Gray Fist s-48

by Maxwell Grant

  With one accord, the few gangsters who were able leaped toward Preston's apartment. Flocking policemen sent them staggering with a fusillade of shots. A lone gunman sprang into the corridor; seeing that he was trapped, he fired at random. Cardona, aiming true, picked off the last mobster.

  The nest had been reached. Shots from the roofs of the building outside marked the completion of the police clean-up. Cardona saw that the police were aiding their wounded fellows, and that reserves were coming to take charge of the eliminated gangsters. Thrusting forward, the detective entered the apartment.

  RUGGLES PRESTON'S huddled form still lay by the window. Cardona recognized it. He hurried to the body and turned it sidewise to view Preston's face. The lawyer's corpse rolled on its back. The hands seemed to swing upward, extending the crumpled list which they held.

  Joe Cardona plucked the sheet of paper from the dead lawyer's grasp. Standing by lamplight, he began to read the names. He recognized some, and wondered at them until he came to the final one. Then a grim look came upon Cardona's face.

  Worth Varden—at the bottom of the list—was crossed out! That fact meant much to Joe Cardona. It cleared the detective's vision. Instinctively, Joe knew that he had been tricked by Ruggles Preston.

  The lawyer was a crook! He must have been associated with Seth Cowry! The racketeer was gone.

  Worth Varden was gone. Now Ruggles Preston! At that moment, Cardona counted both Cowry and Varden as dead. He saw the hand of a superplotter.

  Some one—a master criminal—had held all three within his clutch! That master mind had disposed of Cowry, Varden, and Preston in turn. All, perhaps, were men who had known too much!

  Cowry had left no clew; nor had Varden. But Preston had supplied the information that he had been unwilling to give earlier in the evening. Others were tools of the supercrook whom Cardona must seek.

  The names of those others were here upon this list!

  Cardona thrust the crumpled paper in his pocket. The detective grinned. He recognized that the men whose names he had learned must be of caliber equal to Worth Varden and Ruggles Preston. Through this list, he could trace them and demand to know all that they might know.

  That would come later. First, Cardona intended to investigate this apartment. He would aid the police in clearing up the identities of the dead mobsters. He would learn all he could before he went to see the men who had been named on Preston's list.

  Joe Cardona, though he did not know the type of man he sought, was heading for an encounter with Gray Fist!

  He did not realize that he would have to deal with a supercrook who moved while his enemies delayed!

  Unwittingly, Cardona was giving Gray Fist an opportunity to clear the trail.

  CHAPTER XVIII. IN CHINATOWN

  THE Chinese quarter of Manhattan blazed gayly beneath somber night. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since The Shadow had entered this picturesque district. Sightseers were passing through as usual. The corner of Mott and Pell showed its usual mingling of Orient and Occident.

  Yet beneath the placid surface, a seething foment was at work. Bland, blinking Chinamen went their ways without betraying their thoughts to any but their fellows. The secret which they held was spoken only in their native tongue.

  Lurking mobsters still skulked about the limits of the district. Rats of the underworld were waiting for The Shadow to come out. How long their vigil might last, none could tell. They were willing to wait. They had instructions to keep out of Chinatown itself. They did not know why, but they assumed it was because their presence among the Chinese might attract police attention.

  That was, in part, the reason. There was, however, another factor that the hordes of gang land did not recognize. That was the secret which the natives of Chinatown held among themselves. They, like the lurking gangsters, knew that a mysterious stranger had come into their midst. The word had passed about like magic.

  Two blinking Celestials were talking in a corner of an Oriental lunch room. While they plied their chop-sticks, these American-garbed Chinese talked in their own language, whispering their words.

  "The tongs are united," declared one.

  "True," returned the other.

  "It is because Yat Soon has spoken," remarked the first.

  "When Yat Soon speaks"—the second Chinaman blinked soberly—"all must do his bidding."

  "Yat Soon is above the tongs."

  "The leaders of the tongs obey him."

  That was all. Even the whispered conversation was guarded in its language. But in another spot of Chinatown—the back room of a little Oriental shop—two Mongols were discussing more freely the one subject that held the attention of all the Chinese in New York.

  "The one who is here must be taken," declared the solemn-faced owner of the shop. "Yat Soon has commanded."

  "Yes." The Chinese visitor nodded and blinked his almond-shaped eyes. "The one who is sought must be taken to Yat Soon."

  "They say he lurks in darkness—this one whom Yat Soon seeks."

  "Yes. He is like a shadow that lives."

  "One cannot capture a living shadow."

  "So Yat Soon has said. But one may kill anything that lives—even a shadow."

  The listener nodded.

  "That is why some one will slay," he declared. "It would be better to kill this strange devil in black than to try to catch him living."

  "He must be brought to Yat Soon."

  "Dead."

  "Dead if he cannot be brought alive."

  CHINESE who lurked on street corners were eyeing the faces of all who passed. They were watching patches of darkness. They studied the faces of all Americans who paced the streets of Chinatown.

  Moreover, these bland Celestials were watching those of their own ilk.

  They knew about The Shadow. They understood that he was more than a phantom garbed in black.

  They had been told that he was a master of disguise; that he might appear as either an American or an Oriental.

  Here in his last refuge, The Shadow stood in greater danger than when he had lived in the underworld.

  All Chinatown was placidly united in a common quest. Yat Soon, a mysterious power who held weight with all the tongs, had ordered that The Shadow be brought to him!

  A man who came along a dim side street was eyed by watching Chinese. Although a stranger in Chinatown, this stoop-shouldered, rat-faced individual was allowed to pass. He grinned as he followed a carefully set course. This visitor to the Oriental district was gang land's emissary—Snakes Blakey.

  Shrewdly, the sneaky mobster went his way. He knew that he would not be challenged. He knew that he possessed a passport that might not have been granted another man from mobland. He also knew that his security here rested upon more than his connection with the underworld. Snakes Blakey was free because he served Gray Fist!

  Turning into an alleyway, Snakes stopped before the door of a little shop. He rapped. The door opened.

  Snakes stepped into a room where a placid Chinaman received him. Snakes was led to the wall. A panel opened. The mobster stepped into a darkened corridor. His conductor followed behind him.

  Steps led downward. The two followed a twisting passage beneath the street. They turned into a side corridor. A grunt from the Mongol warned Snakes of new steps. Through a door which opened as they approached; into a lighted anteroom beneath the surface of the ground. There the Chinaman pressed a knob on a huge brass door. The barrier opened.

  Snakes advanced up a flight of dimly-lighted steps. As he waited at the top, where corridors divided, a huge Chinaman appeared from darkness, and pointed him to the right.

  Snakes reached another dividing point. A second Chinaman approached and conducted the visitor to a large brass door. The Celestial struck the door with a stick. A melodious clank resounded through the gloomy passages. The door slid upward. Snakes Blakey entered a square room, where paneled walls showed dimly in a mellow light.

  A SOLEMN Chinaman was standing in this room. S
nakes had a feeling of uneasiness when the brass door slid down and he found himself alone with the strange occupant who stood here. The Chinaman was clad in robes of deep maroon. Frosted dragons of dull gold adorned his garments. The black eyes that stared at Snakes were firm and cold.

  Snakes Blakey stood in the presence of Yat Soon. He was in the private room of the great arbiter whose name was law among the mysterious secret societies known as the tongs, the fighting fraternities that ruled Chinatown.

  "What brings you here?"

  The question came in perfect, even English. Yat Soon's lips scarcely seemed to move.

  "I come from Gray Fist," answered Snakes, in an awed tone. "I have a message."

  The gangster's hand was scarcely steady as it drew forth a gray envelope. Yat Soon broke the seal and extracted a gray sheet of paper. He unfolded this and held it toward the wall. His fingers pressed a hidden switch. A tiny light showed on the wall. Writing appeared between the portions of the gray paper.

  When he had read the message, Yat Soon turned off the light. He looked at Snakes Blakey, and the gangster read disapproval in Yat Soon's black eyes.

  "Return to Gray Fist." The Chinaman's voice was a command. "Tell him that this second message was not needed. The one you brought last night was sufficient.

  "Tell Gray Fist that since he seeks The Shadow, he shall have The Shadow. No one can escape the searchers of Yat Soon. My abode is hidden. It is more secret than any other in Chinatown. The secrets of all other hiding places are known to Yat Soon.

  "If The Shadow is in Chinatown, he cannot leave. He will be brought to Yat Soon. I, Yat Soon, shall keep him living if he lives when he comes here. I, Yat Soon, shall keep him dead if he is brought here dead."

  "All right," nodded Snakes. "But if you get The Shadow—how will Gray Fist know?"

  "You may come to Chinatown," replied Yat Soon solemnly, "but not beyond the entrance of my abode.

  The outer guardian will tell you when The Shadow has been captured."

  "But how -"

  "He will say to you these words," resumed Yat Soon, not heeding the gangster's interruption, "these words which you can easily remember: 'Yat Soon rules.' By those words, you may know that The Shadow is in the power of Yat Soon."

  Solemnly, the Chinese leader ceased his speech. He waved his hand toward the wall where Snakes had entered. Turning, the gangster saw a solid panel. He had the uneasy feeling that this room was filled with such panels; that many entrances converged in Yat Soon's reception room.

  The panel slid up of its own accord. Snakes Blakey shambled through the opening, which closed behind him. Glancing warily over his shoulder, Snakes again saw the brass door which formed the outer surface of the portal.

  Guards moved Snakes along the way that he had come. For the second time, the emissary of Gray Fist was departing from Yat Soon's. He had come here, at Gray Fist's order, on the night before. He was glad that he would not have to come again—until The Shadow had been taken prisoner.

  The Shadow was in Chinatown. Yellow-faced searchers were looking for him. They would bring him to Yat Soon, the mighty man who ruled the tongs!

  Snakes Blakey felt sure that he could tell Gray Fist that Yat Soon would find The Shadow!

  CHAPTER XIX. CARDONA'S LUCK

  DETECTIVE JOE CARDONA had no inkling of what was going on in Chinatown. In fact, the ace had not even linked up recent gang frays of the underworld with the case that now concerned him. He knew that gangsters figured in the affairs of the supercrook whom he was seeking to find; but he expected to find disturbing elements in the better sections of New York.

  Cardona had based much upon his list of names. His decision that Ruggles Preston was the agent of a master crook had been a good one. But Cardona had played his cards wrong during the day that had passed since Preston's death. He had resolved to approach people cautiously, to find out if there were others in Worth Varden's class—men who had been racketeered by Seth Cowry.

  With a new evening here, Cardona had started down the list. He put in a telephone call to the home of Westford Blackdale, a clothing manufacturer. He was informed that Mr. Blackdale had left New York on a business trip.

  A call to Martin Fetzler, a Brooklyn banker, produced the same result. Third on the list had been Landis Glascomb, a Wall Street financier. Cardona's inquiry had brought the reply that Glascomb had left town.

  By that time, Cardona came to a startling realization. He knew that the fears Worth Varden had expressed could not have been feigned. Some menace was hanging over every man whose name appeared on the list discovered in Ruggles Preston's apartment!

  All had disappeared, like Worth Varden! Did they know from reading the newspaper, that the death of Ruggles Preston had brought their names into the hands of the police? Cardona considered that point, and decided negatively. Worth Varden had not mentioned Ruggles Preston.

  Cardona sought another explanation. He found it. These men: Blackdale, Fetzler, and Glascomb—together with the rest, on the list - had been under the same cloud as Worth Varden.

  Cardona had exhausted every name, traveling alphabetically from Glascomb down the line. Not one was in town.

  Varden, Cardona decided, had been the only one with nerve enough to call detective headquarters. He had paid for his temerity with his life. Preston, too, had been slain. A fierce hand was behind it all, and the master worker had doubtless ordered all of his prospective victims to leave New York City at once.

  With this key to the situation, Cardona decided upon a new plan. His call to the men on the list had been anonymous. He had received no certainty that they were actually away from New York. Perhaps some had planned to leave, and had simply given instructions that they were about to go.

  REMEMBERING Worth Varden, Cardona figured that some one of the listed men might be ready to talk if approached. So he began again and called each residence. He told the person who answered at Blackdale's that he was anxious for the manufacturer to call detective headquarters. He repeated the same formula when he telephoned Fetzler and Glascomb.

  Cardona's fourth call was to a broker named Grant Jillings. The detective hung up after he had delivered his message and prepared to call another on the list. As he reached for the telephone, it rang. A plaintive voice came over the wire.

  "Detective Cardona?"

  "Yes," answered the detective.

  "You called me," said the voice in a cautious tone. "I want to see you."

  "What is the name?" inquired Cardona.

  There was a pause. Then, the voice spoke once more, this time with a statement that was almost whispered:

  "Landis Glascomb."

  Cardona was elated. He had found one man who had not actually left New York.

  "How soon can I see you?" questioned Cardona.

  "As soon as possible," Glascomb's voice was quavering. "I am under a great strain. I have much to tell.

  But I am afraid. You must come to see me—but be careful."

  "Careful?"

  "Yes. That no one may know you are visiting me. I am practically in hiding, at my home. If it were known that I am in New York, it might mean my death."

  The words were spoken in a tone of real terror. They added to Cardona's eagerness to meet Landis Glascomb.

  "I'll be at your house in an hour," stated the detective, then terminated the conversation.

  Cardona had no difficulty finding Landis Glascomb's residence. He went by taxicab to an uptown street.

  There he alighted and sauntered down the thoroughfare until he spied the number of a brownstone building. Like a chance visitor, the detective ascended the steps and rang the bell.

  Joe had a sensation that eyes might be watching him. He expected something of the sort from within the house; he was also disturbed by the thought that spies might be outside. At the same time, the detective had taken guard against recognition. He had his overcoat muffled up about his neck, and was standing close to the darkness of the door.

  The portal opened c
autiously. Cardona saw a white-faced servant looking out. In a low voice, Cardona whispered his name. The servant beckoned. Joe entered, and the door closed behind him.

  The residence was a well-kept one. Joe Cardona noticed the costliness of its furnishings as the servant led him past a gloomy parlor, up a flight of stairs, and along the second-floor hall. Following his guide, Joe went up another flight. On the third floor the servant stopped and rapped at a door. It opened, and a stoop-shouldered man peered cautiously forth from a dimly-lighted room.

  "Detective Cardona?" he queried.

  "Yes," acknowledged the sleuth.

  "Come in," was the man's reply. "I am Landis Glascomb."

  WITHIN the room, Cardona saw at once that Glascomb was in hiding. This was a servant's room—one that had evidently been unoccupied until Glascomb had taken it. Cardona turned to view the man who had received him. Glascomb was slumping into a chair. Seen in better light, the man looked older than Cardona had supposed.

  Landis Glascomb's face was peaked. His eyes, though sharp, were furtive. His expression showed deep worry. Cardona, through his long experience, could tell that some great burden weighed heavily upon the mind of the old financier.

  "Sit down," suggested Glascomb, in a weary voice. "Sit down. I must talk to you."

  Cardona took a chair. He noted that Glascomb was inspecting him, almost mistrustfully. The old man seemed worried about speaking, but after a few moments he put a question that was troubling him.

  "How did you learn my name?" he asked.

  Cardona eyed the questioner steadily. He decided to meet Glascomb with definite frankness.

  "I found your name upon a list," he declared. "You were one of others—among them a man for whom I have been searching—an importer named Worth Varden."

  "Worth Varden!" Glascomb gasped the name. "Worth Varden! I feared it." Then, as an afterthought: "But the list—the list—tell me— where was it?"

  "In the hands of a dead man," returned Cardona. "It belonged to a lawyer named Ruggles Preston."