Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 245 - The Northdale Mystery

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THE NORTHDALE MYSTERY
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 1, 1942.
CHAPTER I
SCHEME OF CRIME
SEEN from the front window of the Central Hotel, the main street of
Northdale formed a glittering show of light. A live little town, Northdale, up
until nine o'clock, and that hour hadn't quite arrived. The traveling salesmen
who lounged in the line of leather chairs liked to watch the passing show, as
long as it lasted.
So did Okey Shurn, which was natural enough, since he was supposed to be
a
traveling salesman too.
Round-faced, jovial, and with friendly gestures that usually included
cigars for his customers, Okey looked the part of a drummer. He made sales too
- which wasn't surprising, considering that he offered his specialty, shoes,
at
prices less than the usual wholesale rates. When Okey stopped in a town like
Northdale, he had to do business, even at a loss, in order to cover his real
reason for being there.
At present, Okey Shurn was spotting the town for Bert Skirvel, whose
business was robbing banks. Being very particular about what banks he robbed,
Bert always employed at least a dozen spotters, in different towns, and chose
the place from which he received the best reports.
In Okey's opinion, the Northdale National Bank was a good bet, and he had
forwarded such word to Bert. To begin with, the Northdale National stayed open
evenings, which meant that business was brisk. Besides, it boasted some very
prosperous depositors - and one, in particular, looked like a man of great
wealth.
The man in question was Arthur Mordant, and, at this moment, Okey was
eyeing Mordant, along with the bank. For Mordant, accompanied by his trusted
servant Klebbert, was coming from the lighted doorway of the Northdale
National.
They made an odd pair. Mordant, old and rather decrepit, walked with
stooped shoulders, leaning heavily on a stout cane. Though the weather was
mild, his overcoat was buttoned to his chin, and he wore a muffler above it,
so
that only his nose and eyes were visible below the bowler hat that squatted to
his ears. His nose was sharp and seemed to point the way for him, because his
eyes, hidden behind large, blue-tinted glasses, were obviously very weak.
As for Klebbert, he was brawny, wide-shouldered, and possessed of a
square
face, with a hard chin. His stoop, which he cultivated to guide his feeble
master, Mordant, was no sign of age; rather, it gave Klebbert the look of a
powerful ape.
While Klebbert guided Mordant into a waiting automobile, an old model but
of expensive make, Okey listened attentively to the comments of the bone fide
salesmen who sat in the line of hotel chairs.
"There goes old money bags," said one, referring to Mordant. "He probably
socked away another ten thousand, this evening."
"No wonder he has the big fellow with him," put in another. "Come to
think
of it, though - nobody has ever seen Mordant go anywhere without Klebbert."
"Mordant has a lot of other servants, too -"
"None of the rest count much. They say if you go out to Mordant's house
and ask for him, they take you in to see Klebbert. He handles everything for
the old man."
The hotel clerk had drawn over to enter the conversation. He added an
amendment.
"There was a doctor stopping here last week," the clerk remarked. " A New
York specialist named Dr. Quayben. He went out to Mordant's house. I guess he
got in to see Mordant."
The salesmen agreed that Dr. Quayben must have been so privileged,
considering that only Mordant, certainly none of his servants, would have
rated
a visit from a New York specialist. As to the nature of Mordant's ailment,
they
concurred that it must be throat trouble, considering the old man's habit of
wearing a buttoned overcoat and muffler.
While they thus debated, the big clock above the Northdale National began
to chime the hour of nine, and with those strokes, the town subsided. The bank
doors closed and lights faded from the windows.
A theater marquee went dark, signifying that it was now too late to
attend
the double feature. Farther down the street, store windows blacked out.
Judiciously, the clerk turned off the lighted sign in front of the hotel.
Except for a few street lamps, the town of Northdale had effaced itself.
THE drummers were still chatting about old Mordant, but Okey was no
longer
a listener. He'd heard that same talk during the past two weeks, and had
reported it all to Bert Skirvel. In fact, Okey had even seen the New York saw-
bones, Dr. Quayben, during his sojourn in Northdale, and had written the news
to Bert.
What bothered Okey was the fact he hadn't heard from Bert in return. Now
that the town was dark, Okey began glancing across the main street, toward
cars
in a free parking lot. He'd been doing that every night for a week, and was
getting tired of it.
In fact, Okey was just about to give it up, when the head lights of a
parked coupe began to blink queerly, only to subside, as if the pall of
Northdale was upon them.
Flipping his cigar butt into an ash stand, Okey strolled from the hotel
to
get some evening air, as was his habit. Once away from sight of the gallery in
the hotel window, the fake salesman made a rapid circuit, and arrived in the
parking lot beside the very car that had flashed the lights.
He stopped there to light another cigar, cupping his hands so that the
match flame revealed his face only in the car's direction.
A smooth voice undertoned: "Slide in, Okey."
It was Bert Skirvel. Okey knew him by his voice and the hard, bony
handshake that he received as soon as he was in the car. He caught the glint
of
Bert's sharp eyes, and the whiteness of teeth that displayed an ugly but
familiar grin.
Bert was keeping deep in the darkness of the car. It wouldn't do for him
to show his face in Northdale, and the same applied to the remainder of his
mob, with the sole exception of Okey Shurn, who had legitimate business in the
town.
"Thought I'd forgotten you, Okey?" queried Bert. "Well, I hadn't. The mob
moves tomorrow night."
"I guess that means I come along," returned Okey. "I'm kind of sorry,
though, because the setup looked good here. What burg have you picked for the
heist?"
Bert Skirvel answered with a chuckle.
"Northdale," he said. "I just came here to look over the lay and make
sure
you hadn't kidded me, Okey."
"Then I won't come along -"
"Of course not! Tomorrow, you quit peddling brogans and hop into New
York.
Fix yourself with the regular alibi, and make it hold until nine bells. We're
going to pull the job as soon as this burg goes shut-eye."
Okey nodded, then queried:
"What about the getaway, Bert?"
"As usual, Okey. You head this way and meet me, so we can switch cars.
With your alibi fixed, you can roll right into town as if nothing happened.
Here -"
Bert turned on the dashlight and pushed a road map into its glow. Okey
studied the details, nodding as he did. Crime's scheme was mapped in Bert's
efficient style, with the getaway all based on detailed information that Okey
had forwarded during his two weeks coverage of Northdale and surrounding
territory.
"I was here a few nights ago," Bert remarked, "but you didn't get the
blinks."
"Must have been Tuesday," nodded Okey. "I was late getting back from a
sales trip to some of the country stores. Too bad, Bert; sorry I missed you."
"I'm not. I drove out past old Mordant's house. Looks like a good place
for me and the mob to split, when we start the getaway."
"It might be bad, Bert. The old gent has a lot of servants. I've heard
they act tough if anybody even snoops around the old place."
Bert gave another of his hard chuckles.
"We'll act tougher," he said. "It's just what we want - a lot of
excitement, with some dopes holding the bag. I'll bet old Mordant will crawl
somewhere and hide, while that big cluck, Klebbert, is bossing the other
flunkies. Some freaks, Mordant and Klebbert!"
"You saw them, Bert?"
"Yeah. Tonight, when they came out of the bank. I knew they couldn't be
anybody else, after all you'd written about them."
"The gabs at the hotel were figuring maybe Mordant socked away some dough
tonight, Bert."
"And maybe they're right. It's worth a chance, anyway. So long, Okey."
WITH that, Bert flicked off the dashlight, and Okey returned the road
map.
Sliding from the car, Okey reversed his circuit back to the hotel. He finished
his cigar while chatting with the other salesmen; then went up to his room.
There, Okey began packing samples, pausing, occasionally, to glance from
his window. From this perspective, Okey's view of the Northdale National
pleased him.
Dark, deserted, the bank building was indeed the perfect set-up. Tomorrow
night, it wouldn't look a bit different at this hour. Bert and his company of
expert bank crackers would be operating smoothly and efficiently, unnoticed by
the occasional persons trickling from the exit of the Isis Theater, next door.
There would be a blow off, of course. There always was, when Bert Skirvel
staged a bank heist. But Bert and his specialists would be gone with the
blast,
outracing Northdale's handful of police and any yap sheriffs who might join
the
chase. A detour past Mordant's was a smart idea, as Okey thought it over. Half
a dozen excited servants wouldn't add much help to the law.
Cars were moving away from the parking lot. Among them, Okey saw a dark
coupe that slid out unnoticed by anyone else: Bert's car, carrying its owner
away from Northdale, the town to which he would return, to claim a pay-off,
within the next twenty-four hours.
Okey chuckled; his tone was an imitation of Bert's. More than mere
flattery, it was a tribute. It meant that Okey Shurn considered Bert Skirvel
as
smart as any man he ever expected to meet.
From the departing car came a similar chuckle that certified Okey's
opinion. Only, this chuckle was the original, not an imitation; and Bert
Skirvel was applying the opinion to himself. For Bert was smart, and knew it
far better than did Okey. In considering Northdale as the proper place for
crime, Bert hadn't missed a trick.
He liked this set-up of a nine o'clock town, lived in by an old recluse
named Arthur Mordant, who trusted only one servant Klebbert, even though he
had
a lot of others in his employ.
Those extra servants would simply add to the confusion that Bert hoped to
cause when he landed in their bailiwick with a load of bank loot and an
accompanying mob.
There were certain things that Okey Shurn didn't think about, whereas
Bert
Skirvel did. Which was why Okey merely played a secondary part in the crimes
which Bert maneuvered to their climax. All factors had to be considered, and
there was one in particular that Okey had overlooked.
Confident in Bert's ability, Okey had forgotten that tomorrow's job might
produce interference from a certain crime-hunter called The Shadow, who would
sooner or later be catching up with Berth's crew.
Bert Skirvel, however, had not forgotten The Shadow. Hence, Bert's
chuckle
held a special significance. It meant that, in Bert's opinion, the scheme of
coming crime would go far deeper than even The Shadow could suspect!
CHAPTER II
MANHATTAN INTERLUDE
ON a side street in Manhattan stood Duke's Grill, a favored eating place
in its neighborhood. It was managed by a genial character who was called Duke
not because of any aristocratic appearance, which he did not have, but because
of his skill at handling his left fist.
Duke's custom was to take a right-hand grip upon the coat of an unruly
customer, and if the fellow tried to insert punches during the trip to the
door, Duke would then supply a left-hand wallop so unforeseen, that recipients
swore it came out of the wall. But Duke, of late, had found no opportunity to
demonstrate his southpaw prowess.
The reason was that unwanted customers no longer frequented his place.
The
patrons had become a clannish, well-behaved group, and Duke was now using only
his right hand, to reach across the bar and shake a welcome to his patrons.
Many of those customers were traveling salesmen, who stopped in whenever
they came off the road. Every night seemed a part of Old Home Week, at Duke's
Grill.
Though even Duke didn't know it, one dozen of his customers constituted a
very dangerous band. They never visited the place together; not even in pairs.
They were men who worked for Bert Skirvel, and they were all like Okey Shurn.
Though they had presumably never heard of each other, they all knew Duke,
and with good reason. They used Duke's Grill as a place to frame their
individual alibis.
Always, a man who had cased a town, as Okey had done at Northdale, came
directly to Duke's and stayed there until Bert and the rest had begun the
local
job. Thus, if the spotter became a suspect, he could always call on Duke for
an
alibi, for Duke was a man who remembered names, faces, and occasions.
So far, none of Bert's tribe had been forced to call upon Duke to back up
an alibi; hence, Duke's Grill was still the port in every storm.
There was something else that Duke did not know. His place was being
watched, not by the police - for Duke would have noticed that and wanted to
know why - but by another group of men who were every bit as canny as Bert's
crowd. These watchers were agents of The Shadow. Quiet customers all, they
were
on the lookout for those from the opposite camp.
A curious situation, this: The Shadow's men taking turns at an unbroken
vigil which might not produce a wanted customer in a month or more; perhaps
never, if Bert Skirvel had happened to change his alibi shop. The sort of
thing
that seemed wasted effort on The Shadow's part; a measure that reduced the
efficiency of his own organization, by keeping men constantly upon the shelf.
Quite the opposite was the case. The Shadow had simply twisted
circumstances to suit his own use. He'd wanted a place where agents would be
available on call, and Duke's Grill was conveniently located. By establishing
themselves there, The Shadow's aids were fixing matters for the future, come
what might, in the case of Bert Skirvel.
An unusual case, Bert Skirvel's.
Bert was definitely a known criminal. He had been mugged, fingerprinted,
sent away, paroled, sent away again, always for bank robbery. Escaping in a
prison break, he'd gone back to his former calling without any effort to hide
what he was up to.
He was always a jump or two ahead of the law, and had managed to keep
clear of The Shadow by the simple system of switching from one territory to
another, with kaleidoscopic shifts.
The only way to flag Bert Skirvel was to be at a given place the same
time
Bert was - a thing that utterly baffled the police, and had proven quite a
problem for The Shadow, to date.
But The Shadow had taken real steps to solve it. He had simply dropped
his
hunt for Bert Skirvel, to study up on the bank robber's crew.
This was something the police hadn't done, because they had no idea who
any of Bert's men might be. As a salve for their inability to trace such men,
various authorities claimed that Bert took on a new crew for each job; hence,
the only man to find was Bert Skirvel. Backing such an assumption was the
known
fact that Bert Skirvel was very, very smart.
He was smarter than the assumption granted, which was something that The
Shadow recognized.
All of Bert's jobs were expertly accomplished; they pointed to teamwork
on
the part of specialists. Simple arithmetic proved that Bert couldn't have
obtained enough capable workers to cover all of his robberies, on a basis of a
new crew every time.
By The Shadow's calculations, Bert would employ efficiency at the cost of
all else, and the one way of so doing would be to employ a single, compact
crew.
Thus The Shadow, working from the inside out, had listed scores of men
who
might be working for Bert Skirvel, and then proceeded to eliminate every man
who
might, to any marked degree, be suspected by the police. That done, The Shadow
had begun to trace the dozen who remained, and he had found that they all had
one habit in common.
To a man, the dozen liked to pay individual trips to Duke's Grill, there
to renew old acquaintances with respectable customers, and, especially, with
Duke himself. So far, those visits had been mere routine; but The Shadow was
hoping for something better.
This night, something better came.
IT was the night after Okey Shurn had chatted with Bert Skirvel, in
Northdale, and the man who sauntered into Duke's Grill was Okey himself. He
gave Duke a handshake, and proceeded to shake hands with other customers that
he had met before.
Finding Okey so affable, Duke proceeded to introduce him to a
comparatively recent patron, named Harry Vincent.
One glance was enough for Okey to decide that Harry was the sort he
wanted
to know. In building an alibi, it wasn't wise to depend on Duke alone. Okey
needed the support of other persons, who looked reliable and sober. Finding
that Harry had both qualities, Okey opened negotiations.
"My line is shoes," he told Harry. "What's yours, Vincent?"
"Razors," replied Harry.
"A tough line." Okey shook his head. "Some of the boys have told me.
You've got to sell a million blades, and practically give away the razors so
people will use your brand. Yeah, razors are tough."
"Not mine," returned Harry "I don't handle safety razors. Mine are
straight razors."
Okey stared at Harry as if looking at something that belonged to the last
century. But Harry didn't show any traces of a handle-bar mustache. Not only
was he a very modern, keen young man, but he was clean-shaven, in the thorough
fashion that a straight razor could produce. In fact, for Okey's benefit,
Harry
let his hand run down the side of his face and around his chin.
It happened that Harry had just been to a barber shop, but Okey took it
that he had shaved himself in the old-fashioned way. Finding razors a good
theme, Okey worked into it, and soon learned that Harry's best customers were
barbers.
That led to barber shops, and before he realized it, Okey was touring the
country with Harry, talking of every little hotel where either had ever been.
Suddenly, it shot home to Okey that in playing this new and valuable
acquaintance, he had openly traced his own whereabouts right up to the time
when he had gone to Northdale. This was a bad mistake. Salesmen of the type
that Okey represented weren't in the habit of bragging about the territory
they
covered, and then clipping it short, without reason.
If Okey found he'd have to depend on Vincent for an alibi, the chap would
certainly remember if Okey had balked and failed to mention Northdale.
However,
Okey had the right card for such a situation.
Instead of further ignoring Northdale, he waded right into the subject.
He
told Harry he'd been there for the past two weeks and found it a live town,
from
the viewpoint of business, with plenty of good territory.
"I'm going back there tonight," declared Okey. "Got to pick up my car and
a lot of samples that I told them to ship there. Got a whole list of towns,
right here" - he thumbed though a little notebook - "that I'm going to cover,
beginning with tomorrow."
Okey put away his little book, glanced at the clock, and called to Duke:
"Let me know when it's quarter-to-nine, Duke. I've got to catch a train
at
nine-five." Okey turned to Harry. "It ought to get me into Northdale around
ten.
I've still got time for one of Duke's planked steaks. How about eating with
me,
Vincent?"
Harry agreed, provided he could call off a date that he had already made.
So he went to a phone booth, with Okey grinning after him. Okey was pleased
with Vincent as an aid to an alibi, but he wouldn't have been so happy, had he
heard the call that Harry made.
It was to a man named Burbank and it included all details regarding Okey
Shurn.
A FEW minutes later, a tiny light glimmered on the wall of a
black-curtained room. Hands reached for earphones; as the light went off, a
whispered voice spoke, its sibilance stirring the shrouding curtains. From the
earphones came the response:
"Burbank speaking."
"Report!"
In response to The Shadow's order, Burbank reported what he had learned
from Harry. Hands laid the earphones aside. Creeping into the glow of a blue
light, that reflected from the polished surface of a table, those same hands
opened a folder and drew out a set of photographs. Among them was one of Okey
Shurn.
Next, from another folder, The Shadow produced a list of banks in the
territory that included Northdale. He studied data on the Northdale National,
found it to be the most prosperous bank in a resort area within fifty miles of
New York. Even more important, however, was the notation that the Northdale
National was one of the comparatively few banks that still stayed open
evenings
until nine o'clock.
A whispered laugh stirred the black-walled room that formed The Shadow's
sanctum. The final item fitted perfectly with Okey's choice of a nine-five
train. If he stayed at Duke's Grill until quarter of nine, Okey's couldn't
possibly get to Northdale any faster than that train would carry him, for The
Shadow's reference to a timetable showed that it was an express, with
Northdale
its first stop.
Even by air, the time couldn't be clipped, for Northdale had no air
field.
If Okey chose to go by car, starting from near Duke's Grill, the head start
thus
gained would be lost in the tangle of Manhattan traffic. At very best, Okey
couldn't get to Northdale before ten.
But The Shadow could do better.
There was still an hour until nine o'clock, because Okey intended to
flavor his alibi with one of Duke's planked steaks. An hour that The Shadow
could use to get to Northdale at the very time when Okey didn't want to be
there: shortly after nine.
A hand pressed the switch of the bluish light. The click brought pitch
darkness, and a whispered laugh stirred the solid gloom. When the last echoes
of that mirth had faded, a complete silence gripped the sanctum. The Shadow
had
left his hidden abode, bound upon a mission of justice.
Twenty minutes later, a long, sleek roadster was clearing Manhattan
traffic, headed toward a highway leading out to Northdale. The soft rhythm of
the multi-cylinder motor spoke of smooth power that could clip the miles at
terrific speed, once the sleek car was really under way.
Significant, too, of hidden power was the driver of the purring roadster
-
a figure cloaked in black, with a slouch hat slanted down across his eyes. His
gloved hands held the wheel with the same grip that handled automatics,
whenever such weapons were demanded.
They would be in demand tonight when The Shadow met crime at its very
source!
CHAPTER III
CRIME'S COURSE
IT was nine o'clock, the hour of crime in Northdale. Bert Skirvel
considered the setting perfect, even to the parking lot. This was a period
when
no one came to the lot to get their cars, because early parkers used the
streets
and latecomers were still in the movies.
There was a chap who collected dimes when people parked, but he always
went in to see the pictures when business began to lag, so Bert had coasted
right into the parking lot, and was making it his headquarters. The blinks
that
he gave his head lights were for benefit of other men tonight; not for the
absent Okey.
Another car eased into the lot. A man left it and came over to Bert's
coupe. Bert heard him approach and stopped him with a sharp whisper. Bert was
looking toward the Northdale National Bank.
"The old gent," gritted Bert. "Coming out of the bank again tonight. I
hope he don't stall around. We want him back in that old house of his when we
head that way."
Bert was pointing out old Arthur Mordant, who was hobbling from the bank.
There was a slight bite to the air, and Mordant's face was muffled higher than
the night before, with his nose poking like a bird's beak from the upper edge.
Klebbert was with him, of course, and the man with the apelike gait helped
Mordant to his old fashioned car.
When the car rolled away, Bert gave a pleased grunt. It was heading back
to Mordant's house, as Bert wanted. Furthermore, with its important customer
gone, the bank was closing its doors, which was something else Bert wanted.
Sliding from his car, Bert turned his face toward the man who had
approached. The fellow saw Bert's eyes through the slits of a handkerchief
mask.
"Put your mask on, too," ordered Bert, "and tell the rest to do the same.
Don't waste any time. We're going to grease the way to this job with a stick
up."
A few minutes later, Bert was leading a masked crew along the fringes of
the parking lot, where they amplified themselves with more masked raiders from
other parked cars. Bert, alone, used his own coupe; the others had sedans,
three in all, four men to each.
As they rounded the rear of the theater, Bert identified two of his men,
despite their masks, and questioned:
"You fixed those detour signs?"
"Yeah," a thug replied. "But they may give Okey trouble."
"No, they won't," snapped Bert. "I marked the gag on the map I showed
him.
They'll give trouble to any guys who try to come after me; that's all."
The crew reached the rear of the bank; there, Bert stopped them. He took
a
look around the corner, and returned, adjusting his mask.
"The tellers and clerks are coming out," said Bert. "I'll slide around
and
ring the night bell. The watchman will think I'm somebody that forgot
something.
I'll konk him."
A couple of masked mobsters shouldered forward, as though they wanted the
privilege. Bert shoved them back.
"The guy may grab my mask off," he reminded. "It won't hurt if he sees my
face. The bulls will know this for a Bert Skirvel job, anyway. But I don't
want
any of your mugs to be spotted. If they were, we'd have to croak the watchman.
No use in that. I don't want to tag you fellows with a murder rap."
It was very considerate of Bert, and it explained why his men were
solidly
for him; all quite in keeping with the theory that was bringing The Shadow to
Northdale.
Bert Skirvel was known, wanted, and slated for the hot seat, because he
had slain a prison guard when he fled the penitentiary. But he wasn't
thrusting
any of those handicaps on his pals.
Bert was masked, himself, on the slim chance that he might bluff the law
regarding who had done the job. But that was largely a formality on Bert's
part; his way of reminding his crew to keep their own faces covered. At least,
so they understood it, since it was the logical reason.
REACHING the rear exit, Bert pressed the night bell. The door was
promptly
opened by a burly watchman, who was scowling in what he thought would be a
rebuke to some bank clerk who had forgotten something and come back after the
door was officially closed.
The watchman didn't have a chance to finish his scowl. Bert froze it,
just
as it was, by sledging a .38 straight to the fellow's skull.
There was a wild fling of the watchman's hands as he went backward, but
his fingers, nerveless, only grazed Bert's handkerchief mask. Leaning out from
the door, Bert waved a signal with his gun, and then started into the bank.
Halfway across the banking floor, he stopped and dropped down from sight
behind a counter. There was a light in the cashier's office, and Bert saw it.
No need to inform the entering crew. They were trained to this sort of
thing. Not seeing their leader, the marauders made their entry a stealthy one.
There was a lone exception: one man, coming through the night door, tripped
over the prone watchman and made too much noise.
The others riveted. They heard a stir from the cashier's office. A young
man stepped into sight; he had light hair, a tanned face with an even jaw. He
had certainly sensed something wrong, for he held a revolver tensely in his
fist as he gave a short call for the watchman. Nor was he showing himself too
plainly. He was still in the doorway when he spotted masked men crouched near
the tellers' windows.
Without ado, the young cashier side stepped deeper in the doorway and
swung his revolver as though to blaze at the marauders, who were lined up like
pigeons on a shooting gallery rack.
MASKED men, realizing that they couldn't profit by shooting back, began a
wild dive for better shelter. Before the cashier could open fire, a gun muzzle
prodded his side and a hard voice told him:
"Drop it!"
Bert Skirvel had sidled into the picture, and was taking over. The
revolver dropped from the cashier's hand. At Bert's rasped summons, masked men
arrived, hit the cashier in a pack, sprawled him, and bound him with belts.
They plastered a stretch of adhesive tape across his mouth, and left him on
the
floor.
Bert ordered them off to other duties, and stayed in the office, while
the
dazed cashier kept eyeing him wonderingly, as Bert began rummaging through
desk
drawers and filing cabinets, gathering in much of what he found.
"Hits you funny?" queried Bert, as he looked toward the cashier. "Think I
ought to be out there blowing that tin vault of yours? The boys are handling
that, and they know how. I told them not to use too much soup; we don't want
to
spoil your nice tiled walls!"
Loading papers galore into a box on the cashier's desk, Bert noticed a
name plate that said: "Mr. Trent." He turned to the bound man again.
"You see, Trent," Bert resumed, "I'm an old hand at this racket. I don't
overlook the loose stuff. Sometimes it's better than some of the swag in the
vault. So I'm taking this along -"
A masked man interrupted from the doorway. He was beckoning to tell Bert
that the blowoff was ready. With his own mask tight across his face, Bert gave
a mocking wave to Trent, and went out.
A FEW minutes later, the bank building shook with a tremendous roar that
threatened to cave in the walls. Chunks of metal, heaved from the antiquated
vault, clanged against the partition of the office where Trent, the cashier,
lay bound. Alarms began to clang, and during the uproar, Bert's crew waded
into
the shattered vault and gathered up its contents wholesale.
Pointing half of them out through the back door, Bert made for the front,
followed by the rest of the masked crew. He liked this two-way system,
particularly as it gave the impression that his crew was only half-sized.
More alarms sounded as Bert's men yanked open the big front door and came
out upon the sidewalk, beneath a canted clock that had stopped, with its hands
pointing to eleven minutes after nine.
The crooks had done the bank job in a quarter of an hour, but only the
final four minutes had been under the stress that followed the explosion - a
time when the local police would be rallying to the clangor of alarms that
definitely located the source of the blast.
Bert Skirvel and the masked men racing with him were covering the back
door departure of the others, who were carrying the loot from the vault. Only
Bert was burdened with the small steel box that he had taken from Trent's
office, and he was flourishing the container to attract police his way. For
Bert, the moment he neared the parking lot, forgot the resolutions that he had
made regarding the sparing of human life.
He saw two police, in the khaki uniforms of the Northdale force; they
were
over by the hotel, and they were shouting across the street.
There, the theater manager was dashing out, bringing a gun from the box
office, and behind him were half a dozen ushers, ready to join the chase,
though unarmed.
Through his mask, Bert snarled orders to the mobsters beside him.
As he spoke, Bert came to a halt and shoved a revolver across the box he
carried. The rest of the masked squad wheeled with him, taking to the shelter
of parked cars as they aimed their guns.
"They're asking for it," Bert told his followers. "So give it!"
Bert's words were a signal for a massacre. It was too late for helpless
men to avoid the slaughter that was to come their way. The two officers were
firing at targets that they could not see. The theater manager had stopped
flat-footed, peering ahead, while all along the sidewalk ushers and theater
patrons were charging right into the ambush that awaited them.
摘要：

THENORTHDALEMYSTERYbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"May1,1942.CHAPTERISCHEMEOFCRIMESEENfromthefrontwindowoftheCentralHotel,themainstreetofNorthdaleformedaglitteringshowoflight.Alivelittletown,Northdale,upuntilnineo'clock,andthathourhadn'tquitearrived.Thetravelingsalesmenwholo...

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