The Fifth Face s-204

by Maxwell Grant

  their opportunity to deal with The Shadow personally. Instead of mobbies, they could depend upon a score more of their own kind, who were also in the restaurant.

  The word passed instantly from table to table; with one accord, Tuxedoed rats came to their feet and started out to the street. Undaunted by the arriving police, they whipped revolvers from their pockets the instant that they saw the cloaked figure outlined in the lights of the patrol cars.

  The first member of the throng gave the cry to which all responded:

  "The Shadow!"

  With the cry, the cloaked figure wheeled. The Shadow knew instantly that Flush Tygert had phoned the word to Lody's after dropping off from his cab. He recognized, too, that these attackers were not part of the big-shot's horde.

  Again, the touch of the master hand; he was playing it safe, turning a crowd of

  volunteers upon The Shadow.

  The shout gave the attack away, but not well enough to save The Shadow.

  Too many guns were on the draw for him to remain as a target. As for blackness,

  there wasn't any close enough for The Shadow to make a quick fade. His only system was to provide darkness by beating the crooks to the shot, and he did.

  Whipping both guns from his cloak, The Shadow blasted the lights of the nearest police car, producing a swath of blackness into which he dived. The instant that the gloom swallowed him, he reversed his course. He was speeding out again, into the light, as the Tuxedoed marksmen dented the hood of the car into junk.

  Another shout; the crooks wheeled; too late. The Shadow reached the cover that he needed - the cab that Flush had used. Its driver was gone, running along the street. Springing into the cab, The Shadow turned it into an improvised pillbox.

  It had a slide-back top, which enabled the cloaked sharpshooter to fire as

  if from a turret. When crooks blazed bullets for the cab top, The Shadow's hands

  jabbed from one window, then the other, poking quick shots from ever-ready guns.

  By then, the police were in it. At first, they thought that shots were meant for them. They had mistaken The Shadow's strategy for an attack. But when

  the cloaked fighter had diverted the fire, the officers knew how matters stood.

  They were out of their cars, charging the frenzied men in Tuxedos exactly as they had gone after the pretended bums in the arcade.

  Crooks surged for the cab, hoping to get The Shadow at any cost, while others were fighting off the police. When they reached the cab, The Shadow was gone again. He had chosen the moment of the police surge to spring to the sidewalk and take a new vantage point in a narrow alleyway. He was sniping off his foemen in a fashion that promised them sure defeat.

  Then came a quick end to the battle, through aid from a unique and unexpected source.

  NEXT door to Lody's was an upstairs gymnasium, rather well known in the vicinity. It was a boxing stable managed by a fight promoter named Barney Kelm,

  a familiar figure on Broadway, whenever he was in New York. Barney happened to be on hand tonight, and shooting didn't bother him any more than the boos of a prize-fight audience.

  Portly, wide-shouldered, with a broad, bluff face beneath his derby hat, Barney Kelm stepped to a little balcony that fronted the gym. He scanned the street and saw what was going on - a frenzied, slugging battle between uniformed police and men that he knew as hoodlums.

  There was no sign of The Shadow. From his balcony, Barney could not observe the telling shots that the hidden marksman delivered. Turning back to the gymnasium, Barney gave an ardent bellow, along with graphic gestures. A dozen boxers quit skipping rope and punching away at bags. With Barney among them, they dashed downstairs to the street.

  They were pulling off their gloves, to get in punches that would hurt.

  Grabbing men in Tuxedos, the pugs gave them expert treatment. Hard uppercuts counted more than the wide swings of police guns. With Barney cheering them and

  waving his own pudgy fists, the boxers made short work of the mob from Lody's.

  Soon, the police were carrying away the wounded, while the pugilists were dragging slap-happy crooks from gutters. More patrol cars were arriving, to give the law full control. His guns stowed away, The Shadow saw Inspector Cardona step from a car and start shaking hands with Barney Kelm.

  The fat-faced fight promoter was taking credit for having quelled the fray. As far as The Shadow was concerned, Barney Kelm was welcome to it. The Shadow was more interested in learning what had become of Flush Tygert. With that purpose in mind, he glided away into blackness.

  Two battlers had vanished: one, The Shadow, a figure in black, his real identity unknown; the other, Five-face, who changed his personality after every

  deed of crime.

  When, where, and how they would meet again, neither could foretell; but the fact that there would be such a meeting was something that both knew!

  CHAPTER X

  THE PUBLIC HERO

  SEATED in the library of the Cobalt Club, Lamont Cranston was scanning two

  newspapers. One was several days old, telling of the foiled robbery at the United Import Co. It showed the photo of Jake Smarley, the missing bookie, beside the picture of Arnold Melbrun, the man who had outguessed the vanished crook.

  The other newspaper was recent. It had two front-page photographs. One portrayed Flush Tygert, his long face displaying its habitual smile; the other,

  the fat, serious features of Barney Kelm, who rated at a public hero.

  Like Smarley, Tygert was wanted, but to a greater degree. Where Smarley had missed out on a robbery, Flush had succeeded. It would go hard with both, however, if they were found, for there were manslaughter charges against them, too.

  Folding one newspaper, Cranston placed it on the other, so that only the two pictures showed, those of Smarley and Flush. Side by side, they made an interesting contrast. Facially, there was nothing in common between Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert; the remarkable thing was that both had disappeared.

  Very remarkable, considering that they had not been highly rated in the underworld until their recent exploits. Neither Smarley nor Flush should be the

  sort to have an airtight hide-away; yet, apparently, each had one. Not a trace of either criminal had been found by the police.

  Placing the newspapers aside, Cranston drew a notebook from his pocket.

  With a fountain pen, he wrote the two names in a vivid blue ink: Jake Smarley

  Flush Tygert

  Alone in the library, Cranston phrased a whispered laugh. Its low, uncanny

  tone identified him as The Shadow. So did the ink with which he had inscribed the names. As it dried, it faded, obliterating itself completely.

  It was the special ink that The Shadow used for important messages. He employed it, too, when he transcribed his impressions into written words.

  The names linked. The Shadow had divined that Smarley and Flush were one and the same. His keen brain was visualizing the next step in the process; namely, that by this time, neither Smarley nor Flush existed; that the master criminal must have adopted another identity.

  In tracing this vital fact, The Shadow had pictured two events from the past.

  He remembered how Smarley had cleverly used Melbrun's cash box as a shield

  to deflect bullets. Flush had done the same thing with the bag of gems when he fled from the Diamond Mart.

  In flight, Five-face had been off guard, and each time, The Shadow had spied him. Though The Shadow did not know the title used by the master crook and therefore could not tell how many faces the criminal had, he was certainly on the correct track in the detection of crime's greatest secret.

  An attendant entered the library, carrying an envelope. He saw The Shadow and approached on tiptoe, carefully trying not to disturb the quiet of the room. The Shadow was rising, in the leisurely style of Cranston, before the attendant arrived. Cranston's lips showed a smile as he scanned the note.

  It said that Commiss
ioner Weston was in the grillroom and would like Cranston to join him. Apparently, the commissioner had something to tell regarding the police investigation of the recent robberies.

  IN the grillroom, Weston had a pile of police reports, stacked six inches high. Cardona was with him, and the two were thumbing through the papers.

  Again, there was a resemblance between the raid at Melbrun's and the robbery in the Diamond Mart. Small-fry crooks had been quizzed, with only one answer.

  First it had been Jake Smarley; now it was Flush Tygert. In each instance,

  thugs blamed all crime on men whose identity the police already knew.

  "Perhaps the two are working in cahoots," said Weston, suddenly. "They might even be sharing the same hide-out. An excellent theory." Weston nodded, proudly, as he turned to Cardona and added: "Make a note of it, inspector."

  While Cardona was making the note, two men entered. One was Arnold Melbrun; the other, old Breddle. The commissioner introduced the importer to the diamond merchant.

  "Sorry about your misfortune, Mr. Breddle," condoled Melbrun. "I was lucky

  to save the money that had been intrusted to me. I wish that you had experienced

  the same good fortune."

  "You took the right precautions, Mr. Melbrun," returned Breddle. "I was just unfortunate, considering how well the Diamond Mart was guarded."

  Weston was laying out photographs on the table. He was anxious to link Jake Smarley with Flush Tygert, though he did not realize how closely the two could actually be identified.

  Looking at Smarley's pictures, Melbrun gave a slow nod. From descriptions given by the office workers, the pictures showed Smarley, well enough. But when

  he saw photographs of Flush Tygert, Melbrun shook his head emphatically. He declared that he knew nothing at all concerning Flush.

  In his turn, old Breddle looked blank when he saw the Smarley pictures, but became quite voluble at sight of those portraying Flush. Unfortunately, Breddle had never seen Flush, except when the gambler came into the Diamond Mart; therefore, he could offer no worthwhile information concerning the mobster.

  Both Melbrun and Breddle were rising, when Weston stopped them with a gesture.

  "Another man will be here, soon," announced the commissioner. "Barney Kelm, our public hero. He and his boys gave us some very valuable assistance.

  I

  would like you both to meet him."

  Melbrun happened to have an appointment and could not stay. He regretted, however, that he could not meet the famous Barney Kelm.

  "Give the chap my congratulations," said Melbrun, "and say that my door is

  always open to all fine citizens like himself. I know that our friend Breddle"

  -

  he turned to the jeweler - "will give Kelm proper thanks. Kelm came close to catching Tygert for you, Breddle. I wish he had been around when Smarley tried to rob my office."

  With Melbrun gone, Breddle was anxious to learn what progress the police had made toward reclaiming the stolen diamonds. Weston went over the police reports in methodical style, but he wasn't halfway through the batch before Breddle's face showed absolute gloom.

  The jeweler recognized that the commissioner was simply trying to show that the law had done its utmost, though no real progress had been made.

  Patiently, Breddle let Weston continue.

  It was half an hour before the process was completed; all that while, The Shadow sat silently by, his mind engaged in other matters.

  Thinking in terms of a disguised master crook, The Shadow was wondering how many faces the man could display and what identity he might be using at present. Even more important was the question of coming crime: whether the unknown could risk another daring robbery, and, if so, what it would involve.

  A BIG-TONED voice brought The Shadow from his reverie. Barney Kelm had arrived; the bluff-faced fight promoter was receiving a welcome. When Breddle shook hands, Barney clapped a broad hand on the jeweler's shoulder.

  "Sorry my boys weren't down at your place," declared Barney. "They'd have stopped Flush Tygert in a hurry. They've been talking about him all afternoon.

  Say - if we could only locate Flush, I'd like to let them loose on him.

  They're

  like a pack of wolves, those boys, when I let them loose!"

  Weston was introducing his friend Cranston. Barney gave The Shadow a powerful grip. Seating himself at the table, Barney tilted his derby hat back over his head and began to look at the police reports. Mention of his own name pleased him.

  "So I'm a public hero," he chortled. "That's swell! They'll be pointing me

  out when I walk along Broadway. You know, I was thinking of moving that gymnasium of mine. I didn't like it, because my boys were so close to Lody's.

  "A bad influence, that place, but I'm glad I stayed. A good thing that I was there. Good, too, that I keep an eye on whatever is happening. When I heard

  that shooting, I knew that something big was up. I took a look outside and saw Lody's door bust open. When those rats tried to put the cops on the spot, I knew it was up to me to stop them."

  Barney's bluster was rather painful to old Breddle, who was still thinking

  in terms of his lost diamonds. Cranston, too, seemed bored by all the palaver.

  When Breddle decided to leave, the commissioner's friend went along. In the foyer, Cranston paused to make a phone call, then went out to his limousine.

  Inside the big car, he slid open the drawer beneath the rear seat and rapidly cloaked himself in black garments. Watching from the window, he saw old

  Breddle turn the corner, walking toward the subway. Opening a door with one hand, The Shadow reached for the speaking tube with the other. He spoke to the chauffeur, using Cranston's tone.

  "I think I shall remain at the Club, Stanley," said The Shadow. "See if you can overtake Mr. Breddle before he reaches the subway. Tell him that this is my car, and that I instructed you to take him wherever he wants to go."

  Stanley heard the slight slam of the rear door and started the limousine forward. It happened that the closing door was on the street side of the car.

  The figure that left the limousine wasn't Cranston's. It was The Shadow who whisked himself away toward the darkness across the street.

  While Stanley thought that Cranston had actually gone back to the club, the doorman and others on the sidewalk supposed that he had left in his limousine. Instead, The Shadow had taken up an unsuspected vigil. Obscured in the opposite darkness, he was watching the entrance of the Cobalt Club!

  A taxicab coasted into sight. It stopped when the driver saw a tiny red gleam from a special three-colored flashlight. Moe Shrevnitz was the driver of that cab; The Shadow had summoned him through a call to Burbank.

  But even Moe was rather amazed to learn that The Shadow was spying on the Cobalt Club, the place to which he had access as Cranston any time he wanted it.

  The reason was explained when a burly man with a tired derby hat stalked from the club and strode manfully along the street. Instantly, The Shadow's light flashed green, but followed with a cautioning blink of yellow.

  It meant that The Shadow was taking up a trail on foot, but wanted Moe to be close, ready if needed. The Shadow had used that system frequently; hence the process offered no surprise. The astounding thing was the nature of The Shadow's trail.

  The master of darkness was playing a long hunch. He was picking up the trail of Barney Kelm, the public hero who rated as a champion of law and order,

  not as a man who dealt in crime!

  CHAPTER XI

  THE THIRD FACE

  GREASE RICKEL was in an impatient mood. The living room wasn't large enough to hold him. Pacing back and forth, he slashed aside the curtain of the wide doorway that led into a dinette. He kept on pacing through to the kitchen.

  Looking at Clip Zelber, Banker Dreeb gave a shrug. They could hear Grease yank open the door of the electric icebox; they heard the rattle of ice cubes, the gur
gle of liquid from a bottle. Grease was fixing himself another gin buck,

  the sixth that he had sampled in the last hour.

  "Don't blame the guy," said Banker. "Why should he keep sober? There's not

  much chance that Five-face will be needing us."

  "I don't think Five-face has lammed," returned Clip. "He's got a schedule,

  like he told us."

  "Like he told us, yeah," repeated Banker, with a snort. "But that may have

  been the old baloney, sliced nice and thin. Maybe he was just counting on one big job, instead of four."

  "And playing us for suckers," said Clip, with a slow nod. "That's what Grease thinks, although he hasn't said so."

  The two silenced, as Grease came storming back. Slashing the curtain shut with one hand, Grease gestured a half-filled glass with the other. Turning, he took a gulp of liquor, then wagged a forefinger in emphatic fashion.

  "Flush Tygert has pulled a runout," voiced Grease, thickly. "He'll clean up a couple of hundred grand out of those rocks he grabbed from old Breddle.

  He

  won't ever show his face around here; his own, or any other -"

  A heavy thump interrupted. It came from the apartment door. Clip was the first man to reach it; as he opened the door, he heard a snarl from Grease.

  Flinging his glass aside, Grease started forward with a drunken lunge, trying to tug a revolver from his pocket. Banker jumped in front to intercept him. Unable to guess what it was all about, Clip pulled a gun to cover the man who had entered. Seeing the fellow's face, Clip mouthed:

  "Barney Kelm!"

  Banker had Grease under control and was shoving him to a battered sofa.

  Nudging the door shut, Clip concentrated on Barney. Ordinarily, such a situation would have called for smart bluff work, but it was useless, now that Grease had given things away. Clip came to the real point in a hurry.

  "Hello, public hero!" he snapped. "Think you're a copper, too, don't you?

  Figured we were working with Flush Tygert. Well, that means it's your own idea,