The Fifth Face s-204

by Maxwell Grant

  The bullet-ripped table struck the crook's shoulder. It wasn't heavy enough to floor him. It was merely a portable table, of very light construction. But the tablecloth flapped forward, covering the head and shoulders of Fondelac.

  It was like a living shroud that had flopped in from space, to play its part in ruining crime. As Five-face tried to snatch the cloth away, he merely wrapped it tighter. He was blundering toward the stairway, mouthing muffled yells. In a way, the thing was ludicrous.

  The Shadow had counted on the table; not the cloth. His purpose had been simply to spoil an enemy's aim. Instead, he had entangled Five-face in a mesh that rendered the criminal physically helpless. In trying to reach the stairs, Five-face stumbled, and lost his gun as he struggled against the tangle.

  With a shove, The Shadow thrust Commissioner Weston to his feet, sending him after the master crook, It was the simplest possible job for Weston. All that he had to do was tighten the cloth that already held Five-face half smothered.

  Having propelled Weston in the right direction, The Shadow came full about

  and drove for the kitchen door. He knew that Five-face had yelled with purpose;

  that the tangled crook expected prompt aid. Such assistance could be coming only from the kitchen.

  The door came flinging inward. Catching it with a side step, The Shadow slashed it shut again, ramming it against the faces of two thugs who were driving through. Then, pulling the door wide, he hurled himself upon the staggered pair, slugging them with a gun that he yanked into play.

  Other invaders were in the kitchen, lunging toward The Shadow. He met them

  with bullets, and new guns echoed the blasts. Cliff and Hawkeye were with the mob, nicking crooks in expert style.

  The surge became a sprawl of bewildered, wounded thugs. The way trouble overtook them, they thought that The Shadow must have started it; yet they couldn't see a sign of any cloaked opponent!

  Leaving the crippled crooks to Cliff and Hawkeye, The Shadow wheeled back to the grillroom, still Cranston to all who saw him. As he shoved through the door, a hurtling figure met him and began to grapple. Twisting his foe about, The Shadow met him eye to eye.

  The face of Lamont Cranston was thrust squarely against the countenance of

  his friend, Commissioner Weston!

  They broke apart. Showing Fondelac's gun, which he had picked up from the floor, the commissioner tried to explain things.

  "I thought they had trapped you, Cranston!" he panted. "I saw them yank you into the kitchen. In my excitement, I forgot Fondelac -"

  THRUSTING Weston aside, The Shadow started for the stairway. Snapping from

  his stupor, the Commissioner followed. The tablecloth was lying on the steps, but there was no sign of Fondelac. He had dashed up to the foyer, carrying Cranston's stocks and bonds with him.

  Things hadn't happened as Five-face wanted. He had expected to be well away before the commotion started below; more than that, he had counted upon his gun, which he no longer had.

  He crossed the foyer at a lope, clutching the bonds beneath his coat. As he reached the outer door, a squatty man shoved in to block him.

  Inspector Cardona had heard the shooting within the Cobalt Club and was on

  hand, with a squad behind him.

  "Quickly, inspector!" exclaimed Five-face. "I'm Count Fondelac. The commissioner sent me up to find you. He said to rush your men downstairs and"

  -

  faltering, the crook gave a wince - "and to help me out of here. I'm wounded."

  Cardona pointed his men through the doorway. Turning, Joe rushed Fondelac out into a waiting squad car. He knew who Fondelac was, and he didn't want the Count to die on his hands.

  Joe Cardona believed that Fondelac was really wounded, because he had noticed how the man was clutching his hands tight against his side. Joe didn't guess that the count was really hanging on to a bundle of stolen securities that he had pilfered from Lamont Cranston.

  Once in the car, Fondelac relaxed and sat back with a long sigh. Cardona told the driver to get them to the nearest hospital in a hurry. He didn't hear the shouts that came from back at the Cobalt Club, where the inrushing squad had met Cranston and Weston coming out.

  The squad car was around the corner, halfway along the block, when Fondelac pointed to a cab parked in front of a small hotel. He gestured for Cardona to stop the squad car.

  "I am better now, inspector," informed Fondelac. "I can go to my apartment

  in the taxicab. The commissioner wants you to return. He said that you are to wait for M'sieu' Melbrun."

  "Forget Melbrun," snapped Cardona. "You've got to get to a hospital, Count, because of that bullet."

  "Bullet?" Fondelac looked puzzled; then he laughed lightly. "Non, inspector. The ruffian did not have a gun. He used his fist, this way" - he clenched his hand - "and gave me one big punch."

  The car had stopped. Count Fondelac stepped to the street; Cardona saw him

  wince and tighten his hands, as though the punch still hurt him. Cardona was still staring, when Fondelac entered the cab and rode away.

  Joe turned to the driver of the squad car.

  "A punch in the belly!" growled Cardona. "I ought to have handed that sissy another on the jaw! Say, if Fondelac didn't get hit, I wonder what all the shooting was about."

  Abruptly, Cardona quit speculating about the past. He had the present to think about. More shooting was in evidence, from the direction of the Cobalt Club.

  Remembering that the commissioner had ordered him to cover Melbrun's arrival, Cardona promptly forgot Fondelac, except to congratulate himself that he had sent the softy from harm's way. Joe ordered the driver to speed around the block and get back to the Cobalt Club.

  THINGS were happening very rapidly outside the club. Two groups had witnessed Fondelac's departure with Cardona and had been puzzled because of it.

  One group consisted of the lieutenants who served Five-face. They were afraid to take pot shots at Cardona, because of Fondelac. The fact that Five-face had not called upon them to open fire was sufficient to keep them quiet.

  The other watchers were The Shadow's agents. Farther away, they supposed that Cardona had taken Fondelac into custody. Thus, everything had remained latent, until a surge of men appeared on the sidewalk. Commissioner Weston was with Cardona's squad, yelling for cars in which to begin pursuit.

  Guns talked promptly from across the street. The commissioner dived for shelter and the detectives scattered. They were saved only by the intervention of a friend who had followed them from the club: Lamont Cranston.

  From the doorway, which offered satisfactory cover, The Shadow picked out the source of the first wild shots and responded with a prompt fire.

  Though The Shadow's bullets took effect, he was unable to get the result he wanted; namely, a prompt pursuit of Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip were

  at least giving their chief the support that he needed for a getaway.

  Moreover, the lieutenants were unusually bold tonight. They and their henchmen were ready to dare the shots offered by the lone marksman in the doorway of the club.

  Piling in from many angles, they made for Weston and the diving detectives. The attackers were too many, too widespread, even for The Shadow to

  stop them, particularly as snipers had begun a fire toward the doorway, to hold

  back the lone sharpshooter.

  Perhaps The Shadow's laugh would have diverted the surge, but he preferred

  to count on other assistance, while he adhered to the part of Cranston.

  In came the aid The Shadow wanted, provided in prompt and efficient style.

  Harry Vincent and Clyde Burke popped out from doorways and opened a flanking fire on the charging crooks. Around the corner came Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye,

  finished with the thugs back in the kitchen. They added telling shots.

  All the while, The Shadow was shooting from the doorway. The lighted space

  in fron
t of the Cobalt Club might well have been marked with a gigantic X, for it indicated a spot where bodies would be found if any crooks came that far.

  The few who reached the fringes of the light were staggered by The Shadow's direct fire, while his agents were working the flanks.

  Leaders of the scattering mob were shouting for reserves. A car came roaring up the street, but it never reached the Cobalt Club. Moe's cab whipped in from a corner and diverted the car across the street.

  A batch of thugs leaped out, intent upon many things; primarily, they wanted to obliterate the cabby who had stopped their course.

  That was just the time for Jericho. He was pacing in front of the apartment house, just beyond the corner. With a gleaming grin that matched the glitter of his goldbraided uniform, the giant African reached the batch of crooks and went to work with bare hands.

  Jericho cracked two heads together like a pair of eggshells. He grabbed a third mobbie, used him to bludgeon a fourth. There was a fifth man among the reserves, but he didn't wait around. He scudded for an alleyway, leaving Jericho in full possession of a sedan equipped with a pair of machine guns.

  Other cars were starting away. Cardona met them with the squad car, around

  the next corner. Brakes shrieked as the squad car drove one automobile into a wall. The Shadow and his agents riddled another car with bullets.

  But the third car managed a getaway, for the squad car offered a barrier between it and the marksmen, who now included the intrenched detectives who had

  come out from the Cobalt Club.

  In the fleeing car were the three lieutenants who served Five-face.

  Banker

  was at the wheel, Clip on the seat beside him. Grease was lucky enough to reach

  the running board just as the car sped away.

  RETURNING to the club, Commissioner Weston found Cranston standing idly in

  the doorway. The commissioner knew that his friend had joined in the fire, but had no idea that Cranston had been the mainspring of the whole affray.

  While Weston was offering congratulations for what he considered a rather trifling service, a coupe pulled up in front of the Cobalt Club.

  Arnold Melbrun was in the car; he was amazed when he learned the full details of the battle. He wanted to know who had returned: Smarley, Tygert, or Barney Kelm.

  When Melbrun learned that a new king of crime had taken over the scene, he

  stood bewildered. Like nearly everyone else, he had heard of Count Raoul Fondelac, and the fact that such a celebrity had gone crooked merely added to Melbrun's daze.

  The size of the robbery was also something to talk about. At least, Lamont

  Cranston could congratulate himself upon having kept Fondelac's bonds, in place

  of his own, although their value totaled less. But when Melbrun saw the French bonds, he shook his head. In his opinion, they were fraudulent.

  It was curious how lightly Cranston took the news. He turned the bonds over to Weston, requesting the commissioner to look into the matter. Then, tired by the evening's excitement, Cranston decided to go home.

  Riding away in his limousine. Cranston gave a regretful laugh. It wasn't the sort of laugh that one would expect from a man who had lost half a million dollars. Neither the bonds nor their cash value was the cause of Cranston's regret.

  The Shadow simply regretted that he hadn't stopped Five-face before the master crook had tricked Joe Cardona and led the ace inspector to banish crime's trail.

  It meant that special measures would be needed, if The Shadow hoped to meet Five-face again. This evening's events had definitely clarified certain puzzling matters.

  The Shadow's laugh changed to a strange comprehending whisper, as this master of the night began to plan his coming ventures, which - he hoped -

  would

  lead to the final trapping of Five-face!

  CHAPTER XIX

  OUT OF THE PAST

  ARNOLD MELBRUN was right. The French bonds were fraudulent. Count Raoul Fondelac had turned a swindle into whirlwind crime.

  As a result, the newspapers estimated that Lamont Cranston had lost half a

  million dollars. Coupled with thefts committed by Flush Tygert and Barney Kelm,

  this latest exploit raised crime's recent total above a million dollars.

  Still, the public did not connect those deeds with one man. Jake Smarley was practically forgotten; Flush and Barney almost so. All talk concerned Count

  Fondelac, who had proven himself quite as slippery as his predecessors. From the

  moment that he had said good-by to Inspector Cardona, Fondelac had completely disappeared.

  The cabby remembered driving to Fondelac's apartment, but the count had left the cab somewhere on the way. There wasn't a scrap of evidence in the apartment itself that offered the police anything resembling a trail.

  Three men were distinctly interested in what had become of Fondelac. They were the lieutenants who knew him as Five-face. Grease, Banker, and Clip regarded themselves as very fortunate to have escaped unscathed and unrecognized. Still, they prided themselves on having remembered the importance

  of a getaway, just as Five-face had.

  It was Banker who broached the subject of the future, when the three gathered, at nightfall, in their dilapidated headquarters.

  "Four faces gone," tallied Banker, counting, his fingers, "which means that Five-face has got just one left; his last one."

  "Yeah," put in Grease, "and maybe he's scared to show it. Ever think of that, Banker?"

  "He'll show it to us," asserted Clip. "Why shouldn't he offer to divvy, with all the dough he's grabbed?"

  Banker began to stroke his chin. Meanwhile, Grease put an answer to Clip's

  question.

  "We've got nothing on Five-face," snarled Grease. "It may look like we have, but we haven't. What if we squeal on him, supposing he doesn't show up?

  He won't care if people find out that he was four different guys. Any one of the four would be bad enough for him, if the cops put the arm on him."

  "Five-face thinks in big terms," insisted Banker, slowly. "Remember, he told us there would be another job. I think there will be. He won't have to show his face."

  "Why not?" demanded Grease.

  "Because he'll turn the job over to us," explained Banker. "That's when we

  want to be smart. Unless it's as safe for us as it is for him, we want to say nix."

  The three began to discuss the new angle that Banker had suggested. They were in the middle of their parley, when a rap came at the door. All three were

  congregated close, when Banker opened the door. With one accord, the trio stepped back.

  On the threshold stood a man with a face so ugly that no one could have blamed him for changing it whenever occasion offered.

  His forehead bulged above his eyes, which were as small as gimlet points; his nose had a sideward twist. His lips were large, but widespread; they showed

  a clutter of misshapen teeth, that seemed to fill the ugly face.

  The lieutenants knew that face. They had never expected to see it in life again. Banker's voice was hoarse, barely audible, as he spoke for his pals:

  "Blitz Bell!"

  THE ugly man stepped into the room and closed the door. His gait was crablike; one shoulder drooped, as he made his way to a chair. He didn't speak;

  he simply picked up the greasy pack of cards and performed the flush trick, slicing a fifth club in among four others.

  If he hadn't given that demonstration the lieutenants would never have granted that Blitz Bell could be Five-face.

  "Go ahead, say it," asserted Blitz suddenly, in a raspy tone. "You thought

  I was croaked, didn't you? Like everybody else, you fell for that story about the Feds getting me, a couple of years ago. Well, they got Blitz Bell - in a way."

  With both hands, Blitz stroked his face; the pressure seemed to mold it into a smoother visage. Then he let the bloated features return
, in rubbery fashion.

  "Here's the lowdown," he rasped. "I had a face lift, see? Before the Feds caught up with me. They thought I blew myself up along with the dynamite shack,

  when they surrounded me. But that was because they didn't see anyone around who

  looked like Blitz Bell.

  "I had a good job done on this mug of mine. Ever since then, I've been able to change it into five, including my own. Funny, ain't it, the face I've had the most trouble with is my own? Only, I like it, and I don't give a bang if nobody else does."

  In his speech, Blitz Bell showed a confidence which the listeners shared.

  The lieutenants had taken it for granted that Five-face would adopt an unexpected personality for the climax that he had planned. The guise of Blitz Bell fitted the bill to perfection.

  Supposedly dead, Blitz was beyond the reach of the law, provided he could keep his secret. Grease, Banker, Clip were seeing a man who had stepped from the past; and even with Blitz's explanation, the thing still awed them.

  They would never have dreamed that Five-face could be Blitz Bell, the notorious public enemy that the Feds had supposedly eliminated years ago!

  Yet, on the table lay proof that Blitz was Five-face: those outspread playing cards with which he had demonstrated his identity. They were glad that Five-face had used his skill to prove who he was. It was a better token than any other.

  To a man, the lieutenants were willing to follow Blitz wherever he suggested. They were anxious to learn what new crime he intended. Remembering Blitz by reputation, as well as sight, they knew that he would not rest on past

  success. If opportunity offered - and Five-face had promised that it would -

  Blitz was the man to make the most of it.

  With a wide-lipped smile that exposed his fanglike teeth, Blitz Bell spread a newspaper on the table. He pointed to a picture of Count Raoul Fondelac and gave a raspy laugh. He tapped the teeth that bulged from his mouth.

  "Plates," explained Blitz. "I had them made to match my own, before I got rid of the real ones. My teeth were bum, anyway. I've been four other guys lately, but I can still be myself when I want."

  Blitz thumbed through the newspaper, came to the page he wanted. Then, to the listeners: