Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 073 - Crooks Go Straight

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CROOKS GO STRAIGHT
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. ABOARD THE LIMITED
? CHAPTER II. BACK TO LIFE
? CHAPTER III. THE NEW WAY OPENS
? CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE PAST
? CHAPTER V. FRIDAY NIGHT
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S SEARCH
? CHAPTER VII. THE BAD LANDS RISE
? CHAPTER VIII. CROOKS MOVE
? CHAPTER IX. THE ONLY CLUE
? CHAPTER X. NEXT NOON
? CHAPTER XI. THE HUNTED MAN
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW ADVISES
? CHAPTER XIII. DELHUGH'S VISITOR
? CHAPTER XIV. WEDNESDAY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XV. THE MOB PREPARES
? CHAPTER XVI. VANISHED SWAG
? CHAPTER XVII. GUNS IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XVIII. FROM THE SANCTUM
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW TALKS
? CHAPTER XX. A HOUSE OF DOOM
? CHAPTER XXI. STRATEGY BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XXII. SQUADS SET FORTH
? CHAPTER XXIII. LUCKY IS LUCKY
? CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHOW-DOWN
? CHAPTER XXV. THE SHADOW REVEALS
CHAPTER I. ABOARD THE LIMITED
THE Eastern Limited was driving through the night. To scattered passengers, seated in the lounge of the
observation car, the whistle of the locomotive came as a distant blare from far ahead. The train, though
long and heavy, was maintaining its fast schedule.
Two men were chatting over newspapers. Strangers who had met aboard the train, they were discussing
subjects of common interest. One news story seemed to have impressed them both.
"Well," one passenger was saying, "I can't criticize the governor of this state for pardoning those two
convicts. He must have studied their cases mighty closely."
"Both men were lifers," objected the second passenger. "It seems a bit radical to put them back into
circulation. They were chronic offenders -"
"Wait a moment," put in the first man. He tapped the newspaper. "The facts are right here. These chaps
only went up for short terms to begin with. Steve Zurk was in for a bank robbery"—the speaker paused
and referred to a column— "and Jack Targon was a swindler."
"They broke jail together, didn't they?"
"Yes. That was the rub. They took to robbing more banks. Zurk was caught; he went back into the jug.
Then the law landed Targon -"
"I know the details. The pair of them made another break. More crimes. They've been in now for three
years and the governor has pardoned them, despite their accumulated sentences."
"Accumulated sentences. You've hit it, friend. That's the point that won the governor over. If those
fellows hadn't made their first break, they'd have finished their original terms a couple of years ago."
"I didn't realize that."
"Here, read the details."
The first passenger shoved his newspaper to the second. The latter studied the columns, then began to
nod slowly as he laid the journal aside.
"That makes it different," he admitted. "They were hunted men. Crime was their only course."
"Self-preservation," agreed the other passenger. "Man's first instinct."
"I guess the governor deserves credit. Those fellows will have a chance to go straight. I'm glad that
they're out. I wonder where they've gone?"
"The newspapers don't know. Leastwise, they're not saying. Zurk and Targon were whisked away in an
automobile after the gates of the penitentiary clanged behind them. That's all the report that's given."
Grinding brakes up ahead. The observation car jolted slightly. The limited was heading to a stop. A
distant blare of the locomotive whistle.
THE chatting passengers forgot their former subject.
"Wonder what this is?" questioned one. "Sounds like a station stop. But there's none on the schedule.
We're supposed to make a nonstop ninety-minute run -"
"There's a stop, though," broke in the second passenger. He was referring to a time-table. "Place called
Dupaw. Time-table says to refer to note M. Here it is: 'Will stop Saturdays and Sundays only to receive
through passengers for New York.' That must be it. Somebody getting on at this jerkwater station."
"Hope there's more than one," chuckled the first speaker, "It says 'passengers'—not 'passenger.' Well,
this is a Sunday, so it makes passengers eligible."
The train was almost to a stop. Peering from the window, the passengers saw the dingy lights of the
station. Then the limited reached a full halt. A dozen seconds passed. Then came the muffled, heavy
chugging of the locomotive.
"Dupaw, all right," observed the man with the time-table, as the observation car rolled slowly past the
little waiting room of the station. "See? There's the sign."
His acquaintance nodded. The two reverted to their newspapers and began a comment on the sporting
news. Like the subject of the pardoned convicts, the stop at Dupaw was forgotten.
DIRECTLY across the aisle from the conversing men was another passenger. A tall, calm-faced
individual, he had been seated quietly, smoking a cigarette between thin, smileless lips. His immobile
countenance possessed a peculiarity hawkish expression, due to the presence of a high, aquiline nose.
Added to the stranger's appearance of dignity was the keenness of his eyes. Though placid, they carried
a sharp glint that signified a powerful brain behind them.
It was evident that this listener had heard all that had passed between the other passengers, regarding the
convicts and the chance stop at Dupaw. But his expression showed no interest in the conversation that he
had overheard.
It was not until the hawk-faced passenger had finished his cigarette that a change came over his
expression. Even then, his flicker of countenance was scarcely noticeable. A thin smile appeared upon his
steady lips. The tall passenger arose and strolled from the lounge.
His smile remained fixed as he went forward from the observation car. Through clattering vestibules,
through sleeping cars where aisles were walled by the green curtains of Pullman berths, the stroller kept
steadily onward. He passed through a dining car where waiters were dozing at clothless tables.
He came to a Pullman that bore the name, Callao; also cards that marked it as Car G 3.
The tall passenger stopped in the smoking compartment. The porter was seated there, shining shoes. He
did not observe the passenger's arrival until the tall personage spoke in a quiet tone. The porter started
and looked up.
"Is my compartment made up?" came the quiet question.
"Yes, sah," returned the porter, with a nod. "I figured you were back in the obsahvation cah. All made
up, sah. Sorry the conductah couldn't give you the drawing-room. I didn't know that it was reserved until
he told me."
"That's quite all right. When I learned that the compartment was unoccupied, I decided that it would be
preferable to the drawing-room."
"That's what I said, sah, when I came in to move your baggage. Compahtment's better than the
drawing-room. Plenty big enough for one person, sah, and it costs less money."
The porter was chuckling when the tall passenger left. He recalled how this gentleman had come aboard
the train and taken the drawing-room of Car G 3. Then the porter had learned from the conductor that
two other passengers had reserved the drawing-room— passengers due to come aboard the train at
Dupaw.
So the tall passenger had moved to the compartment that adjoined the drawing-room. He had been
offered drawing-room accommodations in another car; but after viewing the compartment, he had agreed
with the porter that it would be suitable.
All along the trip the porter had been wondering about those passengers from Dupaw. It was the first
time in his experience on this run that the limited had made that stop. It was odd the drawing-room
passengers should come aboard at Dupaw; odd, at least to the porter's way of thinking.
MEANWHILE, the tall passenger had reached his compartment. Entering, he found the lower berth
made up. He turned to a suitcase that was lying on the compartment chair. Still wearing his slight smile, he
unlocked the bag.
From it, he produced earphones. A length of wire projected from them. Leaning into the berth, the
passenger ran his fingers along the window ledge. He found the end of another wire, drew it inward and
connected it with the wire from the earphones.
It was obvious that this mysterious passenger had made unusual use of his brief occupancy of the drawing
room and his later removal to the compartment. He had managed to open the window of the
drawing-room and let out a tiny wire, which he had later fished in from the window of the compartment.
This wire formed the vital portion of a dictograph connection.
Turning out the light in the compartment, donning the earphones in the darkness, the tall passenger was
listening in on conversation that was taking place within the drawing-room.
A soft laugh in the darkness of the compartment. A scarcely audible whisper; yet that strange,
suppressed mirth pronounced the identity of the scientific eavesdropper.
This personage who had taken interest in the affairs of the passengers from Dupaw was none other than
The Shadow. Master hunter who investigated crime, The Shadow was aboard the Eastern Limited,
seeking new knowledge that might aid him in his ceaseless quests.
CHAPTER II. BACK TO LIFE
WITHIN the drawing-room of Car G 3, two men were engaged in conversation. These men had been
muffled with overcoats when they had come aboard the limited. At present they were in shirtsleeves. One
was perched upon the edge of the lower berth; the other was seated on the benchlike couch.
The man on the edge of the berth was a smiling, light-complexioned chap about thirty years of age. His
face was friendly, but flexible. Behind the smile lay a touch of natural shrewdness. His eyes carried a
convincing sparkle.
The man on the couch was older. Forty would have been a good estimate of his age. He was
dark-complexioned and his eyes showed a brooding look. His countenance, moreover, was dour—at
moments, almost sullen.
Circumstances had brought these two together; those same circumstances had maintained their
companionship. The younger, smiling man was Jack Targon, erstwhile swindler de luxe. The older, dour
chap was Steve Zurk, former bank robber.
Pardoned by the governor, the two were riding, unwatched and unattended, toward New York. For the
first time since they had met within prison walls, they were unharried by the law. Two convicts had come
back to life, with the prospect of a crimeless future straight ahead.
"Buck up, Steve," Targon was chuckling. "Can't you get it through your noodle? We're in the clear. Out
of the big house. The world is ours!"
"Yours, maybe," growled Zurk. "But maybe it won't be mine. That's why I'm worrying."
"Why worry, Steve? You always said that you'd go straight if you had the chance. You've got it now.
Say—that governor is a prince, the way he treated us."
"He's a square-shooter, all right."
"And this fellow Delhugh, that we're going to in New York. He must be another regular. Going to stake
us, fix us up with good connections. What more do you want, Steve?"
"It's not the future that worries me, Jack. It's the past. That's what you can't see."
"Nobody's going to toss it up at us."
Steve shifted uneasily and grunted from his couch. Jack watched him with troubled eyes. At last the older
man leaned back. Propping himself to suit the motion of the train, he began a troubled explanation.
"You played a lone hand, Jack," he declared. "Con games, phony checks, all that smooth sort of stuff. It
was in your line."
"No longer, Steve."
"I understand that, Jack. You'll go straight. It's in you. A man can chuck anything that he has a mind to."
"Which makes it easy for you, like me."
"Not quite as easy. I was a tough mug, Steve. There are a lot of my sort who traveled with me."
"Like Beak Latzo?"
"Yeah."
There was a dejected growl in Steve's tone at the mention of Latzo's name. Jack eyed his companion
closely. He saw a sharp look in Steve's gaze. Then Steve closed his eyes.
"FELLOWS like Beak Latzo," he remarked, "can never get it through their domes that a man can decide
to go straight. They're always looking for word from pals who get out of stir."
"So Beak will be looking for word from you?"
"Maybe. I hope not."
Another pause. Steve opened his eyes and looked squarely at Jack. He spoke in a steady, mechanical
tone.
"The bulls never knew about the team-up, Jack," said Steve. "They knew I had pals; but they didn't need
to find out who they were. They never picked out Beak Latzo."
"Well, if nobody knows anything about him -"
"You know about him, Jack. You know that Beak worked with me."
"Sure I do." Targon spoke as steadily as Zurk. "You told me a lot about Beak Latzo when we were
dodging posses together. But I'm mum. I've forgotten it."
"That's good, Jack. Keep it forgotten. Because it's going to be a tough trip for me. If Beak doesn't hear
from me, I'll hear from him."
"He won't hear from you, will he?"
"Not by a long shot. But if I hear from him, it may look like he heard from me."
"I'm beginning to get it, Steve. That is tough. But if the bulls never knew about you and Beak -"
"I told you why they didn't know, Jack. Because they never troubled to find out. But if they started
digging up the past, they would uncover it. Once they suspect a connection between me and Beak, things
would be bad."
A pause, broken only by the scratch of a match as Jack Targon lighted a cigarette. He offered a smoke
to Steve Zurk, who shook his head. The older man was still solemn. A blast of the engine's whistle
stimulated his thoughts to words.
"The others don't count, Jack," Steve told his companion. "Beak Latzo is the only guy that's really tough.
It won't be easy if he tries to needle me. But I'll handle him—in my own way.
"That's why I'm mentioning it to you. Because you know what I'm up against. If Beak Latzo begins to
make things sour, I'll count on you to help me out."
"Which I will, Steve. Provided -"
"Provided what?"
"Provided that you keep on the level."
An angry growl from Steve. Jack silenced it with a prompt remark, as he reached over and clapped his
hand on his pal's shoulder.
"You could say the same to me, Steve," came Jack Targon's statement. "I'm all for you if you play
straight. I want you to feel the same about me. We're going back into life; we've each got the chance we
want. But it's up to each of us to be on the level."
"All right, Jack," grunted Steve. "But you know I've always been a square-shooter. There was no reason
to suggest that I might be going to pull something phony."
"You've been square with me, Steve. But that was when both of us had to buck the world. Now we've
got the world with us. It's a different slant— that's all."
"I've figured that. I'm all for it. I told the governor so and I meant it. No more stick-ups and bank jobs for
me. I'm out of that line, Jack."
"And I'm through with my old business. I wouldn't sell a guy a gold brick if he asked for it, Steve.
Shakedowns, bum checks—all that stuff is forgotten. When I sign any name from now on, it will be my
own."
JACK TARGON reached up, grabbed the edge of the upper berth and hoisted himself to the shelflike
bed. Propped on one elbow, he grinned down at Steve Zurk.
"Better than the night we rode this line behind baggage," he commented. "Eh, Steve? Remember the
storm that night? And the shack we found to sleep in after we dropped off the limited?"
Steve nodded.
"We're in prime luck right now, Steve," went on Jack. He was propped up against the pillows, finishing
his cigarette. "We both have brains enough to make the most of it. This is a great situation. The two of us
clear for the first time since we met.
"I couldn't chin with you, Steve, while those deputies were bringing us over to Dupaw. I was looking
forward to this chat. You've spoiled it a bit, though, acting glum the way you are. You didn't worry about
Beak Latzo when we were palling around after those jail breaks."
"No need to worry about him then," snorted Steve. "I could have used him if he'd been around. But now
I don't want him on my neck. Nor any of the others."
"Forget Beak Latzo. Forget all of them. Look here, Steve: I was worrying— so were you—when we left
the big house to-day. Worrying for fear people would be looking at us. Following us, watching us.
"But it was all fixed in our favor. The car was there ready for a thirty-mile drive to Dupaw. The governor
had this swell drawing-room all reserved so we could step out of sight. Not a person on this train knows
who we are.
"We'll step off in New York just like the rest of the passengers. We'll report to this chap Perry Delhugh
just as we would go into a business office. The warden told us to forget the past. We're going to do it."
"I hope I can," commented Steve, dryly. "What's more I will. Unless Beak Latzo tries to block me. He'll
be expecting word from me, that rat will."
"May be Beak isn't in New York, Steve."
"If he isn't there, he can be reached at the same old place. He knows I know that."
"Forget it."
Jack Targon reached from the upper berth and tossed his cigarette into an ash stand. Steve Zurk arose
from the couch and entered the lower berth.
"Well," he growled, "there's something in what you say, Jack. The governor gave us a break; this fellow
Delhugh is going to do the same. Even the warden helped us out by letting us come into New York on
this train."
"Traveling incognito," chuckled Jack. "Unannoyed by gentlemen of the press."
"That's right, Jack." Steve spoke as though he had made a discovery. "None of the news hounds got on
our trail. What did the warden do? Bluff them?"
"HE talked to them," returned Jack. "So one of the deputies said. After the reporters interviewed us last
night, the warden told them how and where we were going and made them agree to lay off."
"Like as not they'll be at the station when we hit New York."
"I don't think so. That fellow Burke was the only New York reporter there. We gave him all the interview
he wanted. He won't be likely to hound us."
"That's a help. If we can dive out of sight, Jack, it a going to make it easier."
"No need to dive, Steve. We'll be real men again. With a chance ahead of us. Lost in the shuffle of New
York, like all the other citizens."
A pause. Then Steve remarked from the lower berth:
"This guy Delhugh must have a lot of coin."
"I guess he does, Steve. He's a philanthropist."
"Hands out a pile of dough to charities?"
"Yes. Runs welfare committees. Gets contributions to worthy causes."
"An old bloke, I guess."
"Sounds that way. But he's only going to place us. All that newspaper talk interested him, and he made
an arrangement with the governor. Going to give us a lift."
"Well, I'd rather be in New York than out in this state. New scenery—big city—well, it makes me feel
better."
"Forgetting about Beak Latzo?"
"You can't forget that egg, Jack. But I'm not worrying about him. Just remember what I said. Keep mum
about him. I'll be on the level."
"Good boy, Steve. That's the way to talk."
Lights went out. The drawing-room was in darkness as the limited roared eastward. No sound came
from the upper berth. Jack Targon had gone to sleep. Steve Zurk, still awake, kept mumbling for a while;
then became silent.
In the adjoining compartment, a slight click sounded as The Shadow removed his earphones. Fingers,
invisible in the darkness, detached the connection of the dictograph wire.
Through Clyde Burke, one of his secret agents, The Shadow had learned that the ex-convicts would be
aboard this train. Clyde, a reporter for the New York Classic, had forwarded his chief the number of the
car in which Zurk and Targon were to be located.
Knowing that the train trip would give the former outlaws their first opportunity to discuss their new life,
The Shadow had boarded the Eastern Limited for the purpose of hearing them talk. He wanted to gain
first-hand knowledge of their opinions.
The Shadow had gained an impression of sincerity from the discourse of both the pardoned men. Though
his usual task was to harry men of crime, The Shadow had more than once aided ex-crooks to go
straight.
He was ready to do that for Steve Zurk and Jack Targon. That was another reason why he had listened
in on their gabfest. A soft laugh told that The Shadow was pleased with his findings. For he had learned
of a menace to society with whom he well might deal.
"Beak" Latzo. The Shadow knew of the man. A dangerous mobleader, at present absent from New
York. One who was apt to return to Manhattan, now that Steve Zurk was free.
Steve Zurk saw trouble ahead from Beak Latzo. At least, Steve Zurk had expressed that idea to his pal,
Jack Targon. The Shadow could see a way to eliminate such trouble.
That way would be to uncover Beak Latzo.
Again a soft laugh whispered in the blackness of the compartment. The Shadow had gained a quest. To
find and deal with the menacing mobleader, Beak Latzo.
CHAPTER III. THE NEW WAY OPENS
ON the following morning, a taxicab pulled up in front of a secluded Manhattan residence. The building
was a large brownstone mansion, a heritage of the later years of the last century. Yet its well-kept front
gave it a modern appearance.
Two men alighted from the cab: Steve Zurk and Jack Targon. Carrying suitcases, they ascended the
brownstone steps and rang the doorbell. They were admitted by a dry-faced servant, who nodded as he
heard their names.
The menial took the bags and laid them aside. With a bow, he motioned toward a flight of broad marble
stairs.
The pardoned men went up the steps, treading upon thick carpeting. They looked about as they went; at
the top they stared at each other in partial bewilderment.
Perry Delhugh's home was a place of magnificence. Marble statuary vied with rich velvet drapings. The
walls were covered with thick tapestries. The rugs underfoot were of marvelous Oriental design. The
former convicts had stepped into a scene of wealth.
Pausing at the top, Zurk and Targon waited for the approach of a frail, stoop-shouldered young man who
was coming to meet them. The new arrival stopped in the hallway and surveyed the ex-convicts through a
pair of tortoise shell spectacles.
"Good morning," he greeted, in a weak-toned voice. "Which is Mr. Zurk; and which is Mr. Targon?"
Steve and Jack introduced themselves. The young man shook hands with each, wincing slightly at the
powerful grips of the visitors.
"My name is Benzig," he informed. "I am Mr. Delhugh's secretary. If you will come this way, gentlemen, I
shall take you to his study. He will meet you there."
Benzig led the way along a hall. They passed the door of a room that looked like an office, in which the
walls were lined with huge filing cabinets. They passed through a small, thick-carpeted anteroom; then
came into Delhugh's study.
This room was furnished in quiet but expensive taste. A huge mahogany desk occupied the center; the
chairs were of the same wood. Marble statuettes and jade vases stood upon tables about the room. The
door of a wall safe showed beyond the desk.
The walls themselves were paneled with thick tapestry material set in mahogany framework.
Impressed by this setting of affluence, Steve and Jack looked about from spot to spot. When they turned
to stare at Benzig, the bespectacled secretary had gone.
"Whew!" uttered Jack Targon. "What a place! There's been money spent here, Steve."
"Yeah," growled Steve Zurk, "and I'll bet that Delhugh is a worn-out old guy who can't appreciate it."
"Probably a dyspeptic."
"What's that?"
"A guy who lives on pills."
"And forks over dough to croakers."
"Probably. When the medicos find a rich bird that's sick, they help him get rid of his cash."
"Well, if old Delhugh is as weary-looking at his secretary, I'll -"
Steve broke off. The door of the anteroom was opening. Jack turned about as he saw Steve stare
toward the entrance.
Both men were surprised at sight of the person who entered. They knew that he must be Perry Delhugh;
but he was entirely different from the man that they had pictured.
PERRY DELHUGH was under fifty. Well built, of middle height, he showed no signs of the portliness
that so frequently comes to a man of leisure. Though heavy, he was muscular, not stout.
His face was square. His expression was dynamic. His black hair, slightly thinned, bore only slight streaks
of gray. There was a firmness in Delhugh's gaze as he studied the men before him.
Jack Targon's smile sobered as his eyes met Delhugh's. Steve Zurk, half slouching, straightened up; then
shifted uneasily as he came under keen inspection. Both of the ex-convicts knew that they had met a man
who could command them.
"Targon?" Delhugh spoke the name as he looked at Jack.
"Yes," responded Jack, with a nod.
Delhugh shook hands with crushing grasp. He turned to Steve; called him by name; then gave another
powerful clasp. He waved the two men to chairs, then went behind his desk. There he noted the door of
the wall safe, showing through the paneling.
Indifferently, Delhugh pressed a panel and a covering front slid over the safe door. Then Delhugh took his
place behind the desk, pulled a box of cigars from the drawer and laid the perfectos where his visitors
could help themselves.
Both Steve and Jack were impressed as they took cigars and lighted them. They knew that Delhugh had
expected their visit, yet he had left the front of his safe visible, where they might take note of its existence.
A small touch, but one that indicated that Delhugh trusted them.
Settling back in their chairs, the pardoned criminals waited for the philanthropist to speak.
"Gentlemen," stated Delhugh, in a deliberate fashion, "your futures have been entrusted to me. Some time
ago, the governor of the state wherein you were imprisoned decided to pardon you. He wanted to give
you a fresh start in the world. An excellent purpose; one, however, that offered hazard."
The pardoned convicts shifted a bit. Jack Targon managed a smile; Steve Zurk remained solemn, with a
countenance that had become a poker face.
"Some men," resumed Delhugh, "are criminals by nature. Others are criminals only by environment. The
governor believes that you are of the latter class. I am inclined to accept his opinion."
Jack's smile became less forced. Steve settled back in his chair, but retained his solemnity.
"I have gained wealth," declared Delhugh. "Enough to permit my retirement from business at a
comparatively early age. I have occupied my time—since retirement—with philanthropic pursuits. My
contributions to worthy causes have been considerable. But I have done more than merely give away
money.
摘要：

CROOKSGOSTRAIGHTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ABOARDTHELIMITED?CHAPTERII.BACKTOLIFE?CHAPTERIII.THENEWWAYOPENS?CHAPTERIV.OUTOFTHEPAST?CHAPTERV.FRIDAYNIGHT?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SSEARCH?CHAPTERVII.THEBADLANDSRISE?CHAPTERVIII.CROOKSMOVE?CHAPTERIX.THEO...

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