Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 273 - The Muggers
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THE MUGGERS
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME ON THE RUN
? CHAPTER II. THE WAYS OF THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER III. TWO MODES OF RESCUE
? CHAPTER IV. WAYS OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER V. THE LAW'S DILEMMA
? CHAPTER VI. THE THIRD ELEMENT
? CHAPTER VII. DEATH BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER VIII. TRAILS OF MYSTERY
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW'S POLICY
? CHAPTER X. COUP FOR COUP
? CHAPTER XI. TWO WAYS OUT
? CHAPTER XII. THE HUMAN CLUE
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIV. CRANSTON'S CLINIC
? CHAPTER XV. A QUESTION OF BEGGARS
? CHAPTER XVI. ROUTE TO CRIME
? CHAPTER XVII. VICTIMS IN REVERSE
? CHAPTER XVIII. COVER OF DARKNESS
? CHAPTER XIX. CRANSTON PROPOSES
? CHAPTER XX. THE STROKE AT MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XXI. DEATH'S TRIANGLE
CHAPTER I. CRIME ON THE RUN
LAMONT CRANSTON stumbled as he groped his way toward the faint lights that represented the
Cobalt Club. It was difficult, negotiating Manhattan streets under dimout conditions; difficult at least for
the average man, so Cranston had to pretend that the same applied in his case. For Lamont Cranston
was meticulous about behaving as a normal person would, under undue circumstances.
In brief, Cranston was playing a part. Actually, he was someone other than Lamont Cranston, though he
fulfilled his present character to perfection. In his other self, he was The Shadow, master hunter who
tracked down men of crime through the jungles of Manhattan. Between times, it was expedient to pose
as Cranston, particularly in the neighborhood of the swank Cobalt Club; where Cranston was listed as a
member.
So though the eyes of The Shadow saw the huddled figure of the beggar who was perched on a low,
wheeled board, the feet of Cranston made a deliberate move as if to trip across the fellow. Then,
catching himself, Cranston acted as though taken aback. He dodged, as a man would to avoid a pointed
gun, when the beggar pushed a rounded object up from the sidewalk's gloom and whined plaintively:
"Buy a pencil, mister?"
There was a basso laugh almost at Cranston's elbow. Recognizing the tone, Cranston could afford to
identify the man who delivered it, even though his face was obscured in the dimness. "Oh, it's you,
Harland."
"That's right, Cranston." Again, Harland chuckled, with a heavy tone of satisfaction. "Rather startled you,
didn't it, tripping over this beggar? That's one of the things I've complained about to our friend
Commissioner Weston. Too many beggars in New York, along with more dangerous undesirables."
"This fellow looks harmless enough." Taking the pencil with one hand, Cranston used the other to plunk a
quarter in the beggar's tin cup. "I think you'd do better, Harland, to keep concentrating on the mugger
situation."
"Maybe the two things fit," snapped Harland. "Encouraging beggars is bad business. When you pay a
quarter for a five-cent lead pencil -"
A clatter interrupted. It came from the roller skates under the beggar's wheeled board. Deftly slithering
his curious vehicle around the corner, the beggar yelled back across his shoulder, in words meant for
Harland:
"You're wrong, mister. At the five-and-dime you can buy them pencils three for a nickel."
IT was Cranston who was chuckling when he and Harland entered the lighted foyer of the Cobalt Club.
Cranston's nonchalance had returned and, in contrast, Harland's indignation was at a fever heat. Big,
broad-shouldered and with a face so bluff that it was almost savage, Harland began to harangue the first
man they met, who happened to be Police Commissioner Ralph Weston.
Brusque and military in bearing, Weston twitched to the points of his short-clipped mustache during
Harland's tirade. Equally annoyed by Harland's manner was a swarthy, poker-faced man who stood in
the background. He was Inspector Joe Cardona, the ace of Weston's staff, and Joe found it difficult to
maintain his dead-pan attitude while Harland shouted the beggar nuisance as though the thing were an
absolute menace. All the while, Cranston's masklike face retained its calm immobility. When he had fixed
a cigarette in a long holder and applied a flame from a platinum lighter, Cranston intervened:
"You are employing the wrong nomenclature, Harland. These men that you term beggars are actually
peddlers. The commissioner will tell you that they all carry licenses."
"Licenses for what?" sneered Harland. "To charge outrageous prices for the petty goods they pretend to
peddle?"
"They have no fixed fees," returned Cranston, "any more than you do, Harland. The reformers that you
represent tell me that they pay you whatever sums you demand, without further question." Pausing,
Cranston met Harland's glare with a puff of smoke from the cigarette holder, then added, impassively:
"Do you have a license, Harland?"
A smile twitched along with Weston's mustache and Cardona suppressed a grin. To Harland's credit, he
was either willing to acknowledge himself outmatched, or was smart enough to recognize the
disadvantage that further argument would bring him. Abruptly, Harland boomed:
"You are right, Cranston. The Citizens' Reform League has employed me for more important duties.
About this mugging question, commissioner"—Harland wheeled to Weston—"have you quarantined
those districts where thugs and bandits, styled muggers, have been committing assault and robbery?"
"Technically, yes," replied Weston. "But before making the order final, we would like to give you a
demonstration of our methods. My official car is outside. Suppose we drive to one of the notorious areas
under discussion."
FIFTEEN minutes later, Weston's big car came to an inconspicuous halt on a side street in the Hundreds.
From the window, Cranston saw the white top of a patrol car across the way. There were other things
his keen eyes noted, points that Harland did not observe. As if by prearrangement, figures began to
emerge from doorways and fall in line as they moved along the street.
The procession was paced by a squatty man, who kept glancing nervously across his shoulder. To all
appearances he was an ordinary wayfarer, navigating this neighborhood. After he had passed, three
others pushed themselves into sight. They had the manner of lurkers transforming themselves into beasts
of prey.
A hollow whisper came from Harland:
"Muggers.
"Sit tight, Harland," insisted Weston. "Everything is quite under control. Observe the precision with which
we operate."
The squatty man turned the corner and the stalkers did the same. Immediately the police car nosed into
life and took up the trail at a snail's pace, without using lights. As soon as the white-topped vehicle turned
the corner, Weston's chauffeur put the big official car in motion and it brought up the rear of the
procession.
There was a lighted store window halfway down the next block, so conveniently placed that Cranston's
lips relaxed into a smile. He had begun to understand what Weston meant by a "demonstration," though
the fact had apparently escaped Harland. Keeping his eyes on the patch of light, Cranston was all set to
witness what promptly happened.
As the squatty wayfarer reached the glow, two stalkers overtook him. From each side one grabbed an
arm of the victim and bent him backward. The third stalker moved forward as the prey was wheeled
around, whisked out a small knife, flipped open its blade and pressed the point to the victim's throat. It
was a silent but telling threat of death, should the victim resist while the footpads robbed him.
A terrified gargle caught itself in Harland's throat as though his own Adam's apple felt the pressure of a
knife point. He lurched forward to spring from the security of Weston's car and dash to the aid of the
victim. Cardona hauled Harland back and gruffly told him to watch. This mugging wasn't going to be
completed.
The white-topped patrol car was at the scene. From it sprang a pair of uniformed police. One of the
muggers must have seen them, for instantly the trio shoved their victim at the cops and made a dash for a
handy alleyway. Unfortunately the rescued man blundered against his friends who represented the law.
They had to shove him aside to reach the alley, where they fired shots into the darkness. At the gunfire,
the squatty victim took alarm and fled in another direction.
Clambering from his big car, Weston reached the officers as they returned. They saluted apologetically,
regretting that they had failed to overtake the muggers. Usually critical on such occasions, Weston
reversed his usual self and commended the officers highly. Turning to Harland, the commissioner queried:
"How did the demonstration impress you?"
"It was excellent!" boomed Harland. "The Citizens' Reform League will be elated. The apprehension of
culprits is not the major issue; the discouragement of crime is what we desire. You have performed that
service adequately, commissioner."
WHILE riding from the scene in the commissioner's car, Harland discoursed further on the subject of
quarantining districts like those where the mugging incident had just occurred. Weston assured him that
the ruling was practically in effect; that police cars were in abundance in every area where muggers had
instituted a campaign of terrorism. It would take a considerable percentage of the available patrol cars,
but the result would be worth it.
Quite pleased, Harland was expressing further congratulations when the car stopped at the apartment
house where the reformer lived. Alighting, Harland boomed "good-night" and the official car swung back
toward the Cobalt Club. It was during that last stage of the ride that Cranston made his first comment.
"Let me add my congratulations," said Cranston. "It was a nice show, commissioner."
"A nice show!" blustered Weston. "What do you mean by that?"
"Merely that you planted everything," remarked Cranston. "The victim was obviously one of your
headquarters men. The fake muggers disguised themselves a little better, but that business in the light was
certainly a fixed job. The most ludicrous part was the way the two patrolmen fell over each other to let
the muggers get away."
Weston would have blustered it out, if Cardona hadn't intervened. Knowing Cranston to be a close
friend of the commissioner, Cardona decided to admit the truth.
"We had to satisfy Harland," explained the inspector. "The demonstration was my idea. You'll remember,
Mr. Cranston, that we didn't call it by any other name."
"I remember."
"Harland has become a nuisance," put in Weston. "We wanted to prove to him that the crime quarantine
could operate. I think the method was legitimate."
"Quite," agreed Cranston.
"Harland is convinced," emphasized Weston, "and everybody is happy. Tomorrow the newspapers will
admit that we've done something about the mugging question."
The car was stopping in front of the Cobalt Club as Cranston spoke in a warning tone.
"You have done a great deal," he declared. "By choosing those areas and quarantining them, so that no
suspicious characters can enter, you're laying the rest of the city wide open. This is one time,
commissioner, when a quarantine will result in an epidemic. I should advise you to change your policy."
Stepping from the car, Cranston turned away, leaving Weston fuming in a style that would have better
befitted Harland. In Weston's opinion, Cranston's notions were absurd and the commissioner wanted
Cardona to agree. But the ace inspector remained silent, unwilling to commit himself. Just as he knew that
Weston would not change his policy, so was Cardona beginning to believe that Cranston was right.
Joe Cardona would have been thoroughly convinced had his eyes been able to penetrate the darkness
across the street.
There, the strolling figure of Lamont Cranston had merged with a blackness that represented substance.
Beside the open door of a parked and darkened cab, Cranston was producing garments that he kept
handy in this cab which was at his beck and call. Those garments consisted of a black cloak and a slouch
hat. Garbed in them, Cranston became practically invisible against the darkness of the dimout; that is, if
he still could be termed Lamont Cranston.
Rather, he had become The Shadow, that master who used paths of darkness to further ways of justice.
Mysterious, silent and untraceable was the course that the cloaked figure took as it went along the street.
Then, from a corner, came the only trace of this mighty presence who stood for right.
Back from the thickening darkness floated a weird laugh, toned with a whisper that awoke responsive
echoes. Strange, creepy, that mirth was unreal, the sort that would make listeners wonder if they heard it.
As those echoes faded, The Shadow was gone.
His mission was to protect the public in a case where the police were bound to fail because of their
acceptance of the policy that Harland's reform group had thrust upon them.
The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER II. THE WAYS OF THE SHADOW
IN a room that he called his sanctum, The Shadow was studying an immense map of Manhattan that
hung in the glare of a blue lamp, trained upon a black-curtained wall. There was such a map at police
headquarters and like The Shadow's, it was blocked off into sectors; but with that the resemblance
ceased.
The Shadow's map bore marks that represented the results of his own unique investigation, consisting of
personal trips to certain districts to check upon reports furnished by skilled agents. Having first marked
off the sections where the presence of police would automatically discourage muggers, The Shadow had
tabbed three other sectors, all fairly close together. These, in The Shadow's opinion, were the spots
where muggers would flock to find new happy hunting grounds, now that a closed season was declared
on their old preserves.
There was a whispered laugh as The Shadow turned the blue light on a polished table. The cause of his
grim mirth was a pile of clippings that lay in view. During the past twenty-four hours, the newspapers had
been shouting the death of the mugging menace, commending the law on the demonstration of the night
before and feeding the public with promises of future safety.
Harland had fed the press with last night's story, through a bulletin issued by his reform committee. Since
Harland termed the mugging incident as genuine, Weston had seen no reason to declare otherwise.
Instead, the commissioner had announced the beginning of the quarantine and stated that the public could
end its self-imposed curfew in areas where until last night, it had been unsafe for wayfarers to wander.
The muggers, not the respectable citizenry, were the persons who could no longer consider themselves
safe, according to Commissioner Weston.
Oddly, among those recent clippings was an old one that bore the yellow marks of time. It was from a
newspaper a hundred years old, a clipping that The Shadow had dug from his copious archives. It told of
daring footpads called "muggers" who had molested Manhattan in the 1840s. These muggers patronized
grog shops where they drank from big mugs that they carried away with them. On the street, they would
clout passers-by with the mugs and rob them of all their valuables. When reported in one area, the
muggers would merely move to another and renew their operations.
A century had changed the favored weapons from mugs to knives, though the modern muggers were
unquestionably the successors of the older clan. The nub of the old clipping was the fact that the muggers
were smart enough to change territory when occasion required. The present-day breed would certainly
be clever enough to use the same stratagem, as The Shadow had already warned the police.
From across the table came the glimmer of a tiny light. The Shadow reached for earphones and spoke in
a whispered tone. At his word "Report" a methodical voice came over the wire. It was Burbank, The
Shadow's contact man, giving reports from agents in the sectors marked as new danger spots on The
Shadow's city map.
They were all on the job tonight, those agents, working in pairs. They were checking on special spots that
The Shadow himself had picked as likely gathering places for muggers. Analyzing these reports, The
Shadow not only saw the symptoms he expected; reaching up to the map, he laid a gloved finger on the
three areas in turn, while he spoke to Burbank.
The Shadow was predicting the time element, based on the number of suspicious characters reported in
each of these districts that the police ignored.
He was telling Burbank what his own route would be; how the agents were to post themselves in helping
him meet the menace in one-two-three order. Finishing his instructions, The Shadow whispered a laugh
as he turned off the blue light. When echoes faded, the cloaked avenger was gone from his mysterious
sanctum.
THERE was one proof that Commissioner Weston had given some heed to his friend Cranston's advice.
Through the dimmed thoroughfares of Manhattan, police cars were on the prowl. In clamping down on
the neighborhoods known to be the resorts of muggers, Weston had done so thorough a job that extra
police cars were unnecessary there, so they had been assigned to more mobile duty. They were plentiful
enough to be mistaken for taxicabs, but there was no method in their patrol. They were simply seeking
places where they might be needed, with no idea where those places would be. Such was The Shadow's
analysis as he observed them from the window of his limousine.
The limousine was Cranston's and except for its chauffeur, it looked empty, the reason being that its only
passenger was The Shadow, fully cloaked. The big car continued a northward course, then veered west
until the calm voice of Cranston announced through the speaking tube:
"Stop here, Stanley."
The chauffeur complied. He wasn't one of The Shadow's agents, but he was used to the eccentric ways
of Mr. Cranston, who had a habit of bobbing in and out of the limousine at the most unexpected places.
The present locale was a fairly respectable section of the West Side; still, Stanley couldn't recall that his
employer had any friends hereabout. Nevertheless the trip was over, so Stanley relaxed behind the
wheel, without even glancing back into the rear seat to look for a passenger who was no longer there.
Why The Shadow had picked this area became apparent as he glided along a silent street. Though the
buildings were still presentable, most of their basements had been converted into business places
including barber shops, pool parlors, laundries and small lunchrooms. Others, with blackout curtains
constantly drawn, were more questionable establishments where doubtful characters could easily arrange
a rendezvous. It was all made to order for mobs of muggers.
TAKING a short cut through an alley, The Shadow blinked signal flashes with a tiny light that flickered
red and green. His blinks were answered from two spots along the street. One represented Cliff
Marsland, the toughest fighter in The Shadow's corps; the other was Hawkeye, Cliff's side-kick, one of
the best spotters who ever roved the badlands. The Shadow had assigned that pair to this sector, first
choice on the list of new mugging territory.
The quick, somewhat nervous response of Hawkeye's flashlight, ending with sharp red blinks, indicated
that the spotter had observed something. Moving rapidly and invisibly along the house fronts, The
Shadow drew an automatic in readiness. While still on the way, he heard quick footsteps that weren't
Hawkeye's. They signified a man who had personally scented trouble and was anxious to get out of it.
As the fellow came in sight, The Shadow's keen eyes sighted three others in the background, moving
faster and more stealthily than their prospective prey. The quick man wasn't acting in the routine fashion
that Weston's stooge had demonstrated the night before. This chap was really scared to the point of
panic. He suddenly quickened his pace to a half run, which practically served to beckon his enemies.
They swooped, those vicious birds of prey, to put the clamps on a helpless victim. Things happened in a
manner more sudden than even muggers could expect. With a dart, a little wizened man tackled the
nearest mugger. The arrival was Hawkeye and he spilled his antagonist in expert style.
Caught by the other arm, the victim wrenched free and tried to spring across the street. The second
mugger bounded after him only to be overtaken with a sledge-hammer blow delivered by a husky who
drove in from the other direction. Cliff Marsland was on the job, displaying the old team work that he
and Hawkeye had long practiced. Clubbing one enemy, Cliff wheeled to down the first man who was
climbing to his feet from the spill that Hawkeye had given him.
It was nice work, but it didn't save the victim. He was stopping short with a frightened cry as he reached
the opposite curb. The third mugger was intercepting him and there was enough light for the unfortunate
to see a knife blade snapping toward his throat. A snarl from the mugger told that a quick slash was
intended, but the intention ended with the snarl.
Pressing the back of the mugger's neck was a weapon more potent than a button-bladed clasp knife. The
muzzle of an automatic was declaring its presence with a coldness that resembled white heat. Any doubt
that the mugger might have felt regarding the efficiency of that weapon was dispelled by the sinister
whisper that accompanied the automatic. The clasp knife dropped from the mugger's hand as his gulping
lips made motions to phrase the dread name that his voice could not articulate:
"The Shadow!"
Issuing from solid darkness, The Shadow's whisper was enough to frighten friend as well as foe. As the
mugger stood petrified, the rescued man took to his heels. He was spurred on by two shots that
reverberated along the street to the accompaniment of an eerie laugh. Those shots were The Shadow's
way of bringing the nearest patrol car. They were fired in the air, not into the hapless mugger's neck, but
when the disarmed brute decided to run, he found that The Shadow was still at hand. Plucking the
mugger's arm, The Shadow gave it a complete twist that spun its owner in a sidewise somersault ending
with a headlong jounce upon the asphalt. The Shadow didn't have to slug this foeman; he simply helped
the mugger knock himself out.
CLIFF and Hawkeye were dragging their trophies across the sidewalk when The Shadow flung them his
addition to the collection of exhibits. Hearing their chief's instructions, the agents produced handcuffs
from their pockets and set to work. Meanwhile, a car came racing swiftly from the corner to be received
by colored blinks from The Shadow's flashlight. It wasn't a patrol car, for the nearest of those was
betokened by an approaching siren attracted by the shots. This was a taxicab, The Shadow's own,
driven by Moe Shrevnitz, the speediest cabby in Manhattan.
The Shadow was climbing into the cab as the searchlight of a patrol car defied dimout regulations from
the corner. At the same time, the scurry of feet told that Cliff and Hawkeye were dashing off through the
alley, their work completed. The cab spurted away as the police car roared up to the scene of The
Shadow's recent triumph. There was a screech of brakes as the white-top halted, its driver quite
convinced that he did not have to follow the taxicab that was veering the next corner.
For the glare of the patrol car's searchlight showed that crime had been frustrated. Slumped with their
backs against an iron picket fence that had survived the junk metal collections, were the three unhappy
muggers, unable to flee even if they had been less groggy. They were linked together by two pairs of
handcuffs which in turn were interlaced between the pickets. The cuffs were of the standard pattern
carried by the police, inviting them to unlock the prisoners and take them away.
Back from the corner trailed a weird triumphant laugh, marking the disappearance of the taxicab. That
peal betokened that The Shadow and his agents had settled the mugging question in this neighborhood
and were leaving further operations to the police. But there was still another message in The Shadow's
laugh.
His first score settled, the master of darkness was bound for the next area marked upon his infallible
map; there to prove that his calculations were still defeating crime!
CHAPTER III. TWO MODES OF RESCUE
FULLY a mile from the scene of The Shadow's first quick triumph, another stalking party was in
progress. It was happening in a vicinity where mugging seemed less likely to anyone except The Shadow,
but a man of hurried manner was beginning to worry about his immediate future. He was a well-dressed
man, this victim marked for trouble, and he was realizing that his attire might have something to do with
the way three loungers had shifted from a very dark doorway and started on his trail.
Like a moth lured by the flame, this victim turned toward the only lighted store window that he could see.
It was nearly half a block away and his chances of reaching it unmolested were absolutely nil.
Professional muggers didn't loiter in the absurd fashion of Weston's stooges. Changing their own pace to
a lope, the three ghouls showed a speed their prey did not expect. One passed him, while a second came
up behind, the third taking a detour across the street, to be in a strategic position for the climax.
It was deftly planned, this business of two muggers boxing their victim like an insect in a funnel-shaped
trap. The point of that funnel was to be the knife-man, key member of the group. They had even picked
the spot for the robbery that they intended to back with the threat of death—a basement entry a few
steps down, where if need be, they could dump the body should it prove necessary to slit the man's
throat. No muggers ever hesitated at delivering swift death when a victim showed fight.
Another factor spurred the closing of the trap. Across the street a taxicab was pulling to a stop. Its
dimmed headlights failed to show the mugging that was in progress and the frightened victim wasn't aware
of the cab's arrival. Therefore it behooved the muggers to have their prey clutched and threatened with
the knife point before he could realize that a quick yell might bring help.
A call for aid was not needed.
From that halting cab the keenest of eyes had already spied the evil deed in progress.
The eyes of The Shadow!
Like a human avalanche, a mass of living darkness surged from the cab, clearing half the street at a single
leap. Hurtling onward The Shadow reached the victim just as two converging muggers caught his arms
and twisted him around so his back was toward the blackened basement steps. Hooking the terrified
man with one long cloaked arm, The Shadow spun him from the clutching hands and precipitated him to
the other side of the street. Completing his whirl, The Shadow met the pair of muggers as they lunged at
the living blackness that they so far had not identified in the gloom.
The Shadow's other hand was in action. It was tightened in a fist that contained an automatic. To the left,
then to the right, that fist swung in battering style. It actually bounced from the jaw of one mugger to the
chin of the other, reeling the pair back. Immediately The Shadow reversed his spin, knowing that he
would find a third enemy with whom he must deal. The surmise was correct; the knifeman was already on
the lunge, jabbing his blade ahead of him, aiming for The Shadow's throat.
IT was the reverse twist that fooled the mugger. The blackness that represented The Shadow unclouded
from the fellow's beady gaze. In jerky fashion, the assassin changed the knife's course, probing for the
figure that had seemingly vanished. The delay was all to the mugger's disadvantage, for The Shadow's
shift had totally outsmarted him. The Shadow had not thinned to nothingness; he was still a mass of
fighting blackness, thrusting from another angle. A gloved hand plucked the mugger's wrist, gave it a
sharp wrench that forced the fellow's fingers to drop the knife. Then, instead of somersaulting his foe, The
Shadow shoved him straight back between the other two, who were recuperating to resume their attack.
With his thrust, The Shadow hissed an order that brought remarkable results.
Neither of the flanking muggers moved another inch forward. They couldn't because something gigantic
had risen from the depressed entry behind them. It was the figure of Jericho Druke, mightiest of The
Shadow's agents. Jericho was a huge African who could do the work of two men or more, hence he had
been assigned to watch this district alone. Along with his great bulk, Jericho owned proportionate hands
the size of hams that could singly wrap themselves around the average neck. That was exactly what
Jericho's hands were doing at present.
Each was gripping the neck of an unruly thug. Half choked into submission, the two muggers were frozen
in their tracks when The Shadow twisted the third in between. As the mugger's head bobbed into
position, Jericho clapped his hands without relaxing his grip. The action swung two heads together like a
pair of cymbals, banging the third that had come between. Jericho could do large things in a deft way, as
he demonstrated on this occasion. All The Shadow had to do was set up the third head where Jericho
could perform the skull-clapping trick.
Two muggers stayed erect because Jericho still gripped them. The third sagged at the giant's feet, only to
be scooped up by The Shadow. As Jericho stepped aside, carrying his human burdens with him, The
Shadow descended into the basement entry and flung the third mugger into a space beneath a high flight
of brownstone steps. At a whispered command from The Shadow, Jericho added the other two to the
collection, whereupon The Shadow clanged a grilled gate that turned the space beneath the steps into an
improvised prison cell.
This cell lacked one qualification; it had no lock. So The Shadow used Jericho as an instrument to
remedy the deficiency. At another summons from his chief, Jericho stepped over, gripped the latch of the
gate and twisted it halfway to a pretzel shape.
Nothing less than a crowbar could pry the latch loose, hence the stunned prisoners would certainly
remain there until the police arrived.
Across the street, the man rescued by The Shadow was hurrying toward Moe's cab. Just as he reached
it, the cab started the other way, for Moe had caught a signal from The Shadow. Again two gun stabs
sounded in the night, a summons for police to come to a scene where crime had been conquered and its
participants left helpless on the battle ground where they had fared so ill against The Shadow!
WELL away before police cars appeared, Moe's cab was soon traversing new territory where crime had
not yet reared its head. The Shadow was the only passenger, having dropped Jericho on the fringe of the
previous district to intercept any additional muggers who might have fled at sound of The Shadow's gun.
Here in an area where there were several small hotels along with private residences and warehouses, it
would seem most unlikely that muggers would abound.
The Shadow never went by general appearances. He had studied this portion of the city in relation to
those adjacent to it. All around were little pockets that formed perfect lurking places from which
malefactors could emerge. Like the hub of a wheel, this section offered many spokes, giving muggers
opportunity to leave by a different route. Nevertheless they would be cautious when testing such a
crossroad, which was why The Shadow had marked it third and last on tonight's list.
Two of The Shadow's agents were keeping a constant patrol until their chief arrived. One was Harry
Vincent, the most experienced of The Shadow's aids; the other was Clyde Burke, who doubled as a
newspaper reporter. Both were specially suited to their present assignment, which was to draw muggers
on their trail, should the lurkers come into the open. According to the time sheet, The Shadow was nearly
due, so Harry and Clyde were beginning to stage a well-rehearsed act.
First Harry appeared from the front door of an apartment house. He made a clean-cut figure as he
strolled along the sidewalk. Next, Clyde came from a hotel across the way and started walking in the
same direction. Both turned a corner and continued around the block, always keeping on opposite sides
of the street. They were working the old system of watching the man ahead, alternating in that duty by
frequently changing pace or taking short cuts so that they preceded each other in turn.
This mutual course brought them back into the original block, but through zigzag tactics they were coming
from the opposite direction. Moreover the pair had changed their technique. Harry was well ahead of
Clyde, so far ahead that most of the block intervened. Practically out of contact with each other, they
were laying themselves open to attack, which happened to be part of the scheme. Nearing a corner,
Harry turned suddenly beside a warehouse and started back toward Clyde, who at that moment was
passing a similar spot on the same side of the street.
It was a neat device, suggested by The Shadow. If muggers were about to pick up Harry's trail, Clyde
would spot them and come to aid. On the other hand, if they had let Harry pass along in order to get at
Clyde, Harry's sudden return would enable him to stage the rescue act.
At that moment Clyde spotted danger that neither had foreseen. From beside the warehouse where
Harry turned, three men were lunging out to the sidewalk. They had hesitated when Harry first passed
them; now they were taking advantage of his chance return. Knowing that the trio must be muggers,
Clyde gave a warning yell.
THAT shout was misunderstood by another mob of muggers who happened to be stationed beside the
warehouse that Clyde himself was passing. Thinking that they were spotted, this second trio made a rapid
drive. Luckily Harry understood what Clyde's yell meant and therefore knew that Clyde was not aware
of his own danger. Starting on the run, Harry gave Clyde a call of warning that gave the reporter an equal
urge for speed.
A moment later, both The Shadow's agents were dashing full tilt toward each other, each trying to
outrace a tribe of muggers close at his heels!
Once together they'd have a better chance, though neither Harry nor Clyde had bargained upon meeting
a double mob. The two bands of muggers weren't working as a single crew; it was merely chance that
had brought them to the same vicinity. But it was a sure conclusion that they would gang up on two
victims under circumstances such as these.
Brief though the dash was, it proved maddening. All the way, both Harry and Clyde were counting on
摘要：
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