Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 068 - Cyro

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CYRO
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. BIRDS OF A FEATHER
? CHAPTER II. ONE MAN DEPARTS
? CHAPTER III. UNEXPECTED VISITORS
? CHAPTER IV. THE MAN FROM DES MOINES
? CHAPTER V. IN NEW ORLEANS
? CHAPTER VI. PAWNED WEALTH
? CHAPTER VII. IN THE VIEUX CARRE
? CHAPTER VIII. AT THE CLUB CAPRICE
? CHAPTER IX. IN THE OFFICE
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S STEALTH
? CHAPTER XI. CROOKS AGREE
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW DECIDES
? CHAPTER XIII. BALKED KILLERS
? CHAPTER XIV. THE MESSAGE
? CHAPTER XV. OUT OF THE DARK
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER XVII. TWO NIGHTS LATER
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S THRUST
? CHAPTER XIX. MEN MAKE MOVES
? CHAPTER XX. STROKE AND COUNTERSTROKE
? CHAPTER XXI. THE NEXT TURN
? CHAPTER XXII. VILLAIN'S GLOAT
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE FINAL FRAY
CHAPTER I. BIRDS OF A FEATHER
"YOUR mail, Mr. Rowden."
"Ah, yes. Thank you."
The switchboard operator passed a stack of envelopes to the man who stood in front of the lobby desk.
Rowden smiled as he received the mail. He scanned the envelopes; then thrust them in his pocket and
strolled into the elevator.
The switchboard girl sighed as the door closed. It was not often that the Mallison Apartments received
such debonair guests as Roke Rowden. Small and obscure in the midst of Manhattan, the Mallison
catered chiefly to bargain-hunting tourists.
Roke Rowden was a novelty. He had the bearing of a man-about-town. Suave to the points of his
sharp-tipped mustache, friendly of eye and manner, he had become the switchboard operator's idol.
Rowden's slight swagger; the easy fashion in which he carried his gold-headed cane - these were
gentlemanly mannerisms that the girl judged as perfection.
Even in the elevator, Roke Rowden lost nothing of his poise. Cane beneath his arm, he retained his
studied pose until the car had reached the fifth floor. Then, with his accustomed gait, he strolled forth
along a corridor and stopped at a door marked 516. Deliberately, Rowden unlocked the door and
entered. He closed the door behind him.
"Hello, Roke."
Rowden turned quickly as he heard the greeting. For a moment, his face was disturbed. Then he smiled
suavely as he observed a dark-eyed, smooth-faced man lounging in an easy chair. This chap had a quiet
air that marked the real gentleman. A contrast to Rowden's affectation.
"So it's you, Tracy," spoke Rowden. "I'd forgotten that you were coming in. Usually, you slide up here
just after I arrive."
"I thought it best to change that plan this evening. After all, someone might connect us, even though I do
get off at different floors and use the stairway for the rest of the trip."
Rowden nodded.
"And by the way," added the man called Tracy, "it would be a good idea for you to tell me the name I'm
to use tonight. Forget that I'm Tracy Lence."
"All right," agreed Rowden. "You're Claude Kilgarth for the time being. And I have good news for you,
Claude, old boy. The pay-off is due."
"The sucker bit, oh?"
"Swallowed the line with the bait. That's what comes of using an artistic build-up. I've been working for a
full month off and on, seeing the sap only occasionally, letting him ripen."
Roke Rowden paused to pull the letters from his pocket. One by one, he ripped open envelopes, read
their contents and tore both letters and envelopes before tossing them in the wastebasket.
"Even this mail is part of the build," chuckled Rowden. "That's what comes of having a few pals who
travel around the country. They frame business letters from various concerns. I always accumulate a lot
of important-looking mail."
He stopped as he came to a long envelope. He studied it carefully; then tore it open and read the letter
inside. He shook his head; then chuckled.
"This is a new one," he declared. "I can usually figure who planted these letters for me. Every con man
has his own type of crowd as a rule. But this one is from a book shop; that is, it's on their stationery."
"What city?" inquired Tracy Lence.
"New Orleans," replied Rowden. "I guess Biggs mailed it. He must have grabbed some of the stationery.
An odd letter, too. It begins with 'Esteemed Friend.' Biggs springing a gag, I guess."
ROKE tore the letter and the envelope. He tossed them along with the rest of the trash. Then, with a
suave smile, he lighted a cigarette and turned toward Lence.
"Let's talk business," suggested Rowden. "I told you we were due for the pay-off. It's ripe, tonight. The
fall-guy is coming here to see me at nine o'clock.
"His name is Northrup Lucaster. An old duck from Des Moines, Iowa, who came east to spend a few
months in New York. Somebody introduced him at one of the clubs. That's where I spotted him."
"I figured that game was about your speed," remarked Lence. "Go on. Give me the rest of it."
"What are you getting at?" retorted Rowden. "Say - I can put up a front with anybody. The reason I
picked this duck from Iowa was because he looked like a cinch."
"That's just it, Roke. Why spend a month on him? We could have pulled at trimming and gone on with
another job."
"I've only seen him off and on," explained Rowden. "I was looking for better bets, all along. But I didn't
spot them, so I went ahead with Lucaster."
"Apology accepted," put in Lence. "Proceed with Lucaster. What's he falling for?"
"Silver," chuckled Rowden. "There's been a lot of talk about it in the Middle West. Price of the metal
going up. Free silver, maybe. That's what they think. So I told Lucaster my phony story.
"I spilled a yarn about a Nevada silver mine that was closed up because it wasn't paying. Poor
transportation facilities and all that bunk. Closed up forty years ago. Present owners ready to sell me their
stock cheap. They don't know that there's anything in it.
"A friend - that's you - is ready to go half shares on the purchase. But you've only got enough to buy the
stock; someone else has to furnish the kale to start operations. A pool is the system. You and Lucaster
each put up half. I get a commission, that I'll take in stock."
"Well, it sounds all right," decided Lence. "I'll be Claude Kilgarth. Where do I come from?"
"Zanesville, Ohio. You told me you know that town."
"And how much am I putting up?"
"Twenty-five grand."
Lence eyed Rowden coolly.
"I thought," he remarked, "that you said Lucaster and I were going to put up equal amounts."
"I did," returned Rowden.
"You mean then" - Lence paused, incredulous - "that twenty-five grand is the game? That it's all you're
going to tap this fellow for?"
"Yes."
"And you call him a sucker! Say - that's chicken feed for the amount of trouble you've gone to. Ten
grand a piece is about all we'll net, after we chop off the expenses we've incurred. What's the idea,
Roke? Is that all the coin the old fellow can spare?"
"It's all I can show. Twenty-five grand."
"You mean -"
"I mean that I've got that much in a safe-deposit box at the Manhattan Night Bank. I'm going down there
to get it. You'll hold the roll and flash it. When you hand the mazuma over to me, Lucaster will do the
same with his wad."
"You sap!" Lence showed indignation. "That isn't necessary. You could count on me to swing it. A
check, faked to look like it was certified. That would do for my share."
"It's too late now, Tracy."
"Why?"
"Because my build was a cash down proposition. Lucaster fell for it on that basis. We'd lose out if we
tried to switch the game. He might get leery."
"Twenty-five grand! From what you've told me, this sucker should be good for fifty."
"It's twenty-five in the bag, though, Tracy. We can take it on the lam before Lucaster wises. I told him
we'd have to go out to Montana. Weeks, perhaps, before he'd hear from us."
"All the more reason why you should have hit for bigger dough. However, it can't be helped."
"That's the way to look at it." Rowden became brisk. "Well, Tracy, stick around until I get back. I'm
going down to the bank. Take a look at some of those time-tables in the table drawer. Pick the route you
want to take when we leave town."
Roke left the apartment.
LENCE had risen from his chair; he stood with hands in coat pockets. With his right, he was juggling the
duplicate key with which he had entered this apartment. As minutes drifted, Lence kept eyeing the door
with crafty, sidelong gaze.
At last, convinced that Roke was actually on his way to the bank, Lence became active. Stepping across
to the wastebasket, he stooped and fumbled among the torn letters. He found the one that Roke had
received from the New Orleans book shop.
Roke had torn the letter in two pieces. Lence held the portions before the desk lights. He chuckled as he
noted the thickness of the paper. Moistening thumb and forefinger, he began a peeling process. The thick
paper came apart in two portions. Lence laid the rear sheets upon the desk.
Leaving the living room, he returned with a glass of water. Moistening a corner of his handkerchief,
Lence dabbed the inner surfaces of the rear sheets. Writing appeared. It was in code.
Seating himself at the desk, Lence began to translate. The message was a brief one, addressed to himself.
It read:
LENCE: COME AT ONCE TO NEW
ORLEANS. 421 DOLIER STREET.
INQUIRE FOR BRILLIARD.
FOLLOW HIS INSTRUCTIONS.
CYRO.
Laying the deciphered message beside the torn sections of the peeled letter, Lence drew a watch from
his pocket and noted the time. It was half past eight. Lence made a mental calculation; a smile appeared
upon his smooth face.
Rowden had spoken of a table drawer where railway schedules were kept. Lence noted the table in an
alcove at the far corner of the room. He moved in that direction, found the drawer he wanted, and began
to examine the schedules that he found. He chose three that included listings of through trains to New
Orleans. He thrust them into his inside pocket.
Closing the drawer, Lence took a metal case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. He was obtaining
a light as he strolled from the alcove. As he puffed, he shook the flame to extinguish it. He looked up.
Lence's fingers relaxed. The burnt match dropped to the floor. The smile left his lips as he stared toward
the dark where he had left the message. Tracy Lence was staring into the mouth of a revolver. The gun
was held by Roke Rowden.
The other crook had returned while Lence was in the alcove. The turn of his key had not been sufficient
to attract Lence's attention. Entering, Roke had noted Lence's absence. He had seen the message on the
desk; he had read the translation.
Gun in readiness, Roke Rowden was waiting to demand an explanation of this surreptitious
correspondence. His suave countenance had hardened. Roke was prepared to hear facts from his
partner, Tracy Lence.
CHAPTER II. ONE MAN DEPARTS
"WELL?" rasped Roke.
Lence made no reply. He framed a weak grin that brought a sneer to Rowden's lips.
"Speak up!" ordered Roke, with a significant gesture of his revolver. "What's the game you're working?"
"Put up the rod," suggested Lence, trying to regain his composure. "I'll talk - on a friendly basis."
"You'll talk the way I want it. This looks like a double cross, Tracy. Stand where you are - and answer
the questions that I put to you."
"All right. Have it your own way."
Eyes steady and gun leveled, Rowden made a gesture with his free hand. His thumb-nudge indicated the
torn letter on the table.
"I've heard of this fellow, Cyro," announced Rowden. "Supposed to be the slickest swindler in the
business. Who is he?"
"I don't know," replied Lence.
"No?" snarled Rowden. "Well, I'll take your word for it. They say that Cyro is so smart that even the
stooges who work for him don't know who he is. Is that right?"
"It is."
"And you're one of his outfit?"
"I am."
Roke relaxed slightly and resumed his suavity. He did not lower the revolver, however. Lence still faced
the threatening weapon.
"I thought Cyro was a big shot," he snorted. "One who kept his stooges in the money. That doesn't seem
to apply in your case."
"It doesn't," admitted Lence. "I fluked one job for him, Roke. That put me on probation."
"Probation?"
"Certainly. That's the way Cyro works. Ordered me to shift for myself for six months. Maybe he'd take
me back after that."
"He knew where you were?"
"Yes. With you."
"How did you know this letter came from him?"
"I was watching for it. I've taken a look through the wastebasket every day I've been here."
"So that's why you've kept coming around so much, eh? Double-crossing me, on account of Cyro."
"Don't take that slant, Roke. I'm playing on the level, so far as you're concerned."
Roke considered. There was truth in Lence's statement. The gun began to lower; then Roke changed his
mind. He saw a loophole in his companion's argument.
"WHEN we teamed up," decided Roke, eyeing Lence narrowly, "we made a straight fifty-fifty
agreement. I said that I'd work the front to begin with. You could be the blind. But the gag was fifty-fifty,
wasn't it?"
"Certainly."
"All right. We trim Lucaster tonight. Then we tackle this Cyro business - fifty-fifty."
"I can't let you in on it, Roke."
"Why not?"
"Cyro wouldn't have it, that's all. Be reasonable, Roke. Here's a proposition for you: I'll go through with
this Lucaster deal; but I'll only take five grand. All the rest will be yours. Our partnership will be ended."
"That doesn't suit me, Tracy."
Lence considered.
"Take all of it, Roke," he pleaded. "That's fair enough, isn't it? All yours and quits."
"That doesn't sound bad," remarked Roke, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "Not bad at all. At least it
wouldn't, if it came from some other guy than you.
"But I haven't forgotten a crack you made - just before I went out to the bank. You called twenty-five
grand chicken feed. I was thinking that over while I was out. I thought it was just big talk, coming from a
fellow who was on his uppers. Now I've got the answer.
"I guess twenty-five grand is small change to you. It would be, for a fellow that used to work with Cyro.
I'd like to be in with his outfit myself. Do you hear that, Tracy?"
"I do. But it couldn't be arranged."
"Why not?"
"You wouldn't make the grade."
Rowden became tense. His face took on a vicious expression. For a moment, he was threatening with
the revolver. Lence smiled.
"No offense, Roke," he remarked. "I simply stated a fact. That was all. Cyro picks the men he wants. He
is particular. To begin with, his associates have to be gentlemen -"
"Why you -"
"Gentlemen, I said. Men who can talk and act like gentlemen. Not posers who go in for pointed
mustaches and swagger around with a cane. That may bluff retired business men from Iowa. It doesn't go
with the Four Hundred.
"That's where Cyro finds the saps - among the upper crust. But he leaves the plucking to fellows like
myself -"
Lence broke off. He was telling Rowden too much. Roke caught the reason for the interruption.
"Fellows like yourself, eh?" he quizzed. "And like Brilliard, the man mentioned in the note. So you don't
know who Cyro is. Well - who's Brilliard?"
"I never met him, Roke. He's probably someone working for Cyro."
"Who have you met in Cyro's outfit?"
LENCE made no response. Nonchalantly, he began to puff his cigarette. Each time he removed the
cigarette from his lips, he kept his hand high and away from his body, out of respect to Rowden's leveled
gun.
"Gentlemen!" snapped Rowden. "You and the rest of them. I can't make the grade, the way you look at
it. Calling it quits. That's your proposition."
"You make twenty-five grand," reminded Lence. "The full haul from this Lucaster sucker."
"I was taking half of it anyway," sneered Rowden, "and you wouldn't be offering me your cut if I hadn't
talked terms with this gat I'm holding. I'm no chiseler, Tracy; but you are. You've proved it.
"Now I'll do the talking. You'll take the fifty-fifty split I offered. But you'll let me in on this Cyro
proposition. Wait a minute" - he paused as Lence made a gesture; "I'm not going to ask you to queer
yourself with Cyro. You don't have to spill any news about me.
"When we take it on the lam, we'll head for New Orleans together. You go about your business. I'll play
the silent partner. You know I can keep a good thing to myself. So you won't be spoiling Cyro's game.
But remember: it will be fifty-fifty, between us."
"Not a chance, Roke." Lence spoke seriously, as he poised his hand above an ash stand and let the
cigarette stump fall. "I'm giving you straight stuff when I tell you that the deal wouldn't work. There's no
money for me when I get to New Orleans."
"No? Then why are you passing up your cut here?"
"Because I want to get back with Cyro. This trip means expenses. Nothing more. After that, maybe I'll
get something better. I'm playing for the future, that's all."
"So am I."
"All right. Maybe I can fix it for you. Wait until I get with Cyro. If I work well on this deal he's pulling -
whatever it is - I may have a chance to boost you in with the outfit."
"But you say you've never met Cyro."
"I've reported through to him. I'll do the same again. I won't forget you, Roke. Put up that gat. Let's get
set for this fall-guy from Des Moines."
"Get me straight," rasped Roke, with a warning thrust of the gun; "I'm going to New Orleans! My
proposition stays. No other."
"But you can't force me to it."
"Can't I? I could drill you and walk out of here without a person knowing it. That's what I'll do, too,
unless you come clean. Take my terms; and if I find you trying to double-cross me, I'll queer Cyro's
game.
"I know enough about it" - Roke delivered an ugly laugh - "enough to put the skids under it. There's the
proposition, Tracy. Are you taking it?"
"I guess so," replied Lence, wearily. "Put up the gat, Roke. What you say goes. You're in - on your own
terms."
Roke lowered his gun. His suave smile returned. Lence, a bit dejected, came toward his companion.
Roke watched him fumble for his cigarette case. Lence brought the object from his left coat pocket. He
offered a cigarette to Roke, who shook his head. Lence helped himself to one.
"Got a match, Roke?" he asked, in a humble tone. "I think I used my last one."
Roke started to feel in his left coat pocket. Lence, in a natural fashion, copied the action, putting his right
hand to his coat. Suddenly his hand came snapping into view.
Roke, with a snarl, raised his revolver to fire. He was too late.
A gun had flashed in Lence's right hand. Point-blank, Lence loosed a shot at Rowden from a range of
three feet.
Roke's rising gun stopped short. A pained expression came over the man's mustached face.
With gasped groans, Roke Rowden dropped his revolver. Hunching, he pressed his hands to his breast;
then, with a sickly expression, he subsided to the floor. He lay there moaning, unable to pick up his gun.
The man was mortally wounded.
"THANKS for the tip, Roke," sneered Lence, lighting his cigarette. "I thought you were bluffing with that
gat, until you reminded me that the shot would not be heard. I forgot that the near-by apartments were
vacant.
"I'd like to help you out of misery" - Lence paused as he picked up the torn pieces of Cyro's letter and
the translation that went with them - "but it would not be artistic. You might pass for a suicide, the way
you're dying. A second bullet - through your brain - would be a give-away."
The glass of water was standing on the desk; beside it lay Lence's handkerchief. Lence polished the sides
of the glass; then tipped it with his elbow. The glass toppled from the table. It broke upon the fringe of a
rug and its contents trickled along the floor.
"Maybe they'll think you were going to try poison, Roke," suggested Lence. "Maybe they won't. It
doesn't matter, either way. They won't weep over a con man gone to blighty. This, however, is most
important."
Lence was polishing the handle of his revolver. Stopping by Roke's side, he grasped the dying man's
sleeve and tugged a hand into view. He shoved his own gun into Roke's fist. Roke's fingers loosened; but
one digit caught the trigger guard. The gun remained.
In case the police inspected the murder bullet, the gun Lence had substituted in Rowden's hand would be
proven the one which had fired the shot. Lence was building up a suicide theory.
A bulge showed in the dying man's coat. With professional skill, Lence thrust his hand into Roke's inside
pocket and produced a bulky wallet. Opening it, Lence drew forth a wad of bank notes.
He looked at his victim's huddled form and laughed at Roke's paled expression. The gun was dangling
neatly from Roke's fingers, as though the hand had relaxed without completely losing hold. Roke's eyes
were closed. His shoulders heaved and sank as he breathed.
"Twenty-five grand," chuckled Lence, as he counted the money that he had extracted. "I'm glad you
brought it from the safe-deposit vault, Roke. It would have been useless there. You don't need it any
longer, Roke.
"A man doesn't commit suicide while he still has a bank-roll the size of this one. Let me see: Ten dollars,
twenty, thirty - you're a flashy-looking chap, Roke. You'd carry at least a hundred. I'll raise the ante."
Lence added two twenties and a fifty to the three tens. He took two fives and a one from his own pocket
and added them to make a total of one hundred and thirty-one dollars. He replaced the small sum in the
wallet.
Carefully avoiding the blood that stained Roke's shirt-front, Lence slipped the wallet back into the inside
pocket. Edging the dying man's body along the floor, he uncovered the revolver that Roke had dropped.
Lence picked up Roke's unused gun. He eyed the victim and observed that Roke was almost motionless.
Slow, moaning gasps came with painful monotony. Roke gave no other sign of life.
Stepping to the wastebasket, Lence dug out a fistful of torn paper. He began to examine fragments of
envelopes. The third one was half an envelope that bore a New Orleans postmark. The next fragment
looked like the missing half. Lence compared them. The two fitted.
There was no return address on the envelope. Lence recalled that Roke had not mentioned the book
shop until he had opened the letter. Thrusting the torn pieces into his pocket, the murderous con man
started toward the rear of the apartment.
On the way, he stopped and felt the time-tables in his pocket. He decided to keep them. With a last look
at Roke Rowden's inert body, Tracy Lence delivered an evil chuckle and departed, through a darkened
room.
Opening a window, he stepped to a fire escape. Roke Rowden had purposely chosen an apartment with
an available emergency exit. Closing the window behind him, Tracy Lence, murderer, stole softly
downward into the darkness of a courtyard.
CHAPTER III. UNEXPECTED VISITORS
SILENCE persisted in that lower courtyard after the departure of Tracy Lence. The murderer's stealthy
footfalls had been but slight clicks in that gloom. Stilled atmosphere clung shroudlike in the court during
the five minutes that elapsed after the murderer's exit.
Then came motion. A soft swish disturbed the darkness. Noiselessly, a figure had glided into the
courtyard. Unseen, a phantom shape was moving toward the fire escape that Tracy Lence had
descended.
A new presence had arrived. Some one - a being in black - was reversing the course that Lence had
followed. A hidden shape arrived at the very window from which Lence had left the apartment. A soft
laugh whispered in the darkness.
That sound, scarcely audible, was a token of identity. This mysterious prowler, approaching the scene of
crime, was a personage to whom such journeys were commonplace. The being from darkness was The
Shadow.
To crookdom, The Shadow was a living foe. Men of evil knew his prowess. Time and again, plotters of
crime had gained evidence of The Shadow's uncanny ability in bringing doom to crime. A weaving figure
cloaked in black; the author of a strident laugh that accompanied the withering staccato of barking
automatics - such was The Shadow.
And, as mute testimony of this master fighter's strength, men of evil had found the silent bodies of their
pals in crime. Dying mobsters had coughed his name - The Shadow - in gasping their last breaths. And
always, when The Shadow arrived to deal vengeance upon foes of justice, he came with unexpected
stealth.
The little, like the big, could feel The Shadow's wrath. For his campaign was one of extermination. The
Shadow knew that men of smaller schemes would become the makers of large plans. To The Shadow,
crime was crime. That axiom had brought him here tonight.
Somehow, The Shadow had learned of Roke Rowden's scheme. He knew where the swindler lived. He
had full knowledge of the time set for the trimming. He knew also that a confederate would be present to
aid Roke Rowden in the fleecing of Northrup Lucaster, the gentleman from Des Moines.
THE window by the fire escape opened at The Shadow's pressure. The spectral raider had expected as
much. He had seen the apartment house from the outside. He knew that Rowden would have chosen an
apartment with an emergency exit. The unlatched window was proof that this was part of apartment 516.
It was ready for a quick get-away.
The Shadow entered the darkened room. Straight ahead, a door stood ajar. As The Shadow advanced
with stealthy glide, a clock in the living room chimed the hour of ten - the time set for Lucaster's arrival.
The Shadow knew.
摘要：

CYROMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.BIRDSOFAFEATHER?CHAPTERII.ONEMANDEPARTS?CHAPTERIII.UNEXPECTEDVISITORS?CHAPTERIV.THEMANFROMDESMOINES?CHAPTERV.INNEWORLEANS?CHAPTERVI.PAWNEDWEALTH?CHAPTERVII.INTHEVIEUXCARRE?CHAPTERVIII.ATTHECLUBCAPRICE?CHAPTERIX.I...

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