Gray Fist s-48

by Maxwell Grant

  The failure of his agent, Cliff Marsland, had been the cause of The Shadow's hollow laugh. When Cliff encountered difficulties, it was a sure sign that mystery lay within the confines of the bad lands. The Shadow's hand, resting upon the polished table, raised a pen and inscribed the name in bright-blue writing on a sheet of white paper.

  Seth Cowry.

  The name faded from view. The memory of it remained with The Shadow's brain. It foreboded action on The Shadow's part. Until now, the master sleuth had entrusted the work to an agent. With mystery still enshrouding Cowry's disappearance, it was time for The Shadow, himself, to visit the haunts which the missing racketeer had frequented.

  A tiny light gleamed from blackness across the table. A white hand reached forward and produced a pair of ear phones. The instruments disappeared into the darkness on the nearer side of the light. The Shadow's voice was an uncanny whisper. It brought a quiet response over the wire.

  "Burbank speaking."

  "Report," came The Shadow's whispered order.

  "Report from Burke," came Burbank's steady-toned response. "At detective headquarters. Cardona is leaving to visit a man named Worth Varden. It concerns the disappearance of Seth Cowry."

  "Report received."

  Silence. The ear phones slid across the table. Then, from darkness crept an eerie laugh. Mocking tones resounded through the blackened room.

  THROUGH Clyde Burke, another agent, The Shadow, had gained a clew which Cliff Marsland had failed to obtain. Clyde was a newspaper reporter, on the staff of the New York Classic. He spent much time at detective headquarters, and was on the best of terms with Joe Cardona.

  Evidently Cardona had received a call from a man named Worth Varden. The informant must have mentioned the name of Seth Cowry. Cardona, perhaps inadvertently, had let these facts slip in Clyde Burke's presence. The newspaper reporter had put through a call to Burbank.

  This was in line with his duty to The Shadow. At night, when Rutledge Mann was not in his office, or on occasions when emergency commanded, the active agents put in their calls to Burbank, who had a special room not far from The Shadow's sanctum. Over a private wire, connected with the sanctum, Burbank relayed such messages.

  "Cardona is leaving -"

  Such had been the word from Burke. It meant that the detective was probably on his way to keep an appointment with Worth Varden. This was The Shadow's opportunity. That meeting was one which he desired to witness.

  The bluish light clicked out. A swish sounded in the darkness. Then came the tones of an eerie, rising scale of mockery that broke with shuddering merriment. Gibing echoes came back with ghoulish taunts.

  Blackened walls seemed to hide a horde of gnomes that cried in answer to their master's mirth.

  When the sobbing reverberations had died to feeble, fading whispers, complete silence again pervaded the inkiness of The Shadow's sanctum. The room was empty.

  The Shadow had departed on his quest.

  CHAPTER III. MEN IN THE DARK

  SPLOTCHES of lamplight glow were visible on the street in front of Worth Varden's home. The entrance to the side alleyway beside the importer's house was blank and black. Though not far from the heart of Manhattan, this location formed a silent spot. On avenues, the current of New York's traffic flooded; but little of it floated down this lone side street.

  The figure of a man appeared close to a lamp. The stroller moved onward and stopped just past the glare. A spot of light—the cigar that he was smoking—seemed to give a momentary trace of his identity.

  The man was Ruggles Preston.

  Not more than a dozen minutes had elapsed since the lawyer had walked away along this very street. His prompt return could mean only that he had performed a simple but definite mission. Preston had gone to a drug store on the avenue to make a telephone call. That done, he had returned.

  Preston moved back into the fronting darkness of a building across the street. He was watching the alleyway beside Varden's home. His cigar tip moved nervously downward; then upward. It glowed as the lawyer puffed.

  Minutes passed. The arrival of Detective Joe Cardona was becoming imminent. Why was Preston lurking here? He had told Varden that he would be at his home. It was obvious that Preston had some purpose all his own, otherwise he would not have returned to this spot.

  An automobile swished down the side street. It came to a sudden stop beside the entrance to the alleyway. Ruggles Preston strained his eyes. He watched as he saw the faint outline of a man who was leaving the car. He thought he caught the murmur of subdued voices. Preston waited.

  A man had stepped from that car. He was walking into the alleyway, heading for the obscure door at the side of Varden's house. The token of his arrival came in guarded knocks that tattooed on the barrier which Varden had told Joe Cardona to enter.

  In his study, Varden, seated at his desk, became suddenly alert. He caught the sound of the raps. He arose from his desk and went through the corridor. He softly opened the outer door. He noted that a man was standing there.

  "Detective Joe Cardona?" questioned Varden cautiously.

  "Yeah," came the low response. "Are you Worth Varden?"

  "Yes. Come in."

  The door closed after the visitor had entered. The two men went to the study. There, Varden closed the door and turned to meet the man who had come to his home.

  HE saw a stocky, firm-faced individual who was watching him with steady eyes. The detective's appearance gave some confidence to the importer. He had expected Cardona to be a man of action; but not one of such challenging aspect as this fellow. Until now, Varden had held doubts regarding the course that he had taken. Here, however, was a representative of the law who looked as hard-boiled as any mob leader.

  It was the visitor who opened the conversation while Worth Varden eyed him. The man's voice, though dominating, carried a question.

  "Well? Here I am. What's the dope on Seth Cowry?"

  "I have a great deal to tell you," returned Varden. "But first, I must ask you questions. Are there others with you?"

  "Sure," came the prompt response. "You didn't give me any details. I brought a couple of men along. I didn't know what to expect when I got here."

  "Good," commented Varden. "Are you in a police car?"

  "Say"—a laugh came with the answer—"you don't see me in a uniform, do you? You said there might be people watching here. So I came in a regular car—a sedan that we had at headquarters."

  "Excellent," decided Varden. "One point more. I have papers here." He opened the desk drawer. "They are vital to what I have to tell you. I should like to place them in your possession after we have discussed them. Therefore, to be sure that I am right, I suggest that we visit my lawyer, Ruggles Preston."

  Varden saw a questioning expression on the detective's face. The importer hastened to explain that this would not mean a long delay.

  "I can go with you and your men," he said. "Preston's home is less than a mile from here. We shall be undisturbed there—particularly since you have given no indication that you are connected with the police."

  The papers in Varden's hand were convincing. The importer smiled as he saw the man from headquarters begin to nod. There was no use in further delay. Varden walked directly toward the door to the corridor, carrying the papers with him. He beckoned his visitor to follow.

  Varden was the first to reach the alleyway. His companion was crowding close behind him as the importer turned to lock the door. The detective growled an order.

  "Slide down to the car," he said. "I'll see that the locks catch. You've got me worried. Maybe there's trouble around here."

  Varden grunted his agreement, and moved toward the car, which he could see at the end of the alleyway.

  When he reached it, his companion had overtaken him.

  "That you, Joe?" came a question from the car.

  "Sure," was the detective's response. "This fellow is coming with us. He's O.K."

  The rear door of the sedan opened. Var
den entered and sat down beside a man on the back seat. He edged over to let Cardona take a place beside him. The car started forward as the driver shifted into second on the slope.

  The sedan rolled toward the avenue. It crossed that thoroughfare, and its tail-light twinkled into the distance. It was then that Ruggles Preston, his cigar still between his teeth, stepped into the dim light of the street lamp.

  THE lawyer was smiling wickedly. He stepped quickly across the street, and reached the darkened alleyway. He threw his cigar butt away as he neared the side door which gave access to Worth Varden's study.

  The door yielded to Preston's push. Evidently Cardona had not pulled it tightly enough to spring the locks. Preston hurried through the corridor and into the study. He found the drawer of Varden's desk unlocked.

  There were papers there; Preston examined them quickly. He placed a folded note upon them, chuckling as he did so. From his pocket he drew a sheet of gray paper. He held it thoughtfully; then dropped it into the drawer. Turning, he went out through the corridor, and closed the side door behind him. Again, the barrier remained unlocked.

  Ruggles Preston hastened through the alley and walked rapidly toward an avenue. Each light that he passed beneath showed a wicked smile upon his shrewd face. On the avenue, Preston hailed a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to Times Square.

  Evidently the lawyer was not going back to his home to keep his appointment with Worth Varden and Detective Joe Cardona.

  Why not?

  The answer to this question was taking place in the sedan that had Worth Varden as an occupant. The automobile was rolling westward along a side street, while Ruggles Preston was riding southward in his taxicab.

  SEATED between two men, Worth Varden was giving a direction as he gestured toward the left.

  "We turn here, Cardona," he began. "Preston's house is two blocks south -"

  There was no response from the man beside Varden. The sedan swept forward across an avenue, passing through the heavy traffic.

  "I said left -"

  A growl came from the man whom he had addressed as Cardona.

  "We're going straight ahead," the man said, in an ugly tone. "Straight ahead—and you're coming with us.

  Savvy!"

  An astonished gasp came from Worth Varden's lips. It ended as something cold was jammed against his neck. In one feverish instant, Varden realized that the man on the other side had pressed the muzzle of a revolver against his flesh.

  "I've got him, Ruff," came a snarling voice from the man who held the gun.

  "O.K., Snakes," laughed the man whom Varden had addressed as Cardona. "Keep him covered."

  Worth Varden collapsed between his captors. The truth dawned upon him. These men were not detectives. They were mobsters, minions of Gray Fist! Somehow, the superfiend had learned that Varden had communicated with detective headquarters. He had sent his underling to anticipate Joe Cardona's visit!

  The man called "Ruff"—the false Joe Cardona—was plucking the papers from Worth Varden's hand.

  That was the action that brought final understanding to the importer's frenzied brain. Ruggles Preston! He was the traitor! He, too, belonged to Gray Fist, for only he could have brought about this terrible climax.

  Preston had seen the papers. Preston had learned that Cardona was coming. Preston had suggested the trip to his home for a conference. Then Preston had gone—to summon the trappers. They had arrived ahead of Joe Cardona. They now held the evidence that could thwart Gray Fist; and with it, they had the only man who could—or would—tell the truth of Gray Fist's game!

  Fiercely, Worth Varden came back to life. The sedan was turning an obscure corner. With a shriek, the importer leaped from his seat and tried to reach the door of the car. The effort was futile.

  "Snakes" swung his gun. The barrel caught the gray-haired importer behind the ear. Stunned by the sudden blow, Varden crumpled. Ruff—the hard-faced mob leader who had introduced himself as Joe Cardona— uttered a nasty chuckle as he caught the importer's body and thrust it back into the seat.

  The sedan rolled on, its stolid driver at the wheel, its two hardened men on the back seat. Between the captors was the helpless form of the man whose escape they had foiled.

  These minions of a supercrook were men who gave no mercy. They were carrying a helpless victim to a spot of doom. The career of Worth Varden would soon be ended.

  Thus had Gray Fist ordained!

  CHAPTER IV. CARDONA DECIDES

  THE street in front of Worth Varden's home held a stilly touch after Ruggles Preston had departed.

  Traffic seemed to shun the thoroughfare as though the past menace had left an electric touch of warning.

  The eerie atmosphere continued, awaiting a more sepulchral climax. It came. Like a being from another world, a weird visitant made his presence known.

  Beneath the light where Ruggles Preston had waited while smoking his cigar, a patch of moving blackness flitted into view. The traveling splotch lay on the sidewalk. It formed a strange silhouette that denoted a living person. Yet there was no sign of human presence.

  The splotch merged with the black asphalt paving. From then on, its course was untraceable. Only the soft swish of a jet-black cloak told that The Shadow had reached his destination. He, the stranger of the night, had arrived at the place which Clyde Burke had mentioned in his report to Burbank.

  The darkness of the alleyway formed a perfect shroud for The Shadow. He became a part of that blackness, and not a sound told of his progress inward until The Shadow paused. Then, from invisible lips came a whispered laugh, a melody of mirth that mingled with the passing breeze and died as strangely as it had come. Upon the paving of the alleyway, The Shadow had spied the tiny glow of Ruggles Preston's discarded cigar.

  Suddenly, The Shadow's cloak swished in the darkness. Though completely hidden, the black-garbed phantom sought a projecting portion of the house wall. In characteristic style, The Shadow had anticipated the arrival of new visitors.

  A few seconds later, a car slid up to the entrance of the alleyway and came to a stop. Low voices murmured. Two men alighted. A flashlight glimmered as the arrivals picked their way into the alley.

  "Want me to go in with you, Joe?"

  The low voice was overheard by The Shadow as the men were passing.

  "Sure thing, Markham," came a growled reply. "This guy may be pulling something, for all I know. If he hadn't talked about Seth Cowry, I wouldn't have come."

  The Shadow knew the identity of the visitors. Detective Joe Cardona had arrived; with him, Detective Sergeant Markham. Together, they were entering to hold an interview with Worth Varden.

  Neither Cardona nor Markham observed the cigar butt on the paving. Its glow had dwindled. Had they seen it, Cardona might have decided there was additional cause for company when entering Varden's home. For that cigar butt told its story; namely, that some one had been in this alleyway, not many minutes before.

  CARDONA turned the rays of his flashlight upon the side door of Varden's home. He flicked off the switch and rapped cautiously. There was no response. Cardona knocked more loudly. He growled low to Markham.

  "I figured that Varden would be listening for us," he said. "I don't want to knock too loud -"

  "Try the door," suggested Markham.

  Cardona did. The barrier yielded. Together, the detectives entered the gloomy corridor. Cardona's flashlight flickered on the door at the end. The detective turned to his companion.

  "Leave the outer door open, Markham," he said. "Then we can hear if anybody is outside."

  Cardona's suggestion was a good one; yet it was futile. No human ear could have detected the swishing sound that had taken up the trail of the detectives. The Shadow had emerged from his hiding place, where he had taken security to avoid the glare of Cardona's light. By the time that Cardona and Markham had reached the door of Varden's study, The Shadow had arrived within the corridor.

  A gleam of light issued forth as Cardona opened t
he study door. Its glare revealed a disappearing shade of darkness in the corridor as The Shadow, backing to the wall, avoided the direct beam. Neither Cardona nor Markham noted the phenomenon which had occurred behind them. Both were looking into the room which they had invaded.

  Cardona seemed surprised to find the place empty. He had expected to find Worth Varden here. He shook his head as he stood beside the deserted desk.

  "What's the matter, Joe?" queried Markham.

  "Funny," returned Cardona. "This isn't what I expected. The way that Varden talked over the phone, I thought sure he'd be here waiting for me—all excited—unless -"

  "Unless?"

  "Unless he had decided to do away with himself. You know, Markham, when I didn't get any reply to my knock, I figured we might be coming in to find a corpse."

  "Did Varden talk that bad, Joe?"

  "He talked rather vaguely. That was what bothered me. Guys that are going to commit suicide sometimes call up headquarters before they take the bump. Sort of gives them nerves, I suppose."

  The two men were standing by the desk. Joe Cardona, swarthy of face and stocky of build, wore a troubled look that emphasized the squareness of his heavy jaw. Markham, a man of less aggressiveness, appeared to be a bit puzzled.

  EYES were peering in upon this scene, eyes that glowed from the darkness beyond the door that Cardona had left ajar. Yet neither detective noted them. The presence of The Shadow remained unknown.

  "Worth Varden called me pretty nearly an hour ago," mused Cardona. "Wanted me to come up here to-night. Talked about danger; then mentioned the name of Seth Cowry. That was what brought me."

  "You didn't start right away, though."

  "No. I had to report to Inspector Klein about that job I was out on this afternoon. Burke was in—you know, the Classic reporter—and after that I started. I figured that if Varden really had something on his mind, a police car wouldn't be a good bet. That's why I picked up the coupe."

  "And stopped back at headquarters."

  "Right. To get some one to go along."

  A pause. Cardona fumbled with the desk drawer; it came open. The detective noted a folded sheet of white paper. He opened it and scanned written lines.