Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 143 - The Fifth Napoleon

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The Fifth Napoleon
By Maxwell Grant
As originally published in
The Shadow Magazine #143
February 1, 1938
Four Napoleons of crime ruled the city's rackets like an emperor of
old--but it was The Shadow who knew where the real power lay: with the Fifth
Napoleon.
CHAPTER I.
THE CROOKED SHADOW.
Two men were walking with disciplined steps along a broad, stone-floored
corridor of the State prison of Sing Sing. Their goal was the office of the
warden. The faces of the two men were etched in harsh relief. Their steps made
clicking echoes.
One of these men was a convict about to be released. His name was
"Lifer" Stone. There was a sneering smile on his face. His eyes kept watching
his shadow as it slid swiftly ahead of him along the smooth corridor floor.
His shadow was like himself--crooked.
One of Lifer's shoulders was hunched considerably lower than the other,
as the result of a police bullet that had ripped into him at the time of his
arrest. His shadow intensified this deformity.
Lifer's companion was the head prison keeper. He flushed as he heard the
convict chuckle. He knew what Lifer was thinking. A confirmed criminal with a
vicious record, he was about to be released in spite of anything the warden
could do. Perhaps underworld wealth had accomplished this miracle; perhaps
crooked outside influences.
Lifer opened the warden's door himself. He strode swiftly toward the
desk where a tired-looking gray-haired man sat in the slanting sunshine that
came through a broad window behind him.
"Hiyuh, Toots!"
The trusties, working quietly at typewriters and filing cabinets, gasped
at the effrontery of the grinning ex-convict. The warden's fist clenched and
then relaxed. There was nothing he could do now, and Lifer knew it.
"You got a lousy hotel here, pal! I can't recommend the dump; an' I
ain't comin' back here no more. I just thought you'd like to know."
"I'm afraid you are coming back again, Lifer," the warden said, slowly.
"You're a confirmed and vicious criminal. You're being released to-day in
spite of my recommendation to the contrary. If you'll listen to a few plain
words of advice--"
"Tell this chief screw of yours to unlock the can and lemme out. That's
all I'm interested in!"
The warden shrugged. Advice was futile. His pen scratched briefly, then
Lifer signed his name with a scraggly flourish. The warden handed him a crisp
five-dollar bill.
"Thanks for the cigarette dough," Lifer sneered. "Look me up, if you
need a loan some time. A month from now, I'll have more jack than you make in
a year!"
His voice hardened. "And get this, pal! You can tell it to Police
Commissioner Weston, to inspector Joe Cardona or to any other damn copper
whose health you'd like to protect! It ain't gonna be safe to pester me, see?
I got friends on the outside! Figure that out any way you like!"
He turned arrogantly on his heel and followed the head keeper from the
room. When he was released into the outside, he hurried swiftly away through
the sunshine, a sinister figure in a cheap suit of clothes and prison-made
shoes. His crooked shadow glided ahead of him.
He reached the outskirts of the town of Ossining and moved leisurely
along toward the distant railroad station. To his left was a brick garage
building with a dingy "TO LET" sign swinging over its decayed front. He
reached the corner and was turning toward the long hill ahead when suddenly he
halted. A shiver of superstitious awe ran coldly along his spine.
"Lifer Stone! Come here!"
The command was pitched very low, almost a whisper, but it was a whisper
that carried dearly to the ears of the released convict.
It wasn't the words that frightened Stone. It was the voice itself.
Lifer Stone's own husky voice was calling to him!
LIFER whirled with a frightened oath. The summons came from the head of
a narrow alley that ran between the garage and the building next door. There
was a man lurking there. Only his shadow was visible, stretching flat and
black on the sunlit sidewalk.
Something about that shadow made the hair crawl on Lifer's scalp. The
head was tilted, the left shoulder hunched oddly. Lifer had heard his own
voice; now he was seeing his own shadow!
"Lifer Stone--come here!"
Lifer's hand dropped to his hip before he realized he had no weapon.
Terror stiffened him. Inch by inch, Lifer forced himself to walk toward that
projecting shadow of himself. He peered around the edge of the brick wall--and
his mouth flew open to emit a scream of terror.
He was staring at the crouched and motionless figure of--himself!
Before Lifer could utter a sound, the figure in the alley sprang at him.
Hands closed on the convict's windpipe, strangling him into silence. He was
dragged down the alley with a powerful jerk. A door in the side of the garage
wall opened and both men vanished. The door closed.
Outside in the narrow, dusty alley the sunlight blazed as before. There
was no indication that anything unusual had happened in this unfrequented part
of Ossining.
But inside the garage, Lifer Stone was already unconscious. Strong
fingers had probed for nerves in the back of his neck, had applied pressure to
them. Lifer was out cold.
His miraculous double sprang away from him and glided swiftly toward a
telephone on a wall bracket. Except for the telephone and the grim figure in
prison-release clothes, the garage was empty. Lifer No. 2 jerked a watch out
from the pocket of his ill-made suit and glanced at the dial. Then he laughed.
He had timed and executed his attack with remarkable precision. It still
lacked sixty seconds till the moment when he intended to make a very important
phone call.
His laughter made eerie echoes in the empty garage. Joe Cardona would
have recognized that sound. So would a score of the toughest criminals of the
underworld. Hearing it, they would have cringed. For the mirth that bubbled
from those grim lips was the ominous laughter of The Shadow!
As the second hand on his watch moved to sixty, The Shadow unhooked the
telephone receiver and whispered a number. There was a brief pause, then over
the wire came:
"Burbank speaking."
"Plan complete. Shipment ready. Stand by to transmit order in thirty
seconds!"
The Shadow hung up the receiver. The voice with whom he had just talked
was that of Burbank, his trusted contact man. Personally unknown to any of The
Shadow's many agents in the ceaseless war on crime, Burbank was available at
any hour of the day or night for the receipt and transmission of orders. At
present, the rest was up to two clever agents who were waiting with a swift
sedan not five miles from this garage.
The Shadow glided toward the rear wall. His arm and hand seemed scarcely
to move, yet in an instant he was gone. A door painted to resemble stone had
slid open for an instant, revealing a small recess within the wall. Then it
closed without a click.
The eyes of The Shadow, watching at a tiny peephole, were able to
observe the motionless body of Lifer Stone, and beyond him the locked street
entrance of the garage.
FOR not many over five minutes, The Shadow's watch ticked faintly in his
open palm. Then he nodded slightly and placed it in his pocket. He had hardly
done so when there was a sound outside the garage.
A car was drawing to a stop. A man outside unlocked the street door and
slid it open. A taxi drove in.
The man at the door closed it and hurried to the unconscious ex-convict
on the floor. He lifted Lifer in a strong grip and placed him in the rear of
the taxi. He was helped at his task by the cab driver, a thin, nondescript man
with steady eyes.
"O. K. Clyde?"
"All set, Moe."
There was no further talk. Moe slid behind the wheel of the taxi. A lap
robe in the back covered the unconscious captive. The garage door was opened
once more by the man called Clyde. Moe drove the car out with deft speed and
the door slid shut and was locked on the outside. The whine of the taxi
diminished down the street.
The sibilant laughter of The Shadow echoed as he stepped from his hiding
place in the paneled wall. He knew he could depend implicitly on the loyalty
and obedience of those two resolute kidnapers. The thin man at the wheel of
the cab was Moe Shrevnitz, the smartest taxicab driver in New York. The other
man was Clyde Burke, of the Classic, best known of New York's newspaper
reporters.
Both were agents of The Shadow. They would keep Lifer Stone out of
circulation, until they heard from The Shadow.
The Shadow did not leave the garage immediately. There was still ample
time before the train would arrive at the Ossining station to take him to New
York in the guise of Lifer Stone. To travel there in the body and the clothing
of Lifer Stone was The Shadow's grim purpose.
His plan was a far-reaching one. It had to do with the criminal
activities of a group of millionaire racketeers who called themselves "The
Four Napoleons." The Shadow was not deceived by the title. He knew that five,
not four, was the correct number of these wealthy lawbreakers. Behind them,
directing them, was a Fifth Napoleon!
To find and destroy this Fifth Napoleon was the reason for The Shadow's
strange disguise. He was planning to fight crime with crime, to penetrate into
the lairs of the underworld from the inside.
There was already another menace to the Napoleons. "Tiger" Marsh! Like
the Fifth Napoleon, Tiger Marsh was a criminal enigma to the police. All that
was known about him was that he had emerged suddenly as a power in Manhattan;
he had given defiance to the Four Napoleons and was prepared to wrest from
them the rich spoils of thievery. A vast undercover war impended.
The release of Lifer Stone from Sing Sing was undoubtedly part of the
war. Somebody wanted to use his evil wits and his murderous gun.
But Lifer Stone was no longer headed for New York. The Shadow was taking
his place. He was deliberately courting death, and he knew it.
THE SHADOW slipped out the side door into the alley and began to walk
toward the railroad station. It was almost time for the train to arrive when
he reached the depot. People took one swift look at his clothing and his
pallid face and edged away.
The conductor on the train gave The Shadow a sharp look when he took his
ticket. As he moved along the aisle, The Shadow could see him whispering
furtively to some of the passengers. He knew what the conductor was saying:
"See that fellow back there in the corner seat by himself? He's a
convict! Must have been just released from Sing Sing! You can always tell by
their faces. Dead white--like a fish's belly."
The Shadow had used a special bleaching liquid on his skin, to convince
people like that conductor. But it would not be so simple when he arrived in
Grand Central Station in New York. Unless he was mistaken, Inspector Joe
Cardona would be there. Crooks, too; perhaps the very ones who had arranged
the real Lifer's release.
With his pallid face turned toward the windowpane, The Shadow watched
the landscape fly past. He knew he had deliberately entered upon one of the
most dangerous exploits of his whole career.
He was pitting himself against the power of the Fifth Napoleon!
CHAPTER II.
DOUBLE DANGER.
RALPH WESTON, police commissioner of New York City, stared grimly at the
three men assembled in his office at police headquarters. His mouth was tight,
his jaw line rigid.
"Cardona?"
"Sorry, commissioner. Not a single lead, so far. Not even the shred of a
clue! Nothing!"
"Judge?"
"No success. I have, as you know, a dozen of the brightest young legal
investigators in the city on my staff. They've failed to uncover a single
penny of the millions in racket money that we know The Four Napoleons have
extorted from frightened business men. No income tax has been paid on that
vast sum. The trouble is to locate it--and to prove ownership. Unfortunately,
we have been able to do neither."
"Mr. Daniel?"
"I guess I'll have to say ditto. I've got every reporter I can spare
assigned to investigate the racket situation. Nothing but rumors, and all
phony when we succeed in running them down."
Joe Cardona scratched a match with a vicious spurt and lit a cigar. His
swarthy face showed anger. Cardona regarded every criminal outside of jail as
a personal insult to himself. He was the city's ace detective, acting
inspector in the department, and the strong right arm of Commissioner Weston.
The man called "judge" was older than Cardona. He looked more the
student type, as if he had spent many years poring over legal opinions and
court documents. But his eyes were like cold crystal. His name was Paul
Sherman. He had been appointed by the governor as a special district attorney
to prosecute and convict racketeers.
The third man at the commissioner's conference was Fred Daniel. He was
there as managing editor of the New York Classic, the newspaper on which Clyde
Burke was a star reporter.
Daniel was a dynamic newspaper man, whose rise had been swift and
dramatic. Under his able direction, the paper was waging an aggressive
crusading policy against crime and criminals. Daniel was the youngest man in
the room; handsome, and alert to his finger tips. He was engaged to marry
Judge Sherman's daughter.
The purpose that had drawn these men together for a conference of war
was a brief news item from Sing Sing prison. A convict named Lifer Stone had
been suddenly released and was on his way to New York. To Weston and Cardona,
this fact seemed enormously significant. But Fred Daniel was inclined to pay
small attention to it.
"A killer--yes," he said curtly. "But hardly a big-shot. Gentlemen;
we're after bigger game than a punk like Lifer!"
"You mean The Four Napoleons, of course," Weston said.
Joe Cardona nodded in agreement.
He was thinking of four ugly names: Charlie Boston; Mike Hammer; Andy
Martin; Con Platt. These were the successful racketeers who enjoyed the
underworld nickname of The Four Napoleons.
The nickname came from their physical appearance. Pudgy, well-fed,
sleek, they preyed on the entire city with four well-regulated rackets.
High-priced lawyers protected their gunmen and collectors. Their take ran into
millions. Yet none of the four paid a cent of income tax.
When arrested and examined, they showed incomes of less than five
thousand apiece, and expenses that left the government owing them money. They
had no occupation except to hang around night clubs. Their incomes came from
lucky bets at the race track, or so they said. It was impossible to prove
otherwise.
None of them had the brains or ability to have organized the vast net of
city-wide rackets they headed. They smirked when they were called The Four
Napoleons. But they laughed loudest when underworld whispers suggested the
possibility of a Fifth Napoleon--a sinister genius of crime who directed their
activities.
A Fifth Napoleon?
"Don't be silly!" Charlie Boston sneered at the police, when he was
questioned.
CHARLIE was the slickest and most talkative of the four. He was also the
fondest of women and liquor. Con Platt was the greedy one. Mike Hammer was the
toughest. Andy Martin the meanest.
Their characters and physical appearance were an open book to Judge
Sherman. But to find the definite evidence that would smash their rackets and
send them to jail--that was something not so easy. In fact, so far, it had
been impossible.
It was further complicated by the sinister figure of a rival mobleader
named Tiger Marsh. Tiger Marsh was like the Fifth Napoleon, a figure almost
legendary. Bit by bit, his name had loomed across the underworld, until now he
controlled a mob almost as powerful as the entrenched racketeers.
War had broken out between Tiger and the Fifth Napoleon, for supremacy.
Seven men had already been murdered--two of them innocent citizens who had
been shot down before they could escape from the fusillade of mobster bullets.
Rumor was all that Commissioner Weston and Joe Cardona had to go by.
Reports agreed that Tiger Marsh was a tall, powerfully built man, with a shock
of red hair, and eyes like blue ice. His place of headquarters, the source of
his wealth, were unknown. But his grim declaration of war against the Fifth
Napoleon was no secret. Four of the mobsters killed in the last week were
members of Tiger's mob."
Joe Cardona had been chewing grimly on his cigar while the buzz of talk
went on.
"There's only one way to get a toehold on this case, and that's to find
the man that both gangs are eager to hire. I mean to find him--and make the
rat talk!"
"Who's that?" Fred Daniel asked in his quiet voice.
"Lifer Stone. He was released from Sing Sing to-day by some crooked
hocus-pocus. He's due at Grand Central in a half hour. When he gets off the
train, I'm going to be there. I'll have this Lifer Stone in custody so quick
that--"
"You can't arrest a man merely because he's an ex-convict," Fred Daniel
pointed out with a faint smile.
"That's true. But there are some new laws on the books that will give me
a nice handle to work with. Don't forget it's against the law for a man to
consort with known criminals."
The newspaper editor gave a brief nod of comprehension.
"I've got a hunch," Joe continued, "that Lifer Stone will be met at the
station by a henchman of the gang that sprung him from jail. If the two try a
quick sneak together, I'm going to trail them and find out where they go. If
they get wise to me, I'll arrest them both, toss 'em in the can and see what a
little sweating will do!"
Cardona clapped his derby on his head, nodded a brisk farewell to the
others, and left the room with a quick step.
"I'd prefer not to have any one arrested until I have the evidence for a
clear-cut case against these killers," Judge Sherman murmured.
"Leave that to Joe Cardona," Weston replied, dryly. "Sometimes it takes
an arrest to get evidence. I'm hoping Joe will attend to both details."
THE SHADOW moved slowly with the crowd that drifted up the ramp from the
train platform to the vast open concourse of Grand Central Station. He entered
the waiting room and began to walk aimlessly about, as though killing time.
Almost immediately, he became aware that a man on one of the benches was
interested in him. The fellow laid down the newspaper he had been reading and
began to drift unobtrusively across the room.
The Shadow recognized him with a thrill of satisfaction. He was a smooth
crook named "Tick" Murphy. The Shadow knew him for what he was--a "fixer," a
smart underworld go-between.
As Tick Murphy stepped closer, he gave The Shadow a swift scrutiny. His
voice was barely audible:
"Hello, Lifer! Welcome to the big town!"
"Who says I'm Lifer?" The Shadow spoke briefly from the corner of his
mouth. His words were sullen.
"Don't be that way, pal," Tick said quickly. "I've got a proposition for
you. Big dough from a big-shot! Let's get out of here and grab a cab."
"Never mind the cab. Spill your stuff!"
Tick's eyes veered nervously. There was no sign of any plain-clothes men
around, but he was afraid to linger in a public spot with a convict just
released from Sing Sing.
"O. K. We'll talk outside. Tail me."
He handed Lifer a cigarette, for the benefit of any casual observers,
and left him abruptly. The Shadow followed. His purpose was twofold. His
disguise had fooled Tick, but he was not sure yet whether it was good enough
to fool the police.
The absence of detectives in the station puzzled him. He had expected
Cardona to be there. He wanted to test his appearance on the sharp eyes of
Joe. That was why he insisted on trailing Tick Murphy on foot, rather than
taking a cab. He had a shrewd hunch that Cardona was somewhere in the
neighborhood.
A couple of blocks to the east, Tick Murphy halted, glanced back, and
vanished into a dark doorway. The Shadow did not follow him. He waited outside
until Tick emerged, looking angry and suspicious.
"What's the idea? We can't talk out here!"
"Here or no place, pal. There's plenty of guys hate my guts. Maybe your
boss is one of 'em. I ain't takin' no chances."
"O. K." Tick shrugged. "Ever hear of The Four Napoleons?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe, hell! It's the biggest mob in town and you know it!"
"How much dough for me if I tie in?"
"Write your own ticket. They need your trigger finger and they'll pay
big prices. They have already, dope! Who do you think sprung you out of the
big house?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Well. I'm here to tell you--" His voice broke off suddenly. He swore.
"Here comes trouble! Watch yourself!"
THE SHADOW knew what the trouble was when he saw a familiar figure
walking briskly toward them. It was Joe Cardona.
"Hello, Tick! Hello, Lifer!" was Joe's greeting. "I thought I'd give you
boys a chance to talk things over before I laid the finger on you."
There was fury in Tick Murphy's hard smile. But his voice remained calm.
"Go roll your hoop, dick! You got nothing on either of us."
"No?" Cardona ignored him. He kept his grim eyes on The Shadow. There
was hostility and contempt in his gaze. The Shadow knew he had passed the
second identification test successfully, even before Joe spoke.
Then Cardona chuckled. He said, "You should have studied law while you
were in the can, Lifer. They've passed some neat ones while you were up the
river. For instance"--his voice hardened--"it's against the law nowadays for a
crook to be found consorting with a known criminal. I'm taking you two punks
down to headquarters for a little chat."
"Try and make me talk," Tick growled.
"Maybe you won't," Cardona admitted, with that same grin of triumph on
his dark features. "But I'll bet apples that Lifer will! He'll tell us what
you were propositioning him about--or he'll go right back up the river! And
this time he'll stick!"
Joe crowded close to Lifer and began to frisk him expertly. Tick swayed
backward as if he were cowed. Suddenly, his hand darted from his pocket. There
was a metallic glitter as his clenched fist struck Cardona a terrific blow in
back of the ear.
Cardona went down like a felled ox. Tick slipped brass knuckles from his
unclenched hand. They were streaked with blood.
"Quick!" he snarled. "Let's go!"
Both men whirled. Cardona lay unconscious on the sidewalk. Tick was
jerking anxiously at the supposed convict's arm. The Shadow had to go through
with his grim bluff, or ruin his whole plan of campaign. It had cost him a
grim effort not to interfere with the attack on Joe. But to have interfered
would have been to tip his fake identity to both Joe and Tick.
He made up his mind instantly, and started to flee with his crooked
companion.
It was too late. People had witnessed the savage attack. Women were
screaming. Men were racing from the corner toward the pair.
In the quick confusion, The Shadow cleverly contrived to separate
himself from Tick. He saw the murderous go-between leap, gun in hand, toward
the startled driver of a parked taxicab. The gun went into the driver's back.
The car rocketed around the corner, driving people out of its path like
flushed quail.
A pedestrian who tried to memorize the cab's number went down in the
gutter with a bullet through his body.
FOR a precious second or two, The Shadow was unobserved.
He darted into the dark doorway behind him and raced at top speed to the
rear entrance of the house. He sprinted across the back yard and swung over a
fence. Down an alley he sped, and through a dim whitewashed cellar. He emerged
on a quiet street and glanced swiftly up and down. Then he walked quietly to a
light delivery truck that was parked at the curb, got in and drove away.
The Shadow stayed with the truck for ten minutes. He figured it would
take that long before the real driver became aware of the theft and warned the
police. Ten minutes' leeway was plenty for The Shadow.
He left the truck in front of a corner coffee pot and went in through
the avenue entrance. But he didn't stay inside. He left by a side door and
ducked down a near-by subway entrance. Another ten minutes and he was entering
a cheap hotel, nodding meaningfully to the clerk behind the shabby desk.
The clerk's nod was as grim as The Shadow's. Everything had been
arranged beforehand. The clerk expected Lifer Stone. He handed him a room key,
and his voice drifted warningly into the guest's ear as The Shadow bent close
over the desk for an instant.
"I've given you a room in the rear. Second floor back, on an alley. Fire
escape handy for a quick scram!"
"Swell! What about a rod?"
"Gun and ammunition on a shelf in the clothes closet."
The swift interchange of whispers had taken only an instant. There were
a few ugly looking loungers hanging around the dusty lobby of this thieves'
flophouse, but none of them showed any interest in the new arrival. The Shadow
was protected by the power of Lifer Stone's reputation as a killer with a
nasty temper. None of these crooks would butt in on him unless he deliberately
gave them the high sign.
The Shadow muttered thanks. With a scowl and a hunch of his left
shoulder, he shambled past the elevator and climbed a flight of narrow stairs
to the second floor. He inserted his key into the lock and entered a bare room
that contained only a bed and a cheap bureau.
The window was open and he glanced out and made sure that the fire
escape led to the rear alley, as the clerk had promised.
The Shadow smiled grimly, as he strode to the closet to get the gun and
ammunition waiting for him.
But as he jerked the door open he became suddenly still. A man was
crouched inside. An automatic pistol pointed steadily at The Shadow's heart.
"Get 'em up, Lifer!"
The face of the man with the weapon was like cold ice. The Shadow
recognized a criminal antagonist.
"Back up and turn around!"
A quick palm-thrust along The Shadow's body convinced the gunman that
Lifer was unarmed.
"Sit down on that bed. I want to talk to you!"
"Don't get excited, pal," came The Shadow's words in Lifer's tones. "I'm
open for a proposition from The Four Napoleons, but not if they're going to
get tough about it! Besides, I've already talked with Tick Murphy. You're
late, pal."
"Yeah?"
The intruder's gun remained ominously steady. His chuckle was like a
croon of death.
"You're takin' a little walk down that fire escape with me. The guy I
work for ain't so sure about you. He thinks maybe you might be a stooge for
the cops."
"He must be a sap! Who is he?"
"Tiger Marsh! How do you like that?"
The Shadow didn't answer. He sat perfectly quietly on the edge of the
bed, watching the ominous muzzle of the mobster's gun. He had no intention of
being kidnapped, and led like a lamb to slaughter.
But he was entirely unarmed.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIFTH NAPOLEON.
Four men sat lolling in deep leather chairs in the electric-lit silence
of a strange blank-walled room.
The room in which these men sat had neither doors nor windows. They had
arrived, one by one, from a secret elevator whose vertical shaft was concealed
in one of the somber walls. A certain earthy smell in the air suggested that
the chamber might be many feet underground.
Plenty of money had been spent on the arrangements for this snug retreat
for crooks. It was, in fact, the focal point of the organized criminal rackets
of New York. Police would have had no trouble identifying the four
well-dressed scoundrels who sat in their chairs waiting with an air of grim
expectancy.
The Four Napoleons!
The man with the expensive cigar in his fat fingers was Charlie Boston,
head of the arson racket. Next to him was Con Platt. Con controlled, through
his killers and collectors, the rich pickings that came from millions of tons
of foodstuff that rolled daily through the freight yards to feed the hungry
maw of a vast metropolis.
Mike Hammer took toll from builders and labor unions. Andy Martin was
the czar who bled merchants and storekeepers and restaurant owners--and killed
them with hired triggermen when they tried to resist his demands.
The secret of their criminal power lay not in themselves, but in the
organizing genius of another man. Their glances kept moving toward the blank
wall behind an empty desk that stood alone.
They were waiting for the arrival of the Fifth Napoleon.
Suddenly, there was a faint humming sound. The wall behind the desk slid
open. It moved slowly because it was made of solid-steel. The hum came from a
concealed motor.
A figure appeared. He moved into view like a pillar of crimson flame. He
was robed from head to foot in scarlet, the deep color of blood. His face was
hidden behind a silken red mask. He wore scarlet slippers and gloves.
For a second, the slitted eyeholes in the mask surveyed the four men in
the leather chairs. There was utter silence in the room. Then the Fifth
Napoleon glided to the chair behind the desk.
Suddenly, he spoke. His voice was the tremulous, high-pitched quaver of
a very old man.
"Napoleon No. 1--report!"
Charlie Boston cleared his throat nervously. He gave a full account of
his activities for the past twenty-four hours and the amount of loot his
racket had collected. The robed leader nodded, and made a notation in a small
leather-covered book.
"Napoleon No. 2!"
Mike Hammer answered promptly. Con Platt followed. Then Andy Martin. The
staggering sums they reported were entered in the book by their unknown
leader. He chuckled, and slid the book into a pocket inside the lining of his
robe. "Everything is going very nicely, gentlemen--including the problem of
Mr. Lifer Stone!"
AN electric tension seemed to flow into the quaver of the Fifth
Napoleon's voice. Whether his extreme age was a disguise or not, he radiated
power and triumph. The four rogues who had become millionaires by following
his orders and doing his bidding, sat stiffly alert
"As I anticipated," the Fifth Napoleon whispered in his squeaking voice,
"Lifer Stone arrived to-day at Grand Central, having been released from Sing
Sing by a power he doesn't yet understand. He was met by an agent, who tried
to conduct him to us for a conference. That agent failed!"
There was an audible murmur from the tense listeners. To have a henchman
fail on a job might be to incur the displeasure of their grim crimson-robed
leader. Yet none of the four dared to ask the Fifth Napoleon for the name of
the culprit.
"The penalty for failure is death!" the ugly whisper continued. "Let it
be a warning for the future. The agent who failed us has been traced and is
dead! Forget him and listen carefully to what I have to say."
For the next few minutes, the four pudgy racket leaders listened to an
amazingly accurate account of what had happened to Lifer Stone, from the
moment he had arrived at Grand Central up to the instant he had fled from the
unconscious body of Joe Cardona.
"I'm not at all sure about this man Lifer," the Fifth Napoleon
continued, harshly. "His actions since his release from jail have been
peculiar. I suspect the influence of a powerful opponent, who has sworn he
intends to destroy us and take over the profitable rule of the underworld in
this city."
"Tiger Marsh!" Charlie Boston snarled.
"Exactly! Have any of you found out anything definite about Tiger's
physical appearance or where his headquarters may be?"
There was silence, until Mike Hammer spoke.
"Nothing," he growled, "except the rumors I've already reported to you.
Tiger is supposed to have made millions racketeering in Detroit. He's tied up
every crook in the city who isn't already a member of our organization. We've
tried to bribe some of them to get a line on his headquarters. No luck on
that. Either they don't know, or they're afraid to tell.
"As for the appearance of Tiger--the rumors say that he's a tall man,
with flaming-red hair and deep-blue eyes."
The robed leader took a sheet of paper from his desk and tore it slowly
into four equal pieces. He scrawled a mark on one of them, folded the four
scraps of paper and shuffled them. Then he handed a paper to each of his four
lieutenants.
They examined them carefully, each shielding his own in the hollow of
his palm. It was impossible to tell from their expressions who had received
the marked paper.
"The man who has received the black cross," the Fifth Napoleon said,
"will find and bring here, to this headquarters the convict known as Lifer
Stone. I want to see him face to face. If he really intends to work for us, as
he promised, I want to know that. If he's a treacherous liar and is already
hooked up with Tiger Marsh, I have the instruments of torture to find out."
"Do you think it's safe to bring him here, even blindfolded?" Con Platt
asked.The Fifth Napoleon's laughter was shrill.
"Lifer will be subjected to scientific deception every moment of the
time he is here. The earthy odor from those concealed air vents will tell him
instantly that he is in a cavern deep under the earth. The elevator in which
he will be brought here is a modern one, completely enclosed. It will be
impossible for him--even if he were not blindfolded--to know whether he is
going up or down! We've made tests ourselves and we know!
"Then there's the little matter of the subway train overhead."
His crimson hand moved out of sight under the edge of his desk. He
pressed a concealed button. It was an exact duplication of the thunderous roar
of a subway train. The Fifth Napoleon waited an instant, then he pressed a
second button. The roar of the train was repeated--only, this time, it was a
train passing overhead from the opposite direction.
Con Platt chuckled; he was satisfied. So were the others.
THE Fifth Napoleon rose from his desk. He glided toward the wall
opposite the spot where the elevator shaft was concealed. There was a small
knob projecting from the surface and the crimson-robed leader moved it with a
deft twist of his gloved hand.
Instantly, a panel slid aside, and brilliant sunlight flooded the dimly
lit chamber. A window was revealed. Beyond the window was the open sweep of
blue sky and the distant pinnacles of tall skyscrapers.
"Thirty-five stories in the air," the Fifth Napoleon muttered. "I defy
Lifer Stone or any one else to discover the truth!"
The deceptive panel over the window closed without sound. The Fifth
Napoleon went back to his desk. Under his blood-red robe and mask he walked
with the solid tread of a young, heavily built man. But his bent shoulders and
the thin squeak of his voice told a different story.
The true secret to his hidden identity was unknown to the four well-fed
lieutenants who served him.
They waited to be dismissed from the conference. One of them was charged
with the task of bringing Lifer Stone back to this sinister room.
"Napoleon No. 1!" the thin voice said.
Charlie Boston rose without a word and left the room by the secret
elevator. Five minutes passed.
"Napoleon No: 2!"
Mike Hammer departed with the same absolute silence. Then Con Platt
left; and after him, Andy Martin.
The Fifth Napoleon rose slowly to his feet. He glided toward the wall at
the rear of his desk. He lifted no hand, made no motion whatever, yet there
摘要：

TheFifthNapoleonByMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedinTheShadowMagazine#143February1,1938FourNapoleonsofcrimeruledthecity'sracketslikeanemperorofold--butitwasTheShadowwhoknewwheretherealpowerlay:withtheFifthNapoleon.CHAPTERI.THECROOKEDSHADOW.Twomenwerewalkingwithdisciplinedstepsalongabroad,stone-floo...

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