The Road Of Crime s-39

by Maxwell Grant

  “Car comin’ this way,” informed the mobster at the wheel. “See the lights?”

  Wolf observed a tiny gleam from a turn in the road a quarter of a mile ahead. The approaching car went out of sight as it took another bend. Its arrival here would occur within another minute.

  “Get goin’,” growled Wolf.

  The sedan started. The other cars followed promptly. The three automobiles passed the approaching machine. Apparently, Wolf’s car was merely a vehicle that was hogging the narrow road and slowing up two cars behind it.

  “Keep on,” ordered Wolf. “We don’t want no trouble. That guy that we just passed won’t suspect nothin’. It’s a sure bet that Wellerton got the works.”

  “That trip he took didn’t do him no good,” laughed one of the mobsters. “It don’t matter whether you gave him any lead or not.”

  “I plugged him,” decided Wolf, beginning to resent any doubts regarding his marksmanship. “Give him two bullets. One’s enough when I use the gat.”

  THE cars were speeding onward. The leading driver was talking about the best way to reach a main road. Graham Wellerton was a matter of the past. Wolf Daggert was the leader now.

  “We’re in no hurry,” declared the gang leader. “We’ll go ahead with the job Wellerton planned. That bank in Grand Rapids will be our gravy - and you can bet nobody’s going to interfere. Wellerton saw to that.”

  This was the only intimation which Wolf Daggert delivered regarding the menace of The Shadow. There was a positiveness in the gang leader’s tone. He knew that The Shadow had been in New York; that King Furzman - the only man who had known Graham Wellerton’s plans - was dead.

  The Shadow!

  Wolf chuckled in the assurance that the black-clad phantom would not be on hand to spoil the robbery that lay ahead. He, Wolf Daggert, had profited by Graham Wellerton’s schemes. Not for an instant did Wolf suspect the truth.

  Graham Wellerton’s foray was already doomed to failure. This mob of New York bank robbers was traveling directly into a trap which would be well set when they arrived.

  The Shadow was already in Grand Rapids, awaiting Graham Wellerton’s mob. He would receive the enemy tomorrow night. The change of leadership would make no difference.

  Wolf Daggert, by usurping the power which Graham Wellerton had possessed, was directing a crew of hardened mobsters into The Shadow’s snare!

  In plunging from the moving sedan, Graham Wellerton had merely chosen a present danger in lieu of one which he would have unwittingly encountered had he traveled on with a mob at his command.

  The trip into the depths of the obscure ravine was a much more desirable experience than the foray on the Grand Rapids bank - although Graham Wellerton had no cognizance of the fact.

  Wolf Daggert, triumphant, was in a much less desirable position than Graham Wellerton, vanquished. Wolf was gloating over his victory. His evil joy would cease tomorrow night.

  The Shadow would be responsible for that! Mobsmen had chosen a new leadership. The result would be the same - a futile surge against the hidden might of The Shadow!

  CHAPTER IX

  A MAN FROM THE PAST

  GRAHAM WELLERTON opened his eyes. He found himself staring straight upward into moonlight. He was lying on a matting of thick grass, fringed by clusters of scrubby bushes and light saplings. The gurgle of a brook was sounding in his ears.

  At first, Graham had no recollection of how he had reached this spot. A medley of scattered thoughts ached through his brain: King Furzman - Wolf Daggert - Carma - these three who had played a part in his career of crime seemed somehow responsible for his present plight.

  Graham tried to collect his ideas into a reasoned process, but failed in the attempt. Somehow, he realized that he was no longer working for King Furzman; he also seemed to know that Wolf Daggert had caused him trouble. These thoughts were disturbing, but through them, Graham had a vague belief that all that might have happened had at least freed him from Carma.

  Unsteadily, Graham managed to rise to his feet. He experienced a sickening sensation and a pain in the back of his head. He rubbed his face; dimly, in the moonlight, he saw blood upon his hand. Moving weakly toward the brook, Graham stooped and began to bathe his face in water.

  This experience was refreshing; nevertheless, Graham had difficulty in remembering recent events.

  One impression stood out; that of a wild leap from a traveling automobile. Responding to the thought, Graham began to feel his arms and legs as though expecting to find some broken bones.

  Revolver shots! They had come with that leap. Graham smiled weakly. He had escaped the death that was intended for him. He had fallen far; he had crashed through snapping boughs and scratching brambles; but he was still alive. There was satisfaction in the thought.

  Mechanically, the young man forced his way through a mass of bushes and came to the side of the ravine. He picked his way up the steep ascent, gripping clumps of thick, dry grass, slipping and tottering at times as he made the climb. At times, he caught hold of projecting chunks of rock. His fall down the ravine had been fortunate in that he had escaped these.

  Graham sank exhausted when he reached the brink beside the road. He felt many aches. The climb had been a painful one. The jarring effects of the fall were apparent. Graham had a slight limp as he regained his feet and started to walk along the road; but the trouble departed as he continued.

  Actually, the young man was suffering from a slight concussion of the brain, caused by one of the jolts that he had experienced. This injury, while it curbed his mental processes, made him oblivious to the minor hurts which he had sustained.

  LIMPING and bleeding from small wounds, his face bearing livid scratches, Graham Wellerton made a sad appearance as he trudged along on a meaningless quest. He was a natty gentleman of crime no longer; he looked like a battered rowdy who had emerged from a strenuous brawl.

  Hazily, Graham recognized his plight. He was somewhere in a rural district, illy clad and away from the help of friends. For the first time, Graham’s thoughts pertained to money, and he shoved his hand into the pocket where he had carried a roll of more than six thousand dollars. It was empty.

  Startled, Graham came to a halt. He turned to head aimlessly back toward the ravine; then came a momentary burst of memory.

  He recalled himself as a captive in an automobile; he remembered a captor seated beside him. That was where the money had gone. One of his former associates had frisked his pocket after Wolf Daggert had decreed his death.

  Graham Wellerton did not have a dime. He laughed hoarsely and began to trudge onward. After a mile of long, winding road, he came to a crossroad and stared gloomily at the signpost. He noted names there and repeated them in a familiar tone; then, while his thoughts were still confused, he turned to the left and began to walk along.

  Where was he going? Why?

  Graham did not know. He knew that he was miles from the main road where Wolf Daggert had overtaken the marauding band. He could recall that event now. But he had no desire to go back to the main highway. He was following this little-used road in response to some peculiar awakening of long-forgotten memory.

  Another crossing. By the moonlight, Graham Wellerton read a new sign and laughed. He resumed his progress. As he reached a fork, he instinctively took the road to the right. He seemed to recall events of long ago, when hiking had been his hobby.

  Steady tramping became monotonous. Not once did Graham Wellerton desist from his steady, plodding pace as he covered weary miles. A predominating purpose was banging in the back of his head. He was going somewhere; he would not stop until he arrived. His whole condition was governed by a mental cloud.

  Minutes became hours. Graham, was indifferent to the passage of time. At last he struck a macadamized road and breathed a long sigh of relief. This long tramp had been a weary experience; without knowing it, Graham had covered a distance of nearly twenty miles; but the journey seemed to be nearing a logical end.

 
A picket fence showed on the right. Dull moonlight revealed a grilled gateway. Graham Wellerton stopped and peered through the upright bars of the gate.

  Gray tombstones, whitened by the shimmering light, showed the place to be a cemetery. Graham felt a desire to enter the graveyard - why, he did not know. The iron gate resisted his feeble efforts to open it. Desisting, Graham continued his course along the road.

  This time a wooden fence stopped him. He looked upon the expanse of an old abandoned race track. He wanted to climb that fence; to run around the half-mile oval. Weariness, coming with increased recognition, caused him to change his mind. He resumed his roadway plodding.

  He passed houses set back behind rows of evenly-planted trees. He found himself entering the main street of a town, where occasional lights shone from overhead. Then came a sound that made him stop and listen intently. A loud-chimed clock was tolling the hour of four.

  EACH reverberation of the beating gong was a driving stroke in Graham Wellerton’s brain. Surging recollections came in furious deluge.

  Quickening his pace, the dazed man moved along the street. He began to eye buildings that seemed familiar. He turned a corner down another lighted street. He came to a building that stood apart. It looked like a large store; but its barred windows proved that it must serve some other purpose.

  Graham Wellerton read a large-lettered sign above the building. The words were plain in the light from the street. An angry scowl came to Graham’s face as he saw the legend:

  EZRA TALBOY

  STATE BANK

  The irony of the present moment came clearly to Graham’s mind. Clouds lifted. He understood. Until this minute, he had not realized in what part of the country he might be; he had known only that he was somewhere between New York and Grand Rapids. Now he knew that he was in the town of Southwark.

  Every important incident since the ravine was suddenly explained. The first signpost had pointed to the town of Southwark; so had the next. Then Graham had found himself upon a familiar road. He had followed the natural direction of his boyhood hikes, back to the town of Southwark.

  The cemetery - that was where he had so often visited his mother’s grave. The race track - that was where he had run races with his boyhood companions. This building had been his father’s bank. The house beyond it was Graham’s old home.

  The name of Ezra Talboy signified the truth which Graham had learned while absent from the town of Southwark. Ezra Talboy, brother of Graham’s mother, had swindled Graham’s father of all he owned. Well did Graham remember his sour-faced uncle. Ezra Talboy must be an old man by this time - a mean-hearted skinflint living on ill-gained wealth.

  GRAHAM WELLERTON clenched his fists as he approached the bank building. His head was no longer swimming. He had regained his normal faculties. He wanted to smash through the grated windows. He reached in his pocket to feel for his revolver. It was gone. The weapon had been stolen also.

  Surging wrath, unquenchable hatred - these were the elements which ruled Graham Wellerton. He despised this town of Southwark, hated every person who lived within its limits. He had a mad desire to do damage here, coupled with a wish to leave the town as soon as possible.

  While Graham hesitated between these mixed emotions, a footstep sounded behind him. Graham turned quickly to find himself facing a burly man in uniform, who held a leveled revolver.

  “What you doing here?” the man demanded.

  “Nothing,” retorted Graham huskily. “Just lookin around.”

  “Yeah? At four o’clock in the morning?”

  “I just landed in town. Motor accident out on the road -“

  “Tell that to the Judge. I’m pinching you. Come along!”

  Complete weariness was having its effect. Without a word, Graham Wellerton submitted to the officer’s order. He found himself marching back toward the main street, down an alleyway to the old town jail. The journey ended when Graham collapsed upon a battered cot in a barred cell.

  When the officer had left, Graham rolled over wearily upon the cot. His long tramp showed its results. Forgetful of all but fatigue, Graham Wellerton fell asleep. The brightness of morning was the next waking impression that he gained.

  SOMEONE was shaking the barred door. Graham looked up to see the man who had arrested him. The officer ordered him to come along. Graham obeyed. He was taken into a small courtroom where a handful of men were gathered.

  Graham recognized the justice of the peace. Old Silas Schuble had been his father’s friend. He noted another elderly man whom he knew: Harwin Dowser, Southwark’s principal lawyer. Dowser was evidently here to take up some other case, for he did not express interest as Graham was brought up before Justice Schuble.

  “Vagrancy is the charge,” said the officer who had brought Graham to the courtroom. “I found this man wandering around the town at four in the morning.

  “Name?” quizzed Schuble, sharply, looking at Graham.

  “George Gruger,” said Graham quietly.

  “What defense do you offer?” quizzed the justice.

  “None,” returned Graham, in a dull tone. “I was just hiking through town.”

  Schuble eyed the young man sharply. Graham repressed a smile when he noted that the justice did not recognize him. To Graham, that was an achievement. His memory of his father had touched his pride. He did not want to be recognized while in Southwark.

  “Unless you can give some account for your presence here,” declared Schuble severely, “I shall be forced to sentence you for vagrancy.”

  “I don’t mind,” returned Graham.

  “Thirty days in jail,” decreed the justice.

  As the officer led him from the courtroom, Graham noted that Harwin Dowser was eying him curiously. Graham met the lawyer’s gaze with an indifferent glance. Dowser turned away. Moodily, Graham, allowed himself to be conducted back to his cell.

  Much though he detested the town of Southwark, he was to be its guest for the coming month. The irony of the situation was impressive on that bright morning. Graham could not help but smile.

  He had escaped the law on many occasions when he had been engaged in dangerous crime; this time, when he had been committing no offense, he had been arrested and sentenced.

  Graham felt his hatred for the town of Southwark increasing beyond its former measure. He realized that he was a man from the past, a stranger no longer recognized in the town where his father once had been the most prominent citizen.

  Whatever his career elsewhere might have been, Graham had never done a wrong within the bounds of Southwark. Yet this was his reward - in the one place where he had lived an honest life.

  Graham Wellerton had come home after years of wandering. Unwelcomed, unrecognized, he had been sentenced to jail on a charge of vagrancy. Graham Wellerton did not care. His mob had gone over to Wolf Daggert - that connection was ended.

  As for Carma, Southwark was the last place in all the world where she would look for Graham!

  CHAPTER X

  THE SAMARITAN

  Two dozen men were tramping along a rough road. Behind them came three others, armed with rifles. A command sounded from the rear; the gang fell out at the side of the road. One of the guards opened a huge box that was standing beside a tree. Each of the two dozen men advanced in turn to take out a pick.

  Methodically, the road gang fell to work. Under the watchful eyes of the armed guards, these prisoners began their daily toil. Pick points clicked upon stone. Snatches of conversation began.

  Road work in this county was no sinecure, yet it lacked the barbarity so popularly supposed to dominate all chain gangs. Two dozen short-term prisoners, under the supervision of several competent guards, were allowed reasonable privileges so long as they kept busy with their picks. Graham Wellerton, drafted to this toil, found it an annoyance rather than a hardship. He was in his fifth day of service and he had taken his temporary fate in a philosophical manner.

  He paid very little attention to words uttered by the other
prisoners, but today, something that he heard made him listen for further information.

  “Out in Grand Rapids,” one man was saying. “The paper that I seen was a coupla days old -“

  A pick clicked in interruption. Then came a question that told more.

  “You say the cops plugged seven of ‘em?” a man was asking. “Didn’t none of ‘em get away?”

  “It wasn’t the cops,” Graham heard. “That’s the funny part of it. When the holdup started -“

  Words were intermittent as they came to Graham’s ears, but the young man caught the important details of the story as he labored away with his pick.

  A squad of armed marauders had entered the Riverview Trust in Grand Rapids, a few nights ago. Before they had been able to engineer the holdup, shots had broken loose. The sight of dropping raiders was the first token of the contemplated robbery.

  The shots had been delivered from the semidarkness of the street. Mobsmen had started to flee; they had been shot down. Others had dashed into the bank to be met by watchmen and tellers. Police had arrived to find seven victims.

  It seemed that mutiny must have broken out in the ranks of the raiders during the crucial moments of the attack. There was no other explanation for the startling result. The case was a baffling one.

  GRAHAM WELLERTON was grim as he swung the pick. He knew the answer to this frustrated crime. The broken attack was a repetition of the Parkerside disaster in New York, where Wolf Daggert and his henchmen had been repulsed.

  The Shadow!

  Somehow, that master of crime detection had learned Graham’s schemes. He had arrived in Grand Rapids ahead of the raiders. Had Graham still been in command of his men, he would have gone down with his mobsters.

  Graham chuckled in sarcastic fashion. He realized now that Wolf Daggert had done him a good turn. By usurping the leadership, Wolf had put himself in a mess. The evil-faced gang leader had walked into the trap intended for Graham.