The Shadow - The Shadow Laughs Part 9

"Meant to tune in on that thriller hour, on WNX," he said. "Maybe we can still catch the end of it."

He turned the dials of the radio.

HARRY listened intently as the program came on the air. Two speakers were in the midst of a dialogue.

The listeners paused in their card game, as they sought to catch the thread of the story.

"It's nearly dawn," came one voice, in low tones.

"Not yet," were the words of the other speaker. "Look at your watch. What time is it?"

Harry Vincent became tense, as he caught the emphasis on the word "watch."

The other talker was on the air.

"Four o'clock" were the words.

"It will be dark for two more hours. Do you think the man will be here by five?"

"Yes; and he must pa.s.s within a few feet of us. I have seen him go by here-at least nine times."

Harry's intent mind had a.s.sumed a semi-hypnotic state. The only words that he seemed to hear were those that were emphasized. There were no more stressed words. The rest of the story came to its termination.

"Watch for dark man-five feet nine."

That was the message that flashed through Harry's brain.

There were two such men here at the table. The description suited Perry Quinn better than it did Bert Crull. Both were the same height. Both were dark-complexioned, but Quinn's hair was almost jet black, in contrast to Crull's deep brown.

The voice of the announcer came from the radio. It was a sinister voice, that spoke in a weird whisper.

It was a voice that startled Harry; for it seemed familiar.

He listed to its tones-not to the words. The voice ceased. An uncanny laugh followed.

As the mocking tones reached their whispered crescendo, Perry Quinn leaped to his feet, and turned off the radio. His face seemed hard, as he came back to the table, to be greeted by puzzled looks.

"What's the matter?" questioned Blair Windsor.

"It gives me the creeps," said Quinn.The other men laughed-all except Bert Crull. That fellow seemed thoughtful, but his face was impa.s.sive.

He finally smiled slightly.

"Whose deal?" he asked quietly.

Harry Vincent's thoughts were active while the cards were being dealt.

He had received instructions over the air. They were orders from The Shadow, artfully inserted in a radio dialogue.

After the instructions he had heard a laugh-a laugh in a voice that he had heard before. It was the laugh of The Shadow-and Perry Quinn had not relished that laugh!

CHAPTER XII. DEATH TO THE SHADOW.

ON the following evening, a man came down the alley that pa.s.sed by the den known as the Black s.h.i.+p.

As he approached, a figure slipped into a gap between two houses, and remained hidden there.

The man entered the Black s.h.i.+p.

"h.e.l.lo, Reds," called the bartender. "Come here a minute."

Reds Mackin approached the bar, and the attendant gave him a letter. Mackin studied the envelope for an instant. Then he opened it.

The message gave an address, and the time of ten o'clock. Under it were scrawled the words: "Be there sure."

The red-headed man thrust the letter in his pocket. It was not yet nine o'clock. He sat at a table, and ordered a drink.

Gangsters were few in the Black s.h.i.+p that evening. Two or three entered and left during the half hour that Reds Mackin remained there.

Mackin looked at the letter again. A new arrival, a middle-sized man, with a heavy cap, cast a sidelong glance at him; but Reds did not apparently notice it.

When Reds finally arose and strolled out of the Black s.h.i.+p, the hoodlum followed a few minutes later.

Reds Mackin was leisurely in his gait. He went toward his destination in a roundabout way. It was nearly ten o'clock when he turned from a busy street, and entered the quiet of a side thoroughfare.

A large touring car, which had been standing by the curb, suddenly came to action. It went ahead a square, and turned a corner; then another. It should have arrived at the crossing of two narrow streets almost simultaneously with Reds Mackin.

But Mackin had paused in the middle of the block, to light a cigarette. The wind was blowing, and he had not been particularly successful. The touring car was well ahead of him at the crossing. It kept on, and turned at the next corner.

Reds reached the crossing, and moved along the block. He looked at the number over a doorway. It was two doors from his desired address. He looked down the street. A touring car was coming toward him, at a fairly rapid rate of speed.The car pa.s.sed under a light some twenty feet away. At that instant, Reds Mackin caught the gleam of metal.

With a quick, instinctive motion, he dived forward on the pavement, behind a cl.u.s.ter of filled ash cans that stood on the sidewalk, near the curb.

Simultaneously, the sharp rattle of a machine gun came from the touring car. The automobile swept by, delivering a mechanical cannonade that made a terrific noise in the narrow street.

The death-dealing bullets were loosened at the same split-second as Reds Mackin's dive. His mind had worked independently of the brain behind the gun. The raking bullets buried themselves in the ashes.

In the area of thirty feet covered by the bullets, there was but one small spot where a man could have remained, and lived. On the spur of the instant, Reds Mackin had found that blind spot, behind the chance shelter of the filled ash cans.

The man operating the gun realized what had happened; but the driver of the car was staring straight ahead. A series of oaths were uttered as the rain of bullets ended, and the automobile had pa.s.sed on.

REDS MACKIN was as quick up as he had been down. He dashed into the entrance of the house to which he had come. The door opened at his touch. He closed it, and moved toward the stairs. There was a dim light at the top.

Two powerful men leaped upon Mackin at the foot of the stairs. He twisted free, and felled one with a well-directed punch. The other fired two shots, but his aim was ruined by the stroke of Mackin's arm.

In a flash, Reds seized the gun from the thug who had fallen. Turning, he shot his other antagonist.

Up the stairs went Reds Mackin, two and three steps at a leap. As he reached the top, a heavy man pounced upon him, and wrested the automatic from his grasp.

Reds was momentarily overpowered; then he wrestled with his opponent. He broke free, and came to his knees. As the big man loomed above him, Reds delivered a punch in the stomach.

His antagonist sagged. Reds gave him a strong push, and the huge fellow went backward down the stairs.

Reds rose, and picked up the gun.

The door of the little room was open. Reds Mackin laughed as he entered. He calmly closed the door, and turned on the light.

In the corner stood a cold-faced thug, his automatic covering Reds Mackin. Before Mackin could raise his own gun, the other man pressed the trigger of his revolver.

The room seemed to tremble with the explosion. The soft-nosed bullets found their mark in the body of Reds Mackin.

The grim murderer chuckled as the racketeer crumpled to the floor. He coolly surveyed the distorted body; then he extinguished the light, and left the room through the window.

The police were in the street. They had come following the first sounds of the machine gun.

As they entered the house, a small stooped man went slinking down the street. He had been hiding opposite the building which Reds Mackin had entered.

An hour later, the killing of Reds Mackin was the talk of gangland. The underworld was astonished at thedeath of the smooth racketeer.

Few knew that he had been in the city; it was generally supposed that he had been West. It was learned that he had been seen nightly in the Black s.h.i.+p.

That was a night of worry for many racketeers. Reds Mackin had been a smooth worker, who had never crossed any of the gunmen. Why had he been chosen for destruction?

No one could answer the question.

"I can't figure it out," said a rowdy in the Black s.h.i.+p. "If they was out to get a guy like Reds Mackin, why didn't they take him for a ride? Instead of that, they cuts loose with everything they got."

"It's goin' to put us all in a jam," observed another. "The bulls ain't goin' to pa.s.s this up. Blowin' him down with machine guns, in the middle of the street."

"They didn't get him that way," said the first speaker. "He slipped by 'em, he did. They plugged him inside the house. Right by old Crippled Carrie's room. The old dame is a wreck, they say. She'd been workin' a phony racket, an' now the bulls is questionin' her."

"Maybe they'll get some guys for this."

"No. They won't know who done it, until the birds blow outa town."

"They say Reds got one of 'em."

"Who?"

"Goldie Parker. An' the cops found Tim Larrigan, layin' on the floor downstairs. Reds had chucked him from the top."

"Whew! Both of 'em is with Maloney's crowd."

"You bet. That means the other boys will have to blow town."

The discussion continued. All gangdom seemed apprehensive regarding the consequences of this outburst. The death of one racketeer seemed hardly worth the risk and effort which had been taken.

ONE man in the crowd might have explained much that would have satisfied the others. But Spotter remained in the background, saying nothing.

In his heart, he was exultant. It had taken him some time to believe that his scheme to get The Shadow had succeeded.

A quiet, cold-faced man entered the Black s.h.i.+p, and went to the inner room. Spotter joined him casually, as the man was pouring liquor from his bottle. They were alone.

"So you got him, Steve!" whispered Spotter.

The other man nodded. Spotter stared at his stocky form and impa.s.sive face with admiration.

"Listen, Spotter." The stocky man's voice was harsh, and low. "I knew the lay the minute you told me. It was worth the five hundred in phony bills you gave me, wasn't it?"

"It was worth that in real cash.""Well, this fake mazuma is just as good. They'll take it quick enough, where I'm going. I hadn't any right to be back in New York, anyway, but I couldn't stay away."

"How did you guess"-Spotter looked around him apprehensively-"that it was The Shadow?"

"How? When you told me this afternoon that you'd make it worth my while to help out Maloney's gang, I knew it wasn't Reds Mackin you were after. He could have been put out easy. But I know something about The Shadow.

"He was on my trail, once, Spotter. You wanted a man up there, in that room, for emergency. Who was this fellow that was going to slide through the machine-gun fire, and three men waiting inside?"

"The Shadow," admitted Spotter.

"You're right. I told you I knew who you were after, didn't I? Told you when you put the proposition up to me, this afternoon.

"Lucky I came along, wasn't it? Well, I'm satisfied. The Shadow was going to get Steve Cronin, once.

Instead, Steve Cronin got The Shadow!"

The stocky man finished his drink. He snapped his fingers, in farewell, as he walked out of the Black s.h.i.+p, pausing at the door to light a cigarette.

"Steve Cronin was the right guy," murmured Spotter, approvingly. "Wait till I tell Bronson. I'll get five hundred of real cash for the phony bills I paid out.

"Lucky that Steve came to town. He was the ace in the hole. I figured that if The Shadow got as far as him, he'd do the trick."

He paused a moment.

"I spotted him," he whispered, in the emptiness of the room. "I know it was him. Reds Mackin ain't in town. Only The Shadow could have gone through that mill.

"Whew! What if Steve hadn't been there! Gee! I couldn't believe they had him, until Steve clinched it by tellin' me just now."

A satisfied grin spread over Spotter's shrewd features. Death to The Shadow! That had been his wish.

Now The Shadow was dead!