Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 205 - Crime County

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CRIME COUNTY

by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in

The Shadow Magazine

September 1, 1940

Darport was quiet, but crime was brewing under the surface--and The

Shadow knew it!

CHAPTER I.

CRIME'S DEAD END.

JUNIUS THARBEL sat at his battered desk writing a letter in slow,

plodding fashion. Beside him lay a very small stack of correspondence, which

he had been working on since noon. Across the square from his window, the

hands of the town clock were approaching three, proof that Tharbel was a very

slow worker.

Patient, painstaking, old-fashioned even in his style of penmanship,

Junius Tharbel had the appearance of a small-town businessman who had spent

his life in Darport. He was solemn, hatchet-faced, and his features were

creased with lines, like the surface of his ancient desk.

Tharbel was in his seventies, but he made no effort to conceal his age.

That would have been difficult, considering that he had been on the same job

for more than fifty years. Difficult even for Junius Tharbel, though he was an

expert at keeping facts to himself.

For this hatchet-faced man had a wide reputation in a specialized

profession. As a crime detector, Junius Tharbel was practically in a class by

himself. For half a century he had upheld the law as county detective in the

area surrounding Darport, and his record was a tribute to his amazing skill at

tracking down criminals who ventured into his preserves.

Outside Tharbel's windows, the town of Darport lay peacefully beneath

the afternoon sun; a sprawling but prosperous community without even a traffic

policeman in sight. Off in all directions stretched the rolling farms and

sloping woodlands of the county, one of the largest in the State.

Neighboring counties, smaller and less populous, were heavily policed,

for this region was close to the metropolitan area of New York City, and an

easy target for crime.

But crooks stayed away from Darport and the county which it represented.

They didn't like to get too close to Junius Tharbel. His specialty was

stocking the State penitentiary with the proper sort of occupants.

Tharbel's offices were only on the second floor, and he seldom looked

from his windows. But where crime was concerned, his headquarters was as

satisfactory as a thousand-foot watch tower, and his eyes as keen as if fitted

with permanent telescopes.

Tharbel never had to travel far to get his men. He bagged them before

they could clear his county; and there had actually been times when this ace

among sleuths had been on hand to take crooks into custody when they arrived.

Rumor had it that Tharbel could smell crime before it happened, and he

lived up to the reputation. Even his own deputies, a mere handful in number,

were mystified by the famed detective's foresight. As for the world at large,

it had heard of Darport only because Tharbel lived there.

Today Tharbel was not alone in his office. He had a companion, who

occupied a chair beside the window. Tharbel's friend was a dog of more than

medium size, and white with brown spots.

The dog was a Dalmatian, the species formerly used as carriage dogs.

Since Tharbel no longer drove a horse and carriage, he had converted the

Dalmatian into a hunter.

Eyes fixed, ears pricked, the Dalmatian was looking from the window,

watching the front of an antiquated brick building that bore the name of the

Darport Trust Co.

Customers were few at the Darport Trust, and Tharbel had trained the dog

to watch persons who entered or left the bank. The dog's vigil was being

rewarded, for a sudden growl told that someone was at hand.

Affixing his signature to a letter, Tharbel arose and approached the

window. He stroked the dog with one hand, while he drew a stick of chewing gum

from his pocket. He spoke to the dog in a soothing tone:

"Quiet, Mox."

Then, methodically chewing the gum, Tharbel watched the scene across the

way. A small armored truck had arrived at the bank; it bore the name of the

Darport Quarry Co. While two uniformed guards stood on watch, a third carried

a squarish metal box into the bank.

When the man returned without the box, he entered the armored truck and

drove away with the others. Immediately afterward, the bank's door was closed

and locked, in accord with its accustomed schedule, for the town-hall clock

was donging three.

Tharbel went back to his desk. He was writing another letter when

footsteps sounded outside his door. Mox looked up; then, recognizing the man

who entered, the dog resumed its attentive gaze from the window. Without

turning, Tharbel gave greeting:

"Hello, Breeland!"

THE entering man chuckled. His deep tone denoted his size. He was tall,

broad-shouldered, and his face was handsome, though large-featured. Breeland

was middle-aged, but looked much younger than his years. A natural briskness

gave him the youthful touch.

"Hello, sleuth," returned Breeland. "Keen as ever, aren't you? Your

calendar says Friday, the town-hall clock hits three, so you figure the

payroll must have reached the bank. From that, you figure that your next

visitor will be Blair Breeland, president of the quarry company, with the

lists. Well, here I am, and here are the lists."

Stepping to the desk, Breeland handed Tharbel an envelope. Opening it,

the detective glanced along columns of figures that listed the numbers of bank

notes, treasury certificates, and other currency.

From his manner, Tharbel looked as if he were trying to memorize the

serial numbers in a glance. His eye stopped at the total, in dollars, at the

bottom of the list.

"Fifty thousand dollars," approximated Tharbel. "Bigger than usual this

week.""Bonus money," explained Breeland. "End of the quarter. Well, Tharbel,

there's the lists, in accordance with our usual precautions. I have the

duplicates, in case you want to check."

Tharbel shook his head. Breeland stopped by the window to pat the dog.

"An unusual dog," he observed, "with an unusual name: Mox. Where did you

find that name, Tharbel?"

"From the man who formerly owned the dog," replied Tharbel tersely. "He

called himself Mox."

"A friend of yours?"

"Hardly. The toughest murderer I ever came up against! We couldn't take

him alive, so I never had a chance to ask him the dog's real name before he

died.""But why give the dog a bad name?"

"The dog doesn't know the difference. It's a good name for him. Easy for

me to remember, easy for him to answer to when I call. Anyway, Mox is smart,

like his old master."

Mox showed no sign of demonstrating his smartness while Breeland stroked

him, so the president of the quarry company left to get back to his office. As

he heard Breeland's foot steps descending the stairs, Tharbel smiled.

Breeland was burly, his footfalls probably heavier than he realized.

Tharbel hadn't needed to know that it was Friday to guess that Breeland had

arrived at the office. As for the matter of the truck's arrival with the

payroll, Tharbel had actually witnessed the transfer of the money box into the

bank. The cash would remain there until tomorrow at nine. It meant something

of a vigil for Tharbel, as was always the case when opportunity for crime came

to Darport. Tharbel had long since learned that cash was the honey that could

attract crooks like flies. It was a simple but effective policy to be on the

lookout for crime at times when it might happen.

HALF an hour after Breeland's departure, Mox gave another growl from the

window. Tharbel looked up in mild surprise and tossed away his tasteless

chewing gum. He stepped to the window, drawing out another stick. The only

people who could be leaving the bank were employees, and Mox didn't usually

growl at them.

Tharbel saw why Mox had growled. The reason was proof of the Dalmatian's

smartness. The dog, well trained by Tharbel, always showed suspicion of

persons who carried large or conspicuous objects when they entered or left the

bank. Tharbel saw such a person coming from the bank. The man was Wallace

Layton, the assistant cashier. The object that Layton carried was a large

suitcase, which looked fairly heavy. His manner was very sneaky; he acted as

though he had slipped from the bank unnoticed and wanted to get far away.

Even from across the street, Tharbel could observe Layton's

wispy-mustached face, which was of the pointed, prying type. The fellow had

always reminded Tharbel of a rat, but the fact did not prejudice Tharbel

against Layton. It was one of the detective's rules never to judge persons by

appearances nor by actions.

Combined, however, such factors could be important. Today Layton looked

more ratlike than usual, and his sneaky manner was far above par. Even more

important was the furtive glance that he threw over his shoulder; its

direction told exactly what was in the cashier's mind.

Layton wasn't looking back at the bank. He apparently felt that he had

made an excellent exit from the building. His squeamish glance was directed

straight toward the window, where Tharbel stood. Tharbel was far enough in the

background to remain unnoticed from the street.

Mox saw Layton's shifty stare. The dog came up from its haunches,

starting a growl that threatened to end in a protesting bark. Catching the

Dalmatian's collar, Tharbel drew the hound back to the chair.

His grayish eyes fixed sharply on Layton, Tharbel watched the cashier

duck into a parking lot, where he kept his car. Layton was huddling the

suitcase as he went from sight.

Stepping to the desk, Tharbel lifted the telephone and made a brief

call. By the time Layton's car pulled from the lot, a blocky man had appeared

from a poolroom across the street to enter a car of his own. The blocky chap

was one of Tharbel's deputies; the detective had ordered him to trail Layton.

It was five minutes before Tharbel glanced at his watch again. The

detective was already nodding when the telephone bell rang. It was the call

that Tharbel expected; from Griffith the deputy.

From the chair, Mox pricked up his ears as Tharbel talked. The dog

seemed to sense things from the detective's tone.

"Layton went home, eh?" queried Tharbel. "Put his car in the garage.

Took the suitcase into the house. All right, Griffith, stay across the

street... No, don't worry if he sees you. He won't be going out again until

after dark... Yes, I'll have Wilbur join you before then."

Clamping the receiver on the hook, Tharbel went back to the window. His

hand was velvet as he stroked the dog, but his eyes were steely. They seemed

to take in more than the town of Darport and the countryside beyond it. The

glint of Tharbel's eyes betokened a gaze into the future.

"We've been lucky, Mox," spoke Tharbel musingly. "Outsiders haven't been

bothering us much lately. It's about time that something happened, and it's

due to begin right here in our own territory. We'd better attend to it in

advance."

Reaching for the telephone, Tharbel called headquarters of the State

police and requested that officers be stationed at dusk on the principal roads

leading from Darport. He gave a description of Layton's sedan and suggested

that the car be stopped and searched should it be seen leaving Darport.

By then Tharbel's gaze was reflective. With the future, he was recalling

the past. He remembered one time when crime had begun in Darport, produced by

a master criminal named Mox. On that occasion Tharbel had escaped disaster

only through the efforts of a fighter who championed justice--The Shadow.

Since then Darport had been crime's dead end, a place that crooks

avoided. But Tharbel had long ago convinced himself that the quiet which

pervaded the little town could, in itself, breed crime of a most virulent

sort. As he stroked the dog whose name was a reminder of strange crime in the

past, Junius Tharbel had a premonition that he might soon again need The

Shadow's aid.

CHAPTER II.

THE SHADOW'S SEARCH.

DARKNESS lay solid in the Stygian room where daylight never penetrated.

Only the faintest of sounds pervaded that gloom--a swish that betokened a

figure in motion. Next a sharp click produced illumination, the rays of a

bluish light that cleaved downward to cast an eerie glow upon a polished

table.Hands crept into the light. Creatures in themselves, those hands. On one

long, tapering finger--the third of the left hand--was a gleaming fire opal

that caught the bluish rays and flung them upward in a scintillating,

many-hued glow. The gem was a girasol, a rare unmatched stone. It was a

talisman that symbolized its owner: The Shadow.

Weird master of darkness, The Shadow always chose secluded gloom to

formulate his plans against men of crime. This hidden room was his sanctum,

where he kept his extensive files and archives, so useful in his battles

against evil. As The Shadow's hands moved into the light, they brought report

sheets and case histories of various criminals.

Two photographs peered up into the light. One showed a square-jawed

face, with eyes that were narrow beneath top-heavy brows. The other was a

longer visage, sallow even in the photograph; the eyes were large but

diverted, as though their shifty owner had been unable to face the camera.

The faces differed, but the men did not. They were twins of crime, that

pair. The square-jawed man was Speed Kroner, noted for his rapid work in every

crooked scheme he undertook. The long-faced rogue was Matt Felson, Speed's

running mate in every enterprise.

They used a system, those two. Speed was the one who traveled well

afield, while Matt stayed in New York gathering men they needed. Usually Matt

sent picked members of the crew along to Speed; then joined his partner,

bringing the rest.

It had been quite awhile since the pair had worked their game, but

apparently they were planning a new stroke. Speed had suddenly left New York

with a few pals, and had disappeared somewhere in the New Jersey hinterlands.

Matt was still in Manhattan, but he had dived into some hide-out.

Those combined symptoms meant that daring crime would soon strike,

probably in some small and unsuspecting community, unless The Shadow

intervened. Knowing that Speed and Matt always worked in tandem, The Shadow

could reach both by finding one.

Hands spread two maps upon the table. One was a large-scale chart of

Manhattan. In one section was a circle covering an area of about a dozen

square blocks. It represented the district where Matt's hide-out was likely to

be located. Capable agents of The Shadow intended to scour that East Side area

tonight.

The other map showed fifty square miles of country around New York City.

Towns were marked with colored dots, where The Shadow's agents had checked and

found no traces of Speed. They were still searching those farther regions, and

hoped for results. It happened, however, that one sector was permanently

marked in red: the county where Darport was the center.

Studying the maps, The Shadow uttered a grim, whispered laugh that

seemed to stir the somber sable curtains lining the sanctum's walls.

The Shadow was considering the possibility that Matt Felson might not be

in the portion of Manhattan where agents believed: also, the chance that Speed

Kroner might be in Darport, the one place where no one would look for him.

The first supposition had merit, for Matt was slippery and ever ready to

shift hide-outs. But the second prospect seemed preposterous, even to The

Shadow, who was always ready to consider the unexpected.

Familiar with the fame of Junius Tharbel and the way in which the county

detective controlled his bailiwick, The Shadow took it for granted that no

crook--not even so fast a mover as Speed--would tarry in the neighborhood of

Darport.

LAYING Speed's photograph to one side, The Shadow concentrated upon the

picture of Matt. His scrutiny of the sallow, shifty-eyed face brought back

many recollections. The Shadow was translating some of Matt's criminal

exploits, in other terms, connecting them with activities of certain criminals

not listed as Matt's actual friends.

From an envelope filled with recent reports, The Shadow drew out a

photograph that showed a pompous, white-haired man whose dignity was somewhat

injured by a paper cap that tilted above one ear and whose grin showed that he

had been having a very good time when the picture was taken.

The white-haired man was Prexy Elthorn, a crook of a very fancy breed;

the picture had come from the Club Cadiz, a de luxe night club with a

two-dollar cover charge and proportionate prices for food and drink.

Prexy had been seen at the Club Cadiz every night during the past week,

which indicated that he was definitely in the money.

The situation was an odd one. For years Prexy had served as a "front"

man in stock swindles. He was the pretended stock purchaser whose example

encouraged the suckers to spend their coin. Sometimes he was introduced as

"Commodore," or "Judge," but he was always at his best when he posed as a

college president, which accounted for his nickname of Prexy.

Stock swindlers were not operating heavily at present. Such criminals

couldn't be the ones who were supplying Prexy with his spending money. Slim

though the lead might be, it struck The Shadow that this was the proper time

to look into the affairs of Prexy Elthorn and see what they might produce.

It wasn't The Shadow who strolled into the Club Cadiz an hour later;

that is, no one could possibly have connected the tall arrival in evening

clothes with a mysterious figure cloaked in black.

The guest who entered was recognized by the head waiter as Lamont

Cranston, millionaire sportsman and world traveler, a person entitled to the

utmost in service.

Soon Cranston was seated at a choice table, looking across the dance

floor at Prexy Elthorn, who was buying drinks for other patrons of the club

and beaming smiles at girls who decorated surrounding tables.

Evidently Prexy was doing his best to live down his questionable past,

and his manner showed that he was having success. The Shadow saw him rise and

go over to another table, where he made himself acquainted with a broad-built,

heavy-jowled man who had the large forehead of a thinker and the strong jaw of

a fighter.

Speaking to the head waiter, The Shadow inquired the name of Mr.

Elthorn's friend.

"That's Titus Rann," the head waiter explained. "He comes from somewhere

in New Jersey. Owns big factories over there, I understand. Perhaps you have

heard of him, Mr. Cranston."

The Shadow had heard of Titus Rann. What the head waiter said was

correct, but The Shadow could have added other facts; namely, that Rann's

factories and other businesses were located chiefly in the town of Darport.

It was a curious set-up, Prexy chatting with Rann. On the surface they

looked like birds of a feather, but one was a crook, the other a financier.

The actual contrast, however, did not reveal itself. Prexy was with a party of

friends; so was Rann. Both were spending money, and in the atmosphere of the

Club Cadiz they were hail fellows well met.

It might be that Prexy was working to some build-up, with Rann as the

prospective victim. If so, The Shadow could gain nothing by watching this

get-together, for the game could not yet have passed its early stages.

Nevertheless, The Shadow decided to play his role of Cranston a while longer.

In so doing, he was rewarded.

PREXY abruptly cut short his chat with Rann. Glancing at his watch, the

white-haired man gave a benign smile and added an apologetic bow as he arose.

Evidently Prexy had remembered some important appointment that was in keeping

with his pose.

He stopped at his own table only long enough to pay the check, then he

stepped toward the revolving door that led from the Club Cadiz.

By then Cranston's check was also paid. With a leisurely stroll that

marked him as anything but a stalker, The Shadow was taking up Prexy's trail.

Outside the night club, Prexy told the doorman that he wanted a cab. At

the same time The Shadow tossed away a half-finished cigar with a slow but

sweeping gesture suited to the style of Cranston. Instantly a cab whipped from

across the street in answer to The Shadow's signal.

The cab was The Shadow's. Its driver, Moe Shrevnitz, a secret agent of

The Shadow, was one of the speediest hackies in Manhattan, accustomed to

swooping in and gathering up passengers before other cabbies could get

started.

Moe had seen Cranston's toss of the cigar; he had noted, too, that it

was done with the left hand. The signal meant for Moe to pick up the first

passenger, Prexy Elthorn, take him to his destination and report back later.

But Moe wasn't quick enough. Another cab, on the near side of the

street, was in motion as The Shadow gave the signal. It thrust itself between

Moe's cab and the curb; its driver was leaning out, opening the door, as he

stopped. He heard the shriek of Moe's brakes and grinned. A few moment later

Prexy was in the winning cab and riding away.

By then The Shadow was at the curb. Almost before the doorman knew it,

Moe's cab had shoved in front of the Club Cadiz and Mr. Cranston was stepping

aboard. Before the other cab had rounded the corner with Prexy, Moe was in

pursuit, with The Shadow as a passenger.

A whispered voice came from the rear seat, and Moe understood. This was

to be a careful chase, but at no cost was the trail to be lost. The Shadow was

no longer Lamont Cranston; he was himself.

From a drawer beneath the cab's rear seat he was producing a black

cloak, a slouch hat, a brace of automatics.

Evidently, The Shadow expected action at the trail's end and was

preparing for it. From that, Moe supposed that his chief must have spotted

something suspicious inside the Club Cadiz.

At the same time Moe couldn't quite understand why The Shadow had first

ordered him to simply pick up Prexy, for in that case The Shadow would not

have been able to take an immediate trail in person.

There was an explanation. It lay outside the Club Cadiz, not within. At

the moment when the other cab had sliced in to pick up Prexy, The Shadow had

spotted the driver's face. He had seen the fellow's long features, the odd

leer that went with shifty eyes. The Shadow had found the very trail he

wanted.

The driver of Prexy's cab was Matt Felson, the hiding mobster who soon

would join Speed Kroner to complete a partnership that had a single object:

crime!

CHAPTER III.

STRANGE COMPANY.

THE evening was still young, but blackness had a midnight thickness near

the Hudson River. There, away from feeble street lamps, the lights of a

taxicab cut a sharp swath as they stopped in front of a big sliding door that

looked like the entrance to a garage.

In a sense, the building was a garage, for it was filled with

automobiles. But few of those cars were in actual use. The place served as a

storehouse for used cars that were kept on various floors.

Instead of waiting for an attendant to answer a summons, Matt Felson,

the cab driver, alighted and went through a small door that was fitted in the

big one.

Sliding back the large door, Matt threw a wary glance along the street.

He was looking for lights of other cabs. Seeing none, he reentered his own and

drove it into the garage.

By the time Matt had closed the big door there was a stir across the

street. A figure emerged from a cab that had parked without lights. Gliding

like a specter of the night, the cloaked shape reached the little door and

edged it open.

The Shadow saw Matt driving the cab into an elevator. Prexy had

alighted; he walked into the elevator and pulled a lever at Matt's order. The

elevator started upward, bearing cab and passengers. The Shadow watched two

big elevator doors go shut; after that he listened.

From the steady rumble of the elevator, The Shadow calculated that its

stop came at the third floor. By then he was through the little door and had

closed it behind him. He looked for another way to reach the third floor and

saw one.

It was a door that obviously led to a stairway, for it was one step in

height above the garage floor level.

Crossing the deserted floor, The Shadow reached the stairway door and

found that it had a push-button beside it. The bell was obviously used to

summon an attendant from the floor above. Having no intention of announcing

his presence at this moment, The Shadow tried the door and found it unlocked.

Examination of the opened door proved that it was fitted with an

automatic latch so that someone upstairs could push a button and admit a

person below. That arrangement applied only when the door was locked, and

since The Shadow had been fortunate enough to find it unlocked, his path to

the floors above seemed quite clear.

Gliding up the darkened stairway, The Shadow was almost to a door on the

second floor when something disturbed his calculations.

Beyond the door above, The Shadow heard a sharp, repeated buzz, which

meant that someone must have pushed the button below. New arrivals had come to

the garage and were signaling from the ground floor.

But that wasn't the odd part of the situation. The thing that made The

Shadow instantly alert was the opening of the door below, while the buzzes

still came from the second floor!

Against the square of light at the bottom of the stairs The Shadow saw

two husky men push into sight. One had pressed the buzzer, the other had

opened the door.

Why?

If The Shadow had not paused to consider the question, he would have

thrust himself into very serious trouble. The natural thing was to get through

the door above in order to avoid the hoodlums from below. Instead, The Shadow

waited.

The buzz had been a signal; not a request to open the lower door, but a

flash that friends were on the way up. It was obvious, therefore, that persons

above would somehow know when people were on the stairs. There could be but

one answer.

The automatic latch on the lower door operated in reverse! When the knob

was turned, a signal was flashed above. The Shadow had given away the fact

that he was coming up!

Already lurkers would be awaiting him beyond the upper door. To go

through that portal would be the equivalent of suicide. The stairs were The

Shadow's one place of safety. New foemen were at the bottom, but that fact, to

The Shadow's keen brain, was something that could work to his own advantage.

The men at the top knew that an invader was on the stairs. They also

realized that the men at the bottom had not learned the fact. The arrival of

new crooks below meant that those above would have to show their hand!

RECOGNIZING precisely what was due, The Shadow stooped low in the

darkness and began a quick but silent lunge toward the top of the stairs. He

was still short of the door when it whipped open.

Flashlights blazed down the stairway; in their glimmer The Shadow saw

the glitter of revolvers. There were two crooks at the top. The foremost spied

The Shadow. He saw cloaked shoulders fling toward him, about to smother his

gun. Savagely the fellow fired, point-blank, aiming for The Shadow's heart. By

then the cloak had reached him; the hat was toppling sideward.

A triumphant snarl came from the thug's lips. It was stifled by the

amazing thing that followed.

Driving hands hooked the crook's knees, powerful arms hoisted him

upward. Half smothered by the cloak, the astonished marksman was hurled

backward across The Shadow's shoulders in a long, headfirst dive down the

steep stairway!

The Shadow's ruse had worked to perfection. His hands doubled upward, he

had shoved his cloak high above his shoulders, carrying the slouch hat with

it. The garments, not The Shadow, had been flinging toward the gunman when the

fellow fired. The only casualty had been The Shadow's cloak.

Even then The Shadow's strategy had not ended. In lunging upward along

the very slant of the steps he had done more than catch his foe-man off

balance. In giving the crook the headlong hoist, The Shadow had wrapped the

cloak around him and sent him downward in it.

Two men below saw a plunging figure bouncing at them and thrust in to

stop what they thought was an attack from a superfoe, The Shadow. They were on

their supposed adversary, slugging him with guns before they could guess their

mistake.

The other man at the top of the stairs saw what had happened, but wasn't

able to yell to those below. The Shadow had made a long dive through the

doorway and was grappling with the mobbie who knew.

Rising from the cloaked form between them, the men on the stairs were

about to shout their triumph over The Shadow when a pair of reeling figures

came spinning downward, locked in a struggle. Suddenly realizing their

mistake, the huskies aimed their guns. By then the human gyroscope was upon

them. It wasn't The Shadow who took the brunt. He was using his foeman as a

bludgeon. Thwacked by the living battering-ram, two thugs were bowled to the

bottom of the stairs, where they landed hard and heavy against the door which

they had closed.

Quiet followed the double slump. It was ended by a whispered laugh--a

strange, sinister tone that seemed to request if listeners wanted more. One

crook heard it and gave a whimper. Plucking the fellow from the sprawl, The

Shadow dragged him to his knees and flashed a light in his face.

He recognized the hoodlum as a small-fry gunzel named Sparrow Andrim.

Under The Shadow's urge, Sparrow began to chirp. He'd come from outside,

bringing a new recruit named Clink Brophy. Sparrow had recommended Clink to

Matt, and Clink had been accepted, although Matt had never seen him.

The news offered The Shadow an immediate course. Poking a gun against

Sparrow's ribs, he told the whining thug to get busy and help bind and gag the

rest. Belts and handkerchiefs served the purpose, with Sparrow working

ardently. The task was easy, considering the stunned condition of the three

victims.

It needed speed, however, in the final stages, for The Shadow could hear

the rumble of the descending elevator. He had whipped Clink's sweater from the

fellow; while Sparrow was tightening the belt on Clink's arms, The Shadow put

on the garment.

His cloak was handy, so was the slouch hat, for it had been kicked down

the stairs. Stuffing those garments beneath the sweater, The Shadow spread

them around his body, adding a squatty touch to his appearance.

He was remolding the features of Cranston when Sparrow looked up. It

was a process that The Shadow could perform by touch alone, even in

comparative darkness.

Cranston's face was not The Shadow's own; in itself it was a disguise. A

spreading motion somewhat flattened the aristocratic profile; downward

pressure added a bulldog effect to the jaw.

Thinking The Shadow fully occupied, Sparrow let his hand creep toward a

gun that lay beside the door. His fingers had just encountered the metal when

the muzzle of an automatic pressed his ribs. Sparrow heard The Shadow's tone,

harsh, jeering, as suited his present appearance.

"You'll need that heater, Sparrow," The Shadow told him. "So lug it

along, but don't try to use it. Call me Clink, but don't forget who I am.

Remember, if I start shooting"--the muzzle of the .45 jabbed deep--"you'll get

the first dose!"

SPARROW lifted the revolver with a gingerly clutch. Arm in arm with his

new pal, he went out through the lower door. The Shadow closed it behind them

as the elevator clanked to a stop on the ground floor.

The car that came out wasn't Matt's taxicab. It was a very expensive

limousine, shiny and polished. Matt was at the wheel, wearing a chauffeur's

uniform. In back was Prexy, looking the part of a millionaire-owner who

belonged in such a luxurious car.

Matt waved a greeting to Sparrow and told him to open the sliding door.

Shoving his revolver into his pocket, Sparrow obeyed, with the help of The

Shadow. The big car rolled out. Pushing the door shut, Sparrow and his new pal

joined Prexy in the rear seat of the limousine. Matt started southward.

"A swell heap," announced Matt, referring to the limousine. "It cost

some guy five grand when it was new. It's four years old, and he'll be lucky

to get a few hundred bucks for it. Nobody wants a gas burner like this--not

secondhand."

"We want it," observed Prexy testily. "But if you want to put on a real

show, Matt, why are you bringing these chaps along with us?"

"You'll see," retorted Matt. "I'm giving orders, Prexy. When it's time

for you to act the stooge, I'll tell you."

Inclining his head backward, Matt addressed Sparrow, who was huddled in

a corner of the rear seat.

"Thought you were coming earlier, Sparrow," said Matt. "It don't matter,

though, since you got to the garage in time. I suppose this is Clink, the

fellow you were telling me about."

"Yeah," returned Sparrow. "Like I told you, Matt, Clink is a great guy."

Considering that Clink was holding a gun muzzle tight against Sparrow,

but did not press the trigger, the tribute was honest to a degree. Even in the

mirror, Matt couldn't see The Shadow's automatic, for his other arm was

crossed above the hand that gripped it.

"What Sparrow says goes with me, Clink," declared Matt in a satisfied

tone. "He's A-1 when it comes to finding trigger men who know their stuff. He

says that when you start shooting, you're a tough guy to stop."

Sparrow winced at Matt's words.

"Yeah, Clink," informed Sparrow in a worried tone. "That's what I said.

Only, don't start shooting too soon."

The Shadow responded with a gruff laugh that pleased Matt Felson.

Forgetting the passengers in the back, Matt sped the limousine in the

direction of the Holland Tunnel. He was satisfied that Clink could uphold his

own in any battle.

There wasn't a doubt that Matt was right, considering that this new

member of his crew was actually The Shadow!

CHAPTER IV.

CRIME MOVES AHEAD.

IN the little parlor of his Darport home, Wallace Layton was pacing the

floor in restless fashion. His eyes were sharp, yet worried; they had the

ratlike look that Junius Tharbel had noted long ago and tabbed for future

reference.

Layton was dividing his time between the front window and the telephone.

At the window he peered out into the darkness; when he reached the telephone

he hesitated. His wife, knitting in a corner, finally peered sharply through

her glasses.

"What's come over you, Wallace?" she demanded in a chiding tone. "Land

sakes! Can't I plan a trip to Ohio with the children without you getting all

upset? Or is it something else?"

Angrily, Layton turned from the telephone.

"Something else?" he queried hoarsely. "What do you mean by that?"

"Those phone calls you've been making," his wife retorted. "Funny

business, you calling Mr. Rann."

"What's funny about it?"

"He's the head of the County National, isn't he? You're working for the

Darport Trust. It don't seem ethical to me, such doings."

Layton gave a sound that was a cross between a snarl and a grunt.

"It wouldn't occur to you," he sneered, "that men in the same business

would have a right to talk to each other. I know what you're afraid of. You

think the Darport Trust wouldn't like it if I was friendly with Titus Rann.

That's old-fashioned stuff, Martha!"

Picking up the telephone, Layton called Rann's number. After a short

conversation, he slammed the receiver.

"Only the secretary again," snapped Layton. "That fellow, Jorgan, with a

voice like the purr of a cat! He says that Mr. Rann is still in New York,

waiting for the men from Chicago, who haven't come in yet. I can't understand

it." "I can," observed Martha. "His business with men from Chicago must be

bigger than his business with you."

Layton clenched his fists.

"Who said I had any business with Mr. Rann!" he stormed. "If you keep on

with this, Martha--"

"I won't." Gathering her knitting, the woman left the parlor and went to

the hallway stairs, where she paused to add crisply: "Good night, Wallace."

Striding back and forth across the parlor, Layton kept glaring toward

the window, muttering two names: Griffith and Wilbur. He knew that Tharbel's

deputies, the total police force of Darport, were keeping watch on his house,

and Layton did not like it. His nerves were getting worse when a sudden jangle

of the doorbell stopped him like a jolt.

Shakily, Layton answered. He stepped back in worriment as Junius Tharbel

entered. The elderly detective bowed a formal greeting and walked into the

parlor, uninvited. Layton followed him, lips twitching, as though trying to

suppress something that he didn't want to say.

"I'm glad you're alone, Layton," observed Tharbel quietly. "I wouldn't

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摘要：

CRIMECOUNTYbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedinTheShadowMagazineSeptember1,1940Darportwasquiet,butcrimewasbrewingunderthesurface--andTheShadowknewit!CHAPTERI.CRIME'SDEADEND.JUNIUSTHARBELsatathisbattereddeskwritingaletterinslow,ploddingfashion.Besidehimlayaverysmallstackofcorrespondence,whichhehadbe...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 205 - Crime County

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