man looked out at them. Shim waved a
greeting.
“Hello, Jigger.”
“Hello, Shim. Butch is expecting you. Come on in.”
Curt entered with Shim. They walked to the rear of the apartment and found a comfortable living room.
Looking from the window, Curt saw a continuation of the balcony that lined the rear of the building. Off
beyond, distant in the night, were the myriad lights of Manhattan.
“Here's Butch—”
Curt turned about at Shim's words. A bulky man had stepped into the living room from another door. He
was attired in tuxedo shirt and smoking jacket; above his stiff collar, he displayed a face that wore a
pleased leer. Curt recognized Butch Drongo.
THE racketeer had a proper nickname. His face was wide-jawed, ruddy of complexion. His long, solid
chin formed a contrast to his broad, stubby nose. His forehead was straight; prominent brows hung high
above his sharp, narrow-slitted eyes.
When Butch grinned, he showed large, blunt teeth, well adorned with gold mountings. His hand was the
size of a small ham. It carried a crunching grip when Butch received Curt's clasp.
“Hello, Curt,” greeted Butch, in a pleased voice. Then, to Shim: “Outside.”
Shim departed by the door which Jigger had previously taken. Butch waved Curt to a chair, pulled fat
cigars from his pocket and offered one to the arrival. They lighted the cigars and Butch's grin hardened as
he put a remark.
“I thought I'd fetch you, Curt.”
Curt nodded. His straight features registered no expression. Curt simply placed his hand into his vest
pocket and produced the half of the gold napoleon.
“Where did you get this, Butch?”
Butch laughed.
“It's the McCoy, ain't it?” he quizzed. “The thing you told me you'd been looking for?”
Curt nodded.
“It came off a dead man,” stated Butch. “A guy that looked like a sailor. Nobody knows who he was.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“I've got an idea, but there's no way to be sure until we find the guy.”
“Who is he—the one that you suspect?”
Butch shook his head. He eyed Curt and puffed his cigar. When he spoke, his words carried growled
emphasis.
“Look here, Curt,” announced Butch. “You and me are friends. You worked with me once, and you
were useful. We cracked some nifty cribs, and you were the guy that figured the ways to get into them.”
“Then we washed up, Butch. I was through with that business.”
“So was I, Curt.” Butch grunted a harsh laugh. “The rackets looked better. I had dough. I got into them.
I didn't need you, but I didn't forget you. I need you now.”
Curt gave no response.
“The rackets have slipped,” continued Butch. “I've been looking for something else. Right now's the time
to spring it. Plenty of smart guys have been moving out of town. There's chance for some big jobs.
“That's why I need you. I knew there was a way to get you. Once you told me what you were after. You
said you'd gone crooked because you were sore about something, and because you figured it was the
best way to find something you wanted. I thought you were screwy when you talked about a half a
coin—a thing you called a broken napoleon.
“Then I came across one. You've got it right there, in your mitt. It's yours to keep, but I'm wise enough to
know that you need more dope on it. All right—I'll help you. But you've got to be in with me.”
CURT was meditative. Without speaking, he reached into another pocket, twisted something from the
lining. Gold gleamed between his fingers. Butch gaped as he saw another half of a broken napoleon.
摘要：

THEBROKENNAPOLEONSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ABOVETHEHUDSON?CHAPTERII.AFOLLOWEDTRAIL?CHAPTERIII.THECLOSEDDEAL?CHAPTERIV.THEKINGISDEAD?CHAPTERV.MENINTHEDARK?CHAPTERVI.VANISHEDFOEMEN?CHAPTERVII.NEWMYSTERY?CHAPTERVIII.THEMUTUALQUEST?CHAPTERIX.INB...

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