Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 162 - Chicago Crime

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CHICAGO CRIME
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 15, 1938.
Once again The Hand reaches forth in bloody crime - but the clutch of The
Shadow is stronger!
CHAPTER I
CRIME'S HEAD MAN
THERE were two men in the long-built coupe that parked in front of the
Southlake Hotel, Chicago's most fashionable lakeside resort.
One, the driver, was chunky-built and square-faced, with eyes that had a
hardness that he was trying to suppress. His lips, too, were the sort that
required control, for they had a habit of curling downwards, bringing an
overwise expression to his rough face.
The other man was young. His doubled knees showed him to be tall, his
broad shoulders marked him as rangy. But his features had much of the dreamer.
His clear eyes had a far-away look as they stared toward the waters of Lake
Michigan, purple-dyed by the late sunset.
The chunky man clapped a friendly hand upon the dreamer's broad
shoulders.
"Wake up, Herb!" The tone was gruff, but not unpleasant. "We're here!"
Herb Waylon jerked himself from his reverie, gave a startled look at Chet
Soville. Sight of the rough face, displaying a well-faked grin, made Herb
realize where he was.
"All right, Chet," said Herb, sheepishly. "Let's go in and meet the chap
you told me about."
Chunky Chet led his meditative companion into the spacious lobby of the
pretentious hotel. At the desk, Chet announced that he wanted to see Mr. J. M.
Cruke. Soon, the visitors were riding an elevator to the twelfth floor.
As Chet knocked at the door of an east-wing apartment, he undertoned to
Herb:
"This fellow Cruke is regular, like I told you. But don't stare at him
like you noticed he was crippled. He's trying all the while to forget it."
They found Cruke seated in an invalid's chair, gazing through an open
window across a balcony that fronted toward the lake. He made a huddled
figure,
wrapped in blankets; for though the day was warn, he seemed to fear the chill
of
the slight lake breeze.
Cruke turned his head to greet the visitors. His face was pallid, weary;
one that bore traces of great pain, as did the smile of welcome that he
managed
to twist upon his lips.
They shook hands. Cruke's grip was flabby. Leaning back, he stretched his
hand toward the window, showing great effort merely in raising his arm.
"I have been watching the traffic on Michigan Boulevard," wheezed Cruke,
in a slow tone. "Thousands of persons going to and fro about their business.
Hundreds more beyond" - he pointed to bathers disporting in the surf - "whose
thoughts are those of pleasure."
He dropped his arm, let his head lean farther back. His eyes seemed to
reflect a glimmer from the outside scene.
"All who have health," declared Cruke, solemnly, "should be happy. But
some are not. You are one of those unfortunate persons, Mr. Waylon; at least,
so Mr. Soville tells me."
"I guess Chet is right," returned Herb, sheepishly. "But after meeting
you, Mr. Cruke, I suppose I ought to forget what's bothering me. In a way,
it's
trivial -"
"Nothing is trivial," interposed Cruke. He shook his head by keeping it
levered on the chair back. "The smallest things can destroy happiness, in some
instances; whereas, real anguish can often be forgotten."
Herb said nothing. He felt that Cruke was certainly demonstrating the
final point that he had made. During that silence, Cruke's eyes kept steadily
on Herb. The gaze was kindly; then:
"Your trouble," declared Cruke, "is largely financial."
"That's about it," admitted Herb. "If - well, if -"
Herb hesitated. His pride kept him from saying more. Cruke understood,
and
picked up the statement.
"If you had a job," wheezed the invalid, "your troubles would be ended."
"Just about," agreed Herb. Then he added hastily: "But I'm not asking you
to -"
"Whatever I do," interposed Cruke, "is a matter of my own inclination.
Mr.
Soville tells me that you drive a car. Very well, having seen you, I can
recommend you to a friend of mine, Mr. Arthur Reether, who needs a chauffeur.
"The situation is an excellent one. Mr. Reether is willing to pay a
salary
of fifty dollars a week, because he feels that a competent chauffeur should be
well paid."
HERB'S moroseness vanished. His eyes gleamed happily at the offer. Chet
had talked about some sort of a job that Cruke could arrange, but Herb had
never expected a windfall like this.
Fifty dollars a week!
After months of unemployment, during which his cash reserve had steadily
dwindled, this was like happening upon a fortune.
Herb stammered thanks. They were incoherent, because through his mind was
running the thought that Joan Gramley would be pleased. She wanted Herb to
have
a job, because she felt that he did not amount to much without one.
And Herb, despite his grumbles to the contrary, had felt the same way
about it.
Chet ended Herb's stammered thanks with a nudge. He conducted his
companion to the door. Once outside, Chet told Herb what to do.
"Wait for me in the car," undertoned Chet. "I'll go back and chin with
Cruke. I'll give him some details to put in his letter of recommendation."
"But you haven't known me long, Chet."
"Long enough to suit Cruke. When he likes a guy, he likes him. That's the
way with all these wealthy philanthropists."
Chet stepped back into the apartment and closed the door. He listened
until Herb's footsteps had dwindled, then gave a short guffaw. Turning toward
the window, Chet announced:
"O.K., Long Steve!"
The man in the invalid's chair flung away the blankets. His huddled
figure
stretched to a long, beanlike form. He smeared away the chalky substance that
gave paleness to his face. His lips twisted into an ugly grin that made Chet's
seem mild.
"Just another sap," sneered "Long Steve", in reference to Herb, "who has
walked out of this joint feeling sorry for poor Mr. Cruke."
"And he's the last guy in the world," added Chet, "who would ever guess
that Cruke is really Long Steve Bydle."
"Yeah," declared Long Steve. Then: "What was the trouble with the guy? A
dame?"
"I think so," nodded Chet, "but he hasn't talked about it."
"Where'd you dig him up?"
"Down around The Loop. Staring in a window, like he'd gone into a trance.
He was easy to make friends with."
Long Steve gave an abrupt nod, which dismissed the matter of Herb's past.
He pulled a little black book from his pocket, and Chet Soville produced a
similar memorandum. The two began to check figures.
"Last week's take was only five grand," growled Long Steve. "That much
ain't half enough!"
"The boys are cracking up the buggies, same as usual," reminded Chet.
"Yesterday, a couple of 'em did a dive into traffic in front of witnesses.
That
will bring more dough from the insurance companies."
"It still won't make ten grand," snapped Long Steve, "let alone running
this racket up into the box-car figures where it ought to be. We've got to use
stooges that carry bigger insurance."
"Yeah," agreed Chet. "Guys like Reether, who have put on a front like
they
were big-business men. Only, Reether is yellow; always trying to stall. He
don't
like getting hurt."
"He's going to get hurt," growled Long Steve. "That's why I'm giving him
a
new chauffeur. Don't forget to insure Waylon. He's good for a hundred a week
on
a double indemnity policy, like Crawler."
"And Reether's good for five hundred a week," chuckled Chet. "Unless" -
his expression became doubtful - "unless he squawks later."
LONG STEVE stroked his chin. His gaze was anything but kindly as he
stared
out toward the boulevard, where dusk was producing firefly glows from the
headlights of passing automobiles.
"Five hundred a week," declared Long Steve, slowly. "It's worth it, even
if Reether does try to squawk. But there's another way of figuring it, Chet.
Fifty grand - without any chance of Reether going yellow."
Chet couldn't see Long Steve's face, for the dusk hid it; but the tone
was
all that Chet needed. He gave an enthusiastic hiss between his teeth. Long
Steve
stepped to a writing desk, took out a blank sheet of hotel stationery, folded
it
in an envelope and sealed it.
"Hand this to Waylon," he told Chet. "Tell him it's the letter of
recommendation! Reether's smart, even if he is yellow. He won't let Waylon
spot
it, so there's no need for me to write anything.
"Besides, it's time you got back with Waylon. We don't want him to get
suspicious. I'm leaving it to you to talk with Reether. Salve him plenty. Tell
him he won't get hurt at all. Make out we'll be satisfied with small dough."
Standing at the window five minutes later, Long Steve Bydle was puffing a
cigarette when he saw Chet's coupe swing into the traffic of Michigan
Boulevard. Steve's grunt of ugly pleasure fitted the insidious leer that
adorned his lips.
Crime was rampant in Chicago, although the law didn't know it. Traffic
accidents had been doubled within the past few months, and the police were
still looking for an explanation, that only Long Steve Bydle could have
provided.
For Long Steve Bydle was at present head man of crime in Chicago. His
racket included other lieutenants besides Chet Soville, and they, in turn,
were
aided by numerous small-fry who posed as victims - fake and real - in those
very
traffic accidents.
So far, the net profits were around a quarter million, but Long Steve had
fixed his mind upon acquiring twice that sum. Posing as Cruke, in an invalid's
chair, crime's head man had been figuring out new ways of increasing the
accident toll.
The sky was dark above Lake Michigan. Amid its blackness, Long Steve
could
see the tiny lights of a swift plane, coming from the East. Later, perhaps,
thought Long Steve, airplane accidents could be arranged. For the present,
smashing automobiles was sufficient for his game.
Long Steve Bydle would have changed that opinion, had he known the
identity of the pilot who flew that very plane. Had he guessed the truth,
crime's head man would have given a half year's profit to see that ship crash.
The plane's lone occupant was The Shadow, master foe of crime. His
purpose
in coming to Chicago was to ferret out a hidden big-shot; namely, Long Steve
Bydle!
CHAPTER II
AT THE CLUB MICHE
EARLY that evening, a guest registered at a centrally located Chicago
hotel. He was a tall personage, that stranger, with a hawkish face that was
immobile and masklike. The name that he applied to the register was Lamont
Cranston, but it was not his actual name.
The supposed Cranston stopped at a newsstand long enough to buy some
evening newspapers. He went to his room, with his luggage. Once alone, he
glanced through the newspapers and cut out many clippings.
Laying the slips upon a desk, Cranston turned out all the light except a
single lamp. It threw a focused glare upon the surface of the desk. There was
a
rustle of papers from a briefcase. Long hands came into the light.
A strangely iridescent gem gleamed from the third finger of the hand that
brushed the clippings aside. That jewel was a rare girasol; an unmatched fire
opal that marked the identity of its owner.
The supposed Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.
Upon the desk, he placed a folder that bore an imprinted symbol of a
hand.
Opening the folder, The Shadow studied the list that came to light.
The list bore three names:
"Thumb" Gaudrey
"Pointer" Trame
"Long Steve" Bydle
There had once been two other names on that list: "Ring" Brescott and
"Pinkey" Findlen. The Shadow had disposed of them in reverse order; for each
had become a big shot in his own right, like other members of the organization
to which they had belonged - The Hand. (Note: See "The Hand" Vol. XXV, No. 6
and "Murder for Sale" Vol. XXVI, No. 3.)
Each specialized in his own brand of crime; and Long Steve Bydle, with
Chicago as his field of operation, had become the third man that The Shadow
sought.
At the time when The Hand had functioned as a complete organization, it
had actually been a group of five crime masters. banded for mutual profit. The
Hand had been ready to take over crime in New York, and The Shadow, in turn,
had prepared to meet the whole five in conflict.
Then had come a wholesale smashing of rackets, through a special
prosecutor.
The Five Fingers, conveniently assembled for The Shadow's master stroke,
had suddenly cleared New York, considering it a ruined field for operations.
Only The Shadow knew the insidious menace that the five had carried. He,
alone, had leads that were enabling him to uncover them one by one.
In the case of Long Steve Bydle, The Shadow was seeking the shrewdest of
the lot, when it came to ability at keeping under cover.
Long Steve had always been a skillful organizer, using smart lieutenants
and shifting them with uncanny precision. In fact, The Shadow had not at first
connected Long Steve with the insurance racket that was riding high in
Chicago.
Careful tabulations of accident reports had convinced him that some
big-shot was behind the game, although police and insurance companies had not
waked up to the fact. But it was actually the seeming lack of a controlling
master mind that had caused The Shadow to suspect Long Steve.
Then had come the clincher.
The Shadow had learned that "Kid" Dember was in Chicago.
FROM the folder, The Shadow drew a report sheet that showed a photograph
of Kid. He was a youngish-looking man, broad-faced, steely-eyed, who sported a
cow-puncher's hat. Kid liked to create the impression that he came from Texas.
Statistics, however, classed Kid as a native of Hoboken, New Jersey. If
he
had ever been to Texas, it was during those days when he had traveled with
carnivals, working the three-card-monte game.
Since then, Kid had become a con man. He had dropped his swindling
tactics
only when he met Long Steve Bydle. That had happened in New York, when Steve
wanted a bodyguard; not a tough gorilla, but a smooth chap who could talk
tough
when needed.
Kid Dember had those qualifications. Furthermore, he was cool and
skillful
with a gun. He had gained the job as Long Steve's bodyguard, in New York, and
from all appearances it had become a permanent assignment.
No one else recognized that fact, except The Shadow. Whether or not Long
Steve was actually using Kid at present, was a question. But there could be
only one reason why Kid Dember happened to be staying in Chicago. That was
because Long Steve was also in the city.
Finding Kid Dember would not be difficult. Reports showed that Kid's
favorite hangout was a place called the Club Miche. The Shadow closed the
folder, laid it aside. The single light clicked off.
LOCATED near The Loop, the Club Miche formed a popular nitery. It was a
noisy place at times, but the booths that lined the walls were quiet places,
where persons could chat together.
It was in one of those booths that Kid Dember sat, his nimble fingers
practicing with pea and walnut shells along the surface of the table. Kid
prided himself on his skill at the "shell" game, and was disregarding the
drink
that stood before him.
His ears, however, were trained to pick up approaching sounds. Hearing a
slight footfall, Kid gathered the shells and pea in one sweep, dropping the
whole outfit into a pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
A man in evening clothes looked into the booth; then, calmly, the
stranger
took the seat opposite. Kid saw hawkish features that he seemed to recognize.
He
gave the newcomer an inquiring gaze.
The stranger laid a hand upon the table. The thumb and first two fingers
were extended, the last two doubled under. Kid responded by flattening his own
hand in similar position.
It was the countersign of The Hand, used by all who worked for Long Steve
Bydle. The missing fingers symbolized the two of the original band who had
succumbed to The Shadow's prowess.
"You've heard from Long Steve?"
The stranger's inquiry was in an even undertone, the sort that Kid
expected. But it brought a puzzled look to Kid's poker-faced visage.
"That's what I was going to ask you," whispered Kid. "That's the way Long
Steve left it. I was to hear from him."
"He sent you a previous message" - questioningly.
The Shadow was parrying, but Kid didn't realize it. He took this stranger
for some silk-hat chap working with the racket.
"Sure he did," admitted Kid. "He told me to lay off Korber, so I did. If
you're going to see Long Steve -"
Kid hesitated. The Shadow encouraged him in a calm tone that suited the
personality of Cranston.
"I expect to see him," he said. "Very shortly."
"Then tell him I laid off," assured Kid. "I found out that Korber was
wise, anyway. I can always spot it when a sucker is getting hep."
Behind the impassive features of Cranston, The Shadow's brain was forming
swift thoughts. It was plain that Kid Dember was being held in reserve; that
Long Steve Bydle didn't need a bodyguard at present.
Which meant that Long Steve was as safe as some crawly creature dwelling
beneath a forgotten stone.
Meanwhile, Kid had whiled away the time by starting a confidence game
with
a man named Korber as the victim. Word had gone back to Long Steve; he had
told
Kid to lay off. Kid had obeyed instructions, following his own intuition as
much as Long Steve's command.
Of vital importance was the fact that Kid was actually hearing from Long
Steve, even though he didn't know where the big-shot was. It left The Shadow
no
other alternative except to take Kid Dember into camp.
The versatile bodyguard was too shrewd to forget this interview with a
stranger who passed the countersign. When an actual messenger showed up, Kid
would remember the false one and send word back to Long Steve.
True, The Shadow could wait until that time, then trail the emissary; but
word might flash to Long Steve too quickly. The one sensible policy was to
keep
Kid where he wouldn't blab.
THE SHADOW'S doubled fingers stretched. Kid saw the motion. His eyes
caught the sparkle of the girasol. The flash of that rare stone gave him a
sudden start. Kid shoved a hand toward his hip. He was too late.
Halted by a whispery laugh, Kid looked straight into the muzzle of an
automatic that the pretended Cranston had produced.
With that laugh, Kid caught the glint of burning eyes. He realized
instantly who it was that held him trapped. Memory of that hawkish countenance
was no longer hazy. Kid's poise was gone, as his lips gulped the name:
"The Shadow!"
"We're leaving here" - it was again the steady tone of Cranston that Kid
heard - "to a place where you will be more comfortable; where we can discuss
more details concerning Long Steve Bydle."
Cranston's left hand withdrew from the table. Reaching beside him, he
flung a blackish garment over his right hand. Kid recognized it as a cloak; in
its folded condition it looked like a light overcoat. Poking from the folds
was
the brim of a slouch hat.
Such garb was the reputed habit of The Shadow.
Gun concealed beneath the cloak, The Shadow arose, and Kid Dember
willingly did the same. Side by side, they moved from the booth, The Shadow
using the leisurely stroll that suited Cranston. Close to his companion, Kid
could feel the nudge of the gun muzzle.
They were well back in the night club, with a long distance to the outer
door, but The Shadow made the stroll calmly, keeping his prisoner under
complete control. There wasn't a chance for Kid to make a break for it.
Already, The Shadow had acquired one helpless informant who might eventually
lead him to Long Steve Bydle.
From the side of his mouth, Kid Dember was muttering curses, blaming ill
luck for his present plight. That opinion was not justified. The Shadow,
alone,
was responsible for Kid being in this hopeless position.
But whether The Shadow could lead his victim out of the club without
mishap was a matter that only time could decide.
CHAPTER III
FORGOTTEN DEATH
THE Club Miche was well filled, and among its customers were many who had
the look of crooks. The Shadow had not discounted their presence. Taking Kid
past tables where tuxedoed hoodlums sat was a more than ticklish proposition.
Success depended entirely upon the way Kid behaved; and with that, The
Shadow took no chances. Kid's grumbles ended suddenly, as the gun poked
harder.
As they neared a table halfway to the door, it was The Shadow who supplied the
undertone.
"Say hello to your pals," he told Kid, "and make them think I'm just
another sucker. Get it?"
Kid "got" it. He paused long enough to give his cronies a friendly wave.
His other hand nudged toward The Shadow, while Kid supplied a wink. Kid's pals
took it for granted that Cranston was just another stuffed shirt that Kid had
in tow. When it came to trimming wealthy guys, Kid was tops.
At the cashier's desk, Kid had to pay his check, even though he hadn't
finished the drink that The Shadow had interrupted. Kid fumbled gingerly in
his
vest pocket, bringing out enough small change to settle the bill.
He didn't have nerve enough to reach for his wallet. He figured that The
Shadow might think he was going after a gun. From what he'd heard of The
Shadow, Kid guessed that one false move would mean a quick finish. Kid could
picture himself on the receiving end of the first gunshot that interrupted the
babble of voices in the Club Miche.
Nervy, nevertheless, Kid was looking for some last chance to get himself
out of this fix. Luck supplied it.
The Shadow was looking at the cashier, a man who could surely make
trouble, if phony. Patrons were coming through the door; The Shadow saw two
women preceding the men who escorted them. That quick glance caused him to
expect no trouble from the party of four.
Kid, though, had hopes.
The deft con man let his last two fingers slide into the vest pocket from
which he had removed the change. His thumb and first two fingers wiggled the
signal of The Hand. Kid's hunch was a good one. The men who came through the
revolving door were bruisers who owed loyalty to Long Steve Bydle.
Kid Dember had flashed the emergency signal. With a sudden shove, the
pair
sent the girls sprawling aside and made a lunge for The Shadow. Before he
could
offset the unexpected drive, The Shadow was hurled back against the counter.
Kid was away, the bodies of his rescuers blocking The Shadow's aim.
An average fighter would have cut loose with his gun, in such a
predicament. Not The Shadow. He knew that such a move would be suicidal, once
the quick-triggered Kid was loose. There was only one solution: to reach Kid
before he drew his revolver.
To manage that, The Shadow flung away his cloak and hat, the wrapped
automatic going with them. Before that bundle thudded in a corner past the
counter, The Shadow was punching a path between the rowdies who had jolted
him.
LIKE a speeding arrow, The Shadow launched for Kid just as the fellow
wheeled to meet him. Kid's gun was out, but he couldn't bring it up the last
few inches that he needed for a straight aim. By that time, The Shadow's fists
had clamped both Kid's revolver and his gun hand.
Twisting, The Shadow wrenched Kid behind his right shoulder. The revolver
spat, its flame searing past The Shadow's ear. The bullet pinged the ceiling,
and with the echoes, Kid was hoisted in a long, headforemost whirl across The
Shadow's shoulder.
Kid couldn't yank the trigger in the last half second allotted to him.
After that, he had no chance to fire, because the gun was no longer his.
Clamping the gun tight, The Shadow had literally flung Kid from it. The crook
landed weaponless upon a table, overturning it amid a bevy of shrieking women.
Sidestepping to a corner near the door, The Shadow gave a deft toss of
the
captured gun that brought the trigger to his finger, with the muzzle pointing
straight for the two attackers who had aided Kid.
The neat move was timely. Those thugs had guns and were drawing them.
Their hands halted when The Shadow covered them. To the left was the revolving
door. One quick shift and The Shadow could be through it, safely outside.
But the imperturbable fighter still had thoughts of taking Kid Dember
along. Before venturing that risky task, The Shadow took a quick glance at the
nearer tables, to learn whether other tough customers were close enough to add
trouble.
Kid's long dive had given the impression that the con man had taken the
bullet from the gun, particularly as Kid had not yet crawled from beneath the
collapsed table. Some waiter, recognizing the pair of gunners that The Shadow
had covered, decided to give them aid.
The waiter yanked the switch that controlled the lights of the Club
Miche.
Shouts, screams rose from the sudden darkness. In the bedlam, The Shadow
drove for the two hoodlums who were blotted from sight, just as their guns
tongued in his direction. Again, shots went wide. A moment later, The Shadow
was slashing the darkness with Kid's chunky revolver.
Would-be murderers took those strokes on their skulls. Flashlights,
glimmering from spots about the night club, showed the tall form of Cranston
above the slumping mobsters.
The Shadow had saved shots, and he needed them. He knew who held those
flashlights. They were other crooks who sided with Kid Dember. The lights
doused as The Shadow ripped shots toward them, shooting high to avoid the
patrons of the night club.
Other guns began to talk. Their barrage shattered the glass sections of
the revolving door, where crooks thought that their foe had gone. That guess
was as wide as their bullets. The Shadow had flung away the revolver, to dive
past the counter.
Close to the floor, he swept his cloak over his shoulders, clamped his
hat
upon his head. An automatic in his fist, he came up to meet the surge of
pursuing crooks, who expected to find a bullet-riddled victim on the sidewalk.
There were shouts from the mob. Useless howls, for The Shadow was hewing
his way toward a side door that he had previously picked as a possible exit.
Hubbub gripped the night club, for other customers had picked out some of the
trouble-makers and were battling them.
AS The Shadow reached the side exit, figures blocked him. Grappling with
a
pair of husky attackers, he dragged them with him to the street. It was dark
outside that little exit; by the time they reached a patch of light, the
sluggers didn't recognize the fighter that they had gripped.
The reason was that they were already toppling under hard sledges from
The
Shadow's gun. As they rolled into the light, The Shadow saw that he had met
with
a pair of waiters who served as bouncers at the club.
Whistles were shrilling everywhere. Police were arriving to quell the
riot
at the Club Miche. Once they entered the front of the place, mobsters would
break for the side exit. That was why The Shadow waited in darkness, opposite.
Intuitively, The Shadow expected one man to come out ahead of the others.
That fugitive would be Kid Dember. He, more than any other brawler, had
reasons
to get away from the Club Miche.
A minute passed. A wary head poked into sight. It was Kid Dember,
crawling
from the side door toward the stirring figures of the flattened waiters. Kid
saw
a revolver lying on the sidewalk. He snatched it and retired.
He was lurking there, close to the exit, on lookout for The Shadow. But
he
expected to see the figure of Cranston, not a shape of blackness. Easing
across
the narrow street, The Shadow was skirting in to trap his quarry.
Then, with a swerve, came the lights of a stopping police car. They flung
a blinding path down the street, silhouetting The Shadow in the center.
Against
the glare, The Shadow had no chance to spot Kid Dember, Instead, he made a
target for the tricky con man's aim.
Diving across the street, The Shadow hit blackness as Kid's gun barked.
He
made that dart before Kid could fire. Flattening, The Shadow wriggled along
the
curb toward a blank wall, while bullets whistled only a foot above him.
Kid was smart. He was firing low, but not quite low enough. He figured
that The Shadow had gone past the curb. More than that, he was coming forward
as he fired, hoping to cut down the range.
Stretched at full length, The Shadow aimed, taking as his target the
orange bursts from his opponent's gun. Kid was almost to the fringe of the
police car's lights. He couldn't come farther safely; he would have to waste a
precious second, if he tried to retreat.
This was The Shadow's chance to nick the man he needed. Later, he could
lug Kid away, a prisoner. Steadily, The Shadow's finger tightened on the
trigger. One shot more from Kid's gun, The Shadow would be ready. That was
when
Kid made a final mistake.
In his eagerness, the smart con man shoved into the glow of the police
car's headlights. Like The Shadow had been previously, Kid was bathed in
light.
This time, watchful officers were ready. The gun that gleamed in Kid's fist
was
his official death warrant.
A salvo burst from the police car. Kid's tuxedoed figure became a
bullet-lashed shape writhing on the asphalt. His contortions carried him
nearly
across the street. He was only half a dozen feet from The Shadow when the
police
reached him.
One look told the cops that they had settled this trouble-maker. Other
brawlers were coming from the side door. The officers charged them, driving
the
hoodlums back into the night club, where other police had already made a
strong
drive through the front.
FOR a short interval, there was a complete lull in the street. During
those moments, The Shadow crept forward to where Kid Dember lay. Kid's eyes
were glassy, but his ears could hear the stir beside him.
"It was The Shadow!" Kid hoarsed the words in a final whisper, as he
propped upon one elbow. "Tell Long Steve - that The Shadow - is out to get him
-"
A cough finished Kid's sentence. Lips flecked with blood, he flattened
backward to the street, dead. Those same lips showed a satisfied smile,
despite
their pain. Kid Dember had told his story.
It hadn't occurred to Kid's dying brain that the only listener had been
The Shadow.
So far as Long Steve Bydle was concerned, Kid's death would be forgotten.
The big-shot would still lack news that The Shadow was in Chicago. That was
one
reason why a whispered laugh came from the hidden lips of a black-clad figure
that glided swiftly from the vicinity of the Club Miche.
There was grimness, nevertheless, to The Shadow's mirth. Through the
death
of Kid Dember, The Shadow had lost his one trail to Long Steve Bydle. He would
have to begin anew before he could gain another first-class lead.
The Shadow could foresee new crime, of the sort that Long Steve
manufactured, while that coming trail was still a future prospect.
CHAPTER IV
DEATH BY ACCIDENT
HERB WAYLON liked his new job. One day of it had convinced him that he
would get along with Arthur Reether. Not that Reether was friendly and
sympathetic, like Cruke; quite the reverse.
Reether was drab, and nonexpressive to such a degree that he seemed to
consider his new chauffeur as part of the car. Since Reether's imported
limousine was five years old and was expected to last forever, Herb decided
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CHICAGOCRIMEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"November15,1938.OnceagainTheHandreachesforthinbloodycrime-buttheclutchofTheShadowisstronger!CHAPTERICRIME'SHEADMANTHEREweretwomeninthelong-builtcoupethatparkedinfrontoftheSouthlakeHotel,Chicago'smostfashionablelakesideresort.One,th...

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