The Shadow - The Sledge Hammer Crimes Part 9

"The commissioner slipped this time," declared Joe. "He won't get to first base with Lettigue."

"Do you think that Lettigue knows something?"

Cardona shook his head as he heard Clyde's query.

"Can't tell," he decided. "It's fifty-fifty, Burke. That's just the trouble. The commissioner was quizzing him the right way, when Lettigue got the bulge, thanks to that flunky walking in."

"Whether one way or the other"-Cardona looked about to see that Daniel was not listening close by-"Lettigue may be on the level; or he may know something. Whichever the case, he's squared himself for the present. We've got to believe him, whether we want to or not -"

CARDONA broke off. Daniel was approaching to answer the ring of a telephone bell. The call was forCardona. The ace answered and spoke in short sentences. Daniel departed while Joe was talking. Clyde could make out nothing from Cardona's conversation. When he hung up, Cardona gave the lowdown in an undertone.

"It was Prentiss Petersham," he said. "Calling from the Channing National. He heard about the robbery.

He went over there. He slipped me some news that has come out. The bank directors buzzed a bit."

"News about Moreland?"

"Yes. He was sort of a king-pin in that outfit. Handled a lot of special details. Such as the installation of the burglary alarm."

"So no one else knows about it?"

"That's it. The thing looks funny, Burke. You know, we never picked up any dope about the alarm system at the museum, either. I was sort of soured on Petersham, because he didn't know about it. But Petersham had nothing to do with the Charming National."

"Neither did Lettigue."

Cardona shot a quick glance in response to Clyde's remark.

"You've guessed what I have, Burke," he admitted. "Petersham is leery of Lettigue. That's why he called here. I think he wanted to find out what we were doing.

"I'll drop in on Petersham, later. Maybe not until to-morrow. You're right, Burke, when you say that Lettigue had no authority in the Charming National. But don't forget that he was a depositor there. Just like he was a contributor to the Mayan Museum.

"Say! I have a hunch! I wonder if Lettigue ever dealt with that jeweler, Clayborne? That's something I'm going to find out. I'll see Clayborne this afternoon. After I've talked with the commissioner."

Another ring of the telephone bell. This time the call was for Clyde. Presumably it came from the Cla.s.sic office. Actually, it was Burbank, ordering the reporter off duty. Clyde had scarcely completed the call when Commissioner Weston appeared from the study, accompanied by Elvin Lettigue.

Weston shook hands with the millionaire and thanked him for his statements. That done, the commissioner decided to leave. Cardona and Clyde went with him. Silent in the commissioner's limousine, they rode out by the long front drive.

As they reached the road beyond the hedge, Clyde noted a parked coupe with a man standing beside it.

The chap was gazing in the opposite direction; but Clyde recognized him, as well as his car. The arrival was Harry Vincent, another of The Shadow's agents. He had come to keep tabs on Elvin Lettigue.

WESTON said little as they rode into Manhattan. Cardona did most of the talking. The ace mentioned Petersham's call and expressed his views regarding Lettigue.

"Learn what you can," suggested Weston, finally. "But be careful for the present. I can't quite figure Lettigue. He is eccentric; which accounts for his behavior. But he is direct in answering questions."

"Except about the clicks," reminded Cardona. "He should have heard them in Lemand's office; and in Moreland's."

"Lettigue is deaf," returned Weston. "He watches the lips of every speaker. He might logically have failedto hear foreign sounds, such as those m.u.f.fled clicks. We have much to learn, Cardona. Be shrewd with every one."

"Leave it to me, commissioner," vouchsafed Cardona. "I'll use kid gloves. I'll see Clayborne this afternoon. Petersham to-morrow."

"And in the meantime, do not forget your other task. We must find- well, the man you heard about last night."

"If we don't locate him soon, we'll use the dragnet."

Both Weston and Cardona had avoided use of a certain name. Clyde knew the man they meant. It was Sledge Ringo. The Shadow had pa.s.sed that name along to his agents.

After leaving Weston and Cardona, Clyde headed for Mann's office. He knew that he would find new instructions there. For Clyde was sure upon one point. Baffling though the game might be to the law, The Shadow had made progress.

To-day, Clyde felt sure, results would be obtained. The Shadow would find a way to thwart new crime, should it be scheduled for the coming night.

CHAPTER XI. THE DAY'S QUEST.

IT was late afternoon when The Shadow strolled from the Pennsylvania Station, wearing a new and different garb. He had the height of Lamont Cranston; but his features were sharper and his manner more brisk. No one would have identified him with his former personality.

The Shadow had just seen Prentiss Petersham off for Was.h.i.+ngton. That had been accomplished without the lawyer's knowledge. Earlier in the day, The Shadow had visited Petersham as Cranston; after that, he had donned his new disguise.

Petersham had left New York with reliable companions. He was accompanied by three lawyers, who were going to a convention at the capital. They were not scheduled to return until the next afternoon. It was unlikely that Petersham would be able to slip away from his friends during the interim.

From the Pennsylvania Station, The Shadow went to the Findlay Apartments. He found Moe Shrevnitz occupying the hack stand. He opened conversation with Moe, who blinked when he realized that this stranger was his chief. Surprise ended, Moe reported that Sanbrook Greel had not left the building, except to go to lunch. Moe had not observed any conspicuous persons who might have been watching the inventor's apartment.

With Harry Vincent covering Elvin Lettigue, The Shadow needed only a report to cover major matters.

He returned to his sanctum. There, he gained a call from Burbank. Harry was still on the job. He had seen Lettigue strolling about the Long Island estate.

Burbank added another report. It came from the underworld. Agents of The Shadow were searching for Sledge Ringo. So far, they had not located any trace of the missing dock walloper.

The Shadow left the sanctum shortly afterward. Dusk was gathering; cloaked in black, he formed a flitting figure as he approached a parked limousine. It was Lamont Cranston's car. The Shadow boarded it and awoke Stanley, who was half asleep at the wheel. In Cranston's tone, he ordered the chauffeur to drive him to Twenty-third Street.

Soon afterward, The Shadow appeared momentarily near the front of a dingy building. After that, hiscourse was untraceable until a light clicked within the walls of an old office. The Shadow entered the building and had reached this temporary goal.

He had not come in by the door, for it was cobwebbed and had been unopened for months. The grimy pane of gla.s.s bore a name in reverse: B. JONAS.

This office was a blind that served two purposes. The Shadow used it sometimes as an emergency sanctum. Usually, however, it was simply a place where he received messages from certain agents. An envelope was lying on the floor at present. It had come from Rutledge Mann, who had pushed it through the mail chute from the outside hall.

The Shadow opened the envelope. It contained a report from Clyde Burke. The reporter had gone on new duty during the afternoon. He had accomplished excellent results.

Clyde had visited the Greystone Building for a chat with Algar. The technician had gained a list of places where burglary alarms had been permanently installed. The Mayan Museum and the Channing National Bank were both on the list. There were only four other places named. None were important.

This news was valuable. It indicated that only two jobs had been fixed with interior vibrators. Any others would be like the burglary at Clayborne's: accomplished by exterior devices affixed to outside walls.

The unimportance of the additional installations brought The Shadow to a new problem. Had this list given a clue to coming crime, The Shadow might move to meet the criminals. Present circ.u.mstances proved that he must work in the dark.

Would minions of some supercrook fare forth again to-night?

That was the question. To answer it, The Shadow, would have to play a long shot. It was possible that Sledge Ringo might be a party to the recent crimes; for Cardona's contact with Dopey Mollen had been a lucky one. Sledge, if in the game, might have been unwary enough to plant one of his own pet mallets, when told to leave a clue at Clayborne's.

Sledge Ringo must be found. By discovering him, The Shadow could settle the matter. If Sledge happened to be involved, a meeting with him could crimp coming crime.

The light clicked off in the dingy office. There was a swish; then silence. The Shadow had left by a secret exit. He had gone to join his agents in their search.

DARKNESS had brought life to New York's underworld. Rats of the night had come from hiding spots to meet with others of their ilk. These were the hours when crime was fostered.

None knew it better than The Shadow's agents. There were two who scoured the bad lands: Cliff Marsland, who held a reputation as a killer; "Hawkeye," a wizened-faced prowler who knew every joint where thugs congregated. Both had been busy during the day; both had counted heavily upon nightfall.

Cliff had left the covering of the hangouts to Hawkeye, while he had picked more-open spots. Lately, hoodlums had adopted a mode of mixing with persons who were not criminals, to avoid police observation. Yet they gave themselves away by appearing in groups.

Just off the Bowery was a shooting gallery where thugs might be about. Cliff had chosen that place as a stopping point. He had found it almost deserted; only one customer was engaged in target practice. Cliff was about to walk away when he noticed the gun that the fellow was using. It was an ordinary .22 of the shooting gallery type, hooked to the counter by a long chain. But the marksman had added a counterweight to the muzzle end of the rifle. The gun showed a waver every time he aimed.

Cliff lounged near the sidewalk and watched the fellow make three consecutive bull's-eyes. The proprietor came over while the customer was detaching the lead weight from the gun.

"Hitting 'em, eh, Shooter?"

A gruff acknowledgment. Cliff recognized the tone; also the customer's face as the man laid the gun on the counter. The marksman was "Shooter" Hoyle, well known for his skill with a revolver.

"What's the idea of the hunk of lead? Ain't them small targets tough enough without it?"

The proprietor put the question affably; but it brought a snarl from Shooter.

"Here's your money, Jake. Lay off the questions!"

"Sorry, Shooter." Jake picked up the coins. "Didn't mean no harm. I was just wonderin' -"

Shooter's face showed an ugly look above the collar of his ragged sweater. Cliff saw beady eyes fix themselves on the proprietor. Suddenly, Shooter decided to become more friendly.

"I been tryin' out a trick rod, Jake," he told the proprietor. "One I ain't been used to. I didn't have no targets; I thought maybe if I worked with one of your rifles, it might give me some idea."

"A trick rod? A revolver?"

"Naw. Sort of a rifle. Bigger than a .22, though. It's-well, it's just a gun that some mug slipped in from Germany. I'll bring it down here some day."

A quick thought struck Cliff. There were special air guns of German make that had the power of a rifle.

Chances were that Shooter Hoyle was the marksman who had been taking pot shots at The Shadow.

"Be seein' you later, Jake," remarked Shooter. "Don't go squawkin' about that gun of mine. I don't want n.o.body botherin' me for a look at it."

"So long, Shooter." The proprietor took a chew of tobacco. Then, as Shooter walked away: "Give my regards to Sledge!"

SHOOTER had gone less than twenty paces before Jake turned to reload some rifles. Cliff started off on Shooter's trail. This was the chance he had hoped to get. Shooter Hoyle, the lurking marksman, was a pal of Sledge Ringo!

Shooter took to a side street. He reached an old building three doors from a p.a.w.nshop. Cliff saw him speak to a lounger near the door; then Shooter darted a look toward the second floor. He started for the next corner. Cliff gave him leeway. When he again tried to gain the trail, he was too late. Shooter had gone from sight.

Nevertheless, Cliff had gained an inkling. That old house near the p.a.w.nshop might be Sledge Ringo's hide-out.

A report to Burbank was no easy matter in this locale. Few telephones were available; it was hard to find one that was inconspicuous. Cliff started a three-block journey. On the way, he headed through a blackened alley. This was a place where he might meet Hawkeye. "Any luck, Cliff?"

A hoa.r.s.e voice whispered from the gloom. Cliff stopped beside a huddled figure. Hawkeye had been waiting; he had recognized Cliff's step.

"Yeah." Cliff spoke in an undertone. "I saw Shooter Hoyle. He was using a weighted .22 at the shooting gallery. Jake, the fellow that runs it, mentioned Sledge Ringo. I trailed Shooter past a house three doors from Dongy's p.a.w.nshop. The house was where he stopped, to talk with some lookout. I should have had you there, Hawkeye. I lost Shooter's trail -"

Cliff paused. He had heard a swish in the darkness. A strange, sinister tone broke the silence. The words were an eerie whisper: "Instructions!"

The Shadow had arrived; unseen, unheard, he had listened to Cliff's account. Both Cliff and Hawkeye recognized the voice of their chief. Already, The Shadow was forming a plan of action. He knew the terrain which Cliff had mentioned; better even than did Hawkeye, that clever prowler of the bad lands.

"Cover the front entrance -"

These were The Shadow's orders. Together, Cliff and Hawkeye moved from the alleyway. Side by side, they circuited to the street that Cliff had left. Looking back, Cliff strained his eyes. He fancied that he saw a shape glide into a pa.s.sage behind the row of buildings.

The Shadow was approaching the house from the rear. He was counting upon his agents to watch the lookout, or any others who might be at the front. If that house should be Sledge Ringo's hide-out, The Shadow would certainly uncover the missing dock walloper.

Cliff and Hawkeye reached their stations. Thanks to the darkness of the street, they easily chose crannies across from the beleaguered building where the lookout was pacing slowly back and forth. Tense at their posts, the agents awaited developments.

A break had come. The Shadow intended to use it. With the next quarter hour, The Shadow would settle the question of Sledge Ringo.

CHAPTER XII. CRIME'S LINK.

THE rear of the row of houses made a curious formation. One building which The Shadow pa.s.sed extended ten feet farther than the other, with windows on both sides of the projection. Then came a s.p.a.ce of forty feet; after that, a house that had a similar projection.

This was the third from the p.a.w.nshop. It was the house that The Shadow sought. The first projecting house had held darkened windows. This one betrayed lights from the back room on the second floor.

The illumination trickled through old, broken shutters.

The Shadow chose the far side of the ten-foot projection. His gloved fingers gripped a rough brick surface. He began an upward course that ended only when he reached his goal. The Shadow was an expert at acquiring toeholds. Soft-tipped shoes were silent aids.

A gloved hand pressed the bars of the shutters. They wavered, enough for The Shadow to peer between them. Windows were open within; The Shadow could see the waver of a gas jet. Then came the sc.r.a.ping of a chair. A brawny, middle-sized man came into the light. The Shadow saw a toughened face. It was Sledge Ringo. The Shadow had sufficient description of the fellow to identify him. Sledge had never carved a heavy reputation as a criminal; but he had done enough to enjoy a place in The Shadow's private rogues' gallery.

The Shadow waited while Sledge paced. He saw the husky turn about and approach the door. The gas flame blinked. Sledge had stepped out into the hall. He was mumbling to some one waiting there. The sound of his voice was audible, but words could not be distinguished.

The shutter proved loose when The Shadow tried it. He m.u.f.fled its creak as he swung it outward. Then, like a long, thin ghost, The Shadow swung through the open window. Reaching the floor, he drew the shutter closed. Patchy darkness filled a corner by the half-opened door. The Shadow chose that vantage point.

From the hall, Sledge's voice was plain. The husky man was arguing with some comrade.

"They's five of us, ain't they?" Sledge was questioning. "That's two more than we need. Leave Zimmer and Duff on the lookout."

"What's the use of a lookout, Sledge?" was the query. "If there's n.o.body stayin' here -"