The Hand s-150

by Maxwell Grant

  The Shadow's other hand held an automatic. He didn't release the gun. He simply hooked his arm beneath the Playboy's body. Coming up from his crouch, The Shadow voiced a taunting shivery laugh squarely in the ears of the men that

  flanked him.

  With that burst of startling mirth, he whipped the Playboy from the rigid hands of the mobbies. With a hard back-fling, he launched his burden toward the

  corner behind him. That shove was the sort that could have damaged the human who

  took it, if it hadn't been for the retarding grip of The Shadow's free hand.

  Crooks didn't see that part of it. One man - their leader - jabbed a flashlight. It showed only The Shadow, one hand behind him, the other fist thrusting forward. That leading hand was gloved, and it gripped a big-muzzled gun.

  Thugs surged. A blast mouthed from the .45, dropping the first attacker to

  reach The Shadow. From the recoil, The Shadow made a cross-slash that thwacked the flashlight from the fist of the man who held it.

  In darkness, he was among his foemen, slugging for their heads, while the crooks outside the window huddled helpless, unable to pick The Shadow in the darkness.

  With enemies sprawled about him, The Shadow swung for the window, his mocking laugh telling the outer trio that their turn was next. Shakily, they arose to flee; then, as one, they took a head-long sprawl.

  The blast that produced that result was not from The Shadow's gun. It came

  from the next office - a titanic burst when the safe blew open. That charge was

  more powerful than intended. It shattered windows; shook the building.

  Amid the rattle of loosened brick and spattered chunks of walls and ceilings, all fighters were flattened, The Shadow among them!

  CHAPTER III

  TRIPLE BATTLE

  THE outside mobbies were the first to recuperate from the explosion's shock. Regaining their footing, they stared at the window, where a ghostlike wraith was creeping forth.

  The shape wasn't The Shadow. It was white. As the crooks eyed the phenomenon, they saw that it was smoke trailing from a cloud of fumes that had poured through from the next office.

  Partly startled by the sight, the thugs remembered The Shadow's weird laugh. They decided upon a parley before they invaded the battleground. That delay was fortunate. If crooks had attacked at that moment, it would have gone badly with The Shadow.

  The cloaked fighter was rising from the floor, too jolted to recognize fully his surroundings. A portion of the window frame had broken; in its fall, the chunk of wood had found The Shadow's head. He was as groggy as the thugs that he had slugged.

  Right then, he couldn't have combated invaders; but despite the smoke, he was gaining some return of his ability. The half minute that the crooks allowed

  him was enough. When they suddenly poked guns and flashlights in from the window, The Shadow sensed the menace.

  He still had his gun, but didn't wait to raise it. He wheeled for a corner, using the smoke as cover. Instinctively, he reversed his course amid the fumes. Guns stabbed wide when his foemen sought to follow his course with bullets.

  Through The Shadow's returning senses thrummed thoughts of the Masked Playboy.

  He remembered that he had flung the dupe to safety, but couldn't recall the direction, except that it was toward a corner. He wanted to get to that spot and make sure that the man was safe, then spring a surprise thrust on the crooks.

  Ordinarily, that would have been easy for The Shadow. In his present condition, the task went awry.

  The corner that The Shadow reached was the one leading into the wrecked office. Perhaps it was the thickness of the smoke that invited him in that direction; for he was depending chiefly upon the instinct to take cover.

  Whatever the cause, the result came when The Shadow reached the wall and took a roundabout swing to brace himself there.

  He fired as he went backward; the gun's recoil sent him off balance.

  There

  wasn't a wall to stop him. He went sprawling through the blasted doorway, to land amid the wreckage near the ruined safe.

  THE SHADOW'S one wide shot proved that he wasn't in form. It not only missed the crooks at the window; the spurt also betrayed where The Shadow was.

  Again, guns began to tongue through the smoke. First shots were high; but latter ones scored the floor at the doorway.

  The Shadow wasn't present to receive the final barrage. He was crawling clear of the doorway, blindly seeking new cover along the wall within the loan office. Tortured by the smoke, he was forced to rest with his face muffled in the folds of his cloak sleeve.

  Two figures arose in the thinner smoke of the next office. One was the leader of the invading crooks. He had received a hard blow from The Shadow's gun; so had the thug who arose with him. The two stooped above a third: the hoodlum who had taken The Shadow's bullet.

  That pal wasn't worth carrying away. Mobsters at the window reached through to help the rising pair. The leader snarled, gave a look about. He saw a figure crawling toward him on hands and knees. Shaking free from his helpers,

  he pounced upon the Masked Playboy.

  Again, crime's tool was in the hands of his persecutors; and with their prisoner, crooks were carrying away the battered camera that contained their precious photographs.

  Sounds of the scramble through the window roused The Shadow. Though in the

  next office, he was aware what had occurred. He still had time to overtake the mobsters and their dupe. On his feet, he started for the connecting door.

  Three men swept in from the hallway. They roared for surrender as they fell upon The Shadow. In the smoky darkness, they thought they had bagged the Masked Playboy. These new invaders were the first members of the police headquarters squad that had come here on advice from stool pigeons.

  In the next dozen seconds, The Shadow added to the false reputation that the Masked Playboy had acquired.

  Three against one, the detectives were overconfident, each anxious to claim credit for the capture of a badly wanted criminal. Their lack of concerted action gave The Shadow a split-second opportunity to handle them.

  He flung the first attacker aside; tripping over the unhinged safe door, the dick took a long tumble. The second man made a grapple and The Shadow closed with him, for it enabled him to sidestep the third.

  A moment later, two bodies were lunging, bowling the third man ahead of them. When the pair spilled, they floored the free detective beneath them, letting him take the full weight of the fall. The Shadow broke the hold of his grappling opponent, landed a hard punch that sent him rolling.

  Neither of the other two detectives were on their feet when The Shadow dashed away to take the route across the roof.

  THOUGH he hadn't much time to spare, The Shadow detoured when he reached the roof. He sprang to the back edge, where he hissed a quick call to the alleyway below. Men heard it; they were agents of The Shadow. In a trice, they understood.

  Dashing to the rear of the next building, they were there when mobsters came out bringing The Masked Playboy. Though The Shadow's agents didn't know the innocent part that the Playboy had acted, they recognized that he was the man The Shadow wanted.

  Falling upon the startled crooks, they wrested the tuxedoed man from them and lurched him toward a waiting cab.

  It was timely work, aided by the fact that the crooks were still disorganized. Before guns could bark, the taxi was starting for the corner, while The Shadow's agents dived for cover, from which to wage combat.

  Wild shots didn't halt the cab. It was gone, with its passenger slumped upon the floor where he had been none too gently placed.

  Maddened crooks hoped to massacre The Shadow's two agents. Guns were speaking from doorways and alleys, with the odds much in favor of the criminal crew. But The Shadow's agents held their ground, knowing that aid was due.

  It came. The Shadow had come down through the building. His big guns began

  to boom; cro
oks recognized the marksman. They scattered, their flight spurred by

  the tone of a gibing laugh that seemed to echo from every wall about them.

  The Shadow headed for the corner, to see how the cab had made out. There was a chance that the police might have blocked its flight.

  Such was actually the case. Around another corner, the cab was halted, while its driver argued with a pair of officers. He had just about convinced them that the cab was empty, when a stir occurred within the taxi itself.

  A cop yanked open the door, to see the Masked Playboy rising from the floor. His bandanna handkerchief was still across his eyes; sensing that he was

  wanted, he was keeping it there. But numbed wits hadn't calculated further.

  Blindly, he was shoving himself into the hands of the law.

  The taxi driver was one of The Shadow's agents. He recognized his passenger's plight; knew that he could handle the groggy fellow later. He decided to make a spurt, but by the time he pressed the accelerator the Playboy

  was rolling to the sidewalk, wrestling with the policemen.

  THE cab was away without its passenger. Shots suddenly began to whistle about the driver's head. Where they came from, he couldn't guess; but it was his cue to keep on going and come back around the block.

  The officers heard the shots, and saw their origin. Guns were spurting from a passage between two old houses; with the cab in flight, the crooks aimed

  for the police.

  Forgetting their prisoner, the officers dived for cover of their own. By the time they had reached it, crooks were piling the Masked Playboy into an old

  sedan.

  As luck had it, the taxi episode had taken place within fifty feet of the spot where mobsters had left their car parked for the get-away.

  This time, the officers supplied the shots that followed a fleeing vehicle; but they opened fire from cover, and their aim was bad. From back at the next corner came the only intervention that could have halted the sedan's escape. The Shadow had arrived there; he was beginning long-range fire for the sedan's gas tank.

  The officers saw the new marksman vaguely. Deciding that he was an enemy, they returned his fire. This time, the cops were close. The Shadow was forced to wheel for cover, his chance to halt the sedan ended.

  The end of The Shadow's fire brought an exultant shout from the policemen.

  They dashed toward the corner, expecting to find a sprawled victim. As they came, they saw the same taxi that had eluded them a short while before.

  Blackness detached itself from a wall. A living shape, it reached the slowing cab, to spring aboard. Stopping their run, the officers fired; but their bullets peppered nothing but the corner of the building. The taxi was away again, this time with a different passenger.

  Riding from the scene, The Shadow delivered a grim mirthless laugh. In triple battle, the issue could only have been decided by luck; and the breaks had gone against him. Crooks had won the point they wanted: escape, with the Masked Playboy still in their clutches.

  The dupe was safe, however, for he was useful to their game. It was the game itself that concerned The Shadow, more than the helpless man who had participated in it.

  Some hand of crime lay hidden behind tonight's events. That schemer was the master-foe whose plans The Shadow intended to learn, and, later, frustrate!

  CHAPTER IV

  CROOKS TALK TERMS

  THE next morning, two men entered a huge office building near Wall Street.

  They rode to the fifty-fifth floor, which was entirely occupied by the offices of Eastern Refineries, Incorporated. When they stopped at the anteroom desk, one of the men inquired for Mr. Martin Meriden.

  The girl at the desk looked doubtful. As treasurer of Eastern Refineries, Martin Meriden seldom had visitors that the girl had never seen. Eastern Refinery, it happened, was one of several subsidiary concerns all controlled by

  World Oil interests.

  These men certainly weren't from World Oil. Nor did their appearance assure the girl that Mr. Meriden would want to see them.

  One man was short and barely the average weight for his height. He looked wiry, though, and pugnacious. His face was sallow, his lower lip, had a thrust that the girl didn't like. His eyes, too, were ugly; they had a way of fixing themselves, then opening wider, in a glare.

  The other man was tall, almost lanky; his long face had a wise, close-mouthed expression. His eyes didn't glare; they just set themselves half shut and stayed that way, as though hiding what lay behind them.

  It was the short man who asked for Meriden; to the query the girl inquired

  if he had a card. He gave her one which seemed important enough to take in to Mr. Meriden. The card read:

  J. B. CORSTON

  Manager

  Interstate Service Stations

  When the girl had left the desk, the short man's lower lip formed a grin, while his upper lip raised, displaying stained, misshapen teeth. He turned to the tall man beside him.

  "I'm J. B. Corston," he undertoned. "Got it? Just forget that I'm Pinkey Findlen. And forget that you're Slick Thurley."

  "Easy enough, J. B.," replied Thurley, "I'm Bill Quaine, from headquarters. I've sprung that gag often enough."

  Martin Meriden didn't like the looks of his visitors any more than the girl had. From behind his desk, the portly, baldish treasurer of Eastern Refineries was prompt to express his opinions regarding the visit of J. B.

  Corston.

  "This is our first interview, Mr. Corston," spoke Meriden, testily. "You can take it for granted that it will be our last."

  "That's sure enough," returned Pinkey, in a raspy tone. "After you've bought the Interstate Service Stations I won't have to see you anymore."

  "But I don't intend to buy!" Meriden pounded the desk with his pudgy fist.

  "I told you that in my letter. Your chain of service stations exists only on paper. It is worth nothing to us!"

  Pinkey leaned back in his chair; he tucked his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest, as he turned his head toward Slick, with the comment.

  "You talk to him, Quaine."

  SLICK produced an envelope from his pocket. He drew out some clippings, slid them across to Meriden. They were old newspaper accounts relating the exploits of Detective William Quaine, ace of the racket investigation squad.

  Quaine's photograph was printed also; and - as Slick had often privately expressed it - the picture might as well have been Slick's own. Though he and Quaine might have been distinguished if together, separately, either could pass

  for the other.

  It happened, too, that they had never made the test of meeting face to face. If there was one man that Slick dodged consistently, that fellow was Bill

  Quaine.

  Meriden took it for granted that Slick was Quaine; but he couldn't see any

  connection between that fact and the proposed purchase of the Interstate Service

  Stations.

  The treasurer of Eastern Refineries was soon to be enlightened. Pinkey Findlen observed that Meriden had fallen for the first step in the game.

  Pinkey

  spoke to Slick Thurley:

  "Show Mr. Meriden those other clippings, Quaine."

  "Certainly, J. B.," returned Slick, in a brisk tone that suited his false part. "Look these over, Meriden. They tell about a crook called the Masked Playboy."

  Meriden was nodding as he eyed the recent clippings. Still, he couldn't understand the link, until Pinkey opened a large envelope and shoved two photographs across the desk.

  They were the pictures snapped the night before, during the phony crime at

  the office of the Nu-Way Loan Company. The first that Meriden saw was the picture wherein the Playboy was masked. He laid that photo aside; looked at the

  one below it. He saw a pale strained face with worried eyes. He recognized those

  features.

  Martin Meriden sank deep in his chair. His lips took on a fishlike gape.
r />   "Reggie!" gasped Meriden. "My - my own son Reggie! And I - I thought he had -"

  "You thought he'd been behaving himself," sneered Pinkey. "But he hadn't!

  You gave him cash for a trip to Europe, but you didn't know he blew it and had to make it up, somehow."

  "But Reggie is sailing - at noon - today -"

  "You mean he will be sailing, if you come through with the deal on those service stations."

  A new expression showed in Meridian's eyes. His tone was indignant when he

  uttered:

  "This is blackmail!"

  "That's what they call it," agreed Pinkey, "Or a shakedown. It's all the same in this case. You come through, Meriden, or the kid does a stretch in Sing

  Sing!"

  MERIDEN'S hands were fidgeting on the desk. Pinky liked the sign. He'd seen others act that way before. Pinkey's rasp became less noticeable. He was trying smooth encouragements.

  "You're not the first guy," he said to Meriden. "Others were up against the same proposition. They came through. Quaine, here, will tell you it's the easiest way."

  Meriden looked toward Slick; he saw the fake detective reach for the incriminating photographs. From now on, apparently, the pretended Bill Quaine was to keep the evidence.

  "So you've turned crook," accused Meriden. "That means you're not to be trusted, Quaine, any more than this man" - Meriden thumbed toward Pinkey -

  "who

  appears to be your boss."

  Slick's only reply was a sarcastic smile.

  "How do I know that you won't blackmail me further?" demanded Meriden, hoarsely. "This could go on and on -"

  "Only it won't" interposed Slick. "You and I are in the same boat, Meriden. You've got to cover up on this deal that you make with J. B. here.

  I've got to cover up that I was in on it. One shakedown to one guy is all we can chance."

  Slick looked to Pinkey for corroboration. The big-shot gave a nod.

  "That's the way it stands," assured Pinkey. "But if you don't come through, Meriden, Quaine will turn in these pictures to headquarters and make himself a hero again.

  "He'll be the guy who outsmarted the Masked Playboy, by figuring where he was due and placing a camera there. Quaine will identify your son Reggie and he'll also deny that he tried this shakedown."