“Phony make-up,” he announced, “and a wig. But I’m leavin’ it on him. When they find this guy full of lead, he’ll still be Jubo the Geek. Two of you stay here. If he comes to, tap him another on the bean. When you hear the ‘Hey Rube,’ give him the works. Get me?”
The roughnecks nodded.
“Who’s stayin’ then?” asked Luke.
“I’ll stay.” It was Cliff Marsland who spoke.
“I’ll stick,” added a roughneck. Luke beckoned to the other two men. They left the tent. Cliff and his companion sat down to keep an eye on Jubo the Geek.
THERE was motion in the darkness outside the tent. A silent figure shifted into the night. It was the form of The Shadow. The tall visitor had donned his sable-hued garments. He, like Cliff, had noted the capture of Jubo. With Cliff on the job, The Shadow was satisfied concerning the helpless geek.
Reaching the office trailer, The Shadow lurked in darkness. His keen eyes commanded a broad view of the midway. Certain figures caught his immediate attention. The first was that of Cap Guffy. His trucks loaded, the owner of the side show was coming toward the office.
From across the midway, a newcomer was heading for the same objective. It was Jonathan Wilbart. The circus magnate was here to make his final offer for the purchase of the show.
As the two men neared the office door, The Shadow’s gaze turned toward the big top. There he observed Tex Larch, coming out through the turnstile.
A whispered laugh. The Shadow moved away. He found a space between two concession tents. The joints were close together. The front of the space — not more than two feet in breadth — was blocked by the sturdy form of a lounger who was watching the varied activities of the midway.
The Shadow approached. A soft, weird whisper came from his hidden lips. It brought a nod from the lounger. The Shadow’s form faded back between the two small tents. Then it merged completely with the darkness. The Shadow had become a part of the night itself.
The lights of the midway showed the face of the lounger who was standing between the fronts of the concessions. This man was Harry Vincent. He had received The Shadow’s order. He knew that he was to act according to instructions already given him.
Sauntering from the idle spot, Harry strolled across the midway and approached the clattering Ferris wheel. He spied two men who were standing a short distance from the huge device. Harry walked up and nodded. The men looked him over in a suspicious manner.
“O-blay,” said Harry, in a low voice.
The men exchanged glances. Then one put a growled question:
“What for?”
“Ops-kay,” added Harry.
“What’s the lay?” quizzed one of the pair.
Harry looked about. No one was watching. The Shadow’s agent pulled an envelope from his pocket. It was Dunham who received it. Harry turned away and found an opening between two tents. He ducked out of sight and started a long, circling course toward the fringe of the circus lot.
Slade had opened Harry’s envelope. His face became grim as he read the message. He tore the paper into shreds and let the pieces float to the ground.
“From Vic?” questioned Dunham, in an undertone.
“You bet,” responded Slade. “Come along. Over past those tents. We’ve got a job ahead.”
DOWN near the big top, a thick-faced, ugly-lipped man was standing alone. He seemed restless as he watched toward the circus tent. The wheezing music of the steam calliope came muffled to his ears. The constant sound made him feel uneasy.
A winsome figure was coming from the direction of the big top. Red hair showed in the light. It identified Lucille Lavan. The queen of the high wire had finished her act. She was humming as she approached the tent and entered. She did not see the ugly-faced stranger who was waiting.
“Beef!” The stranger turned at the sound of the growled whisper. He stared unbelieving at the pasty face of Cleed. A grin appeared upon the dopey visage.
“Hello, Beef,” came the repeated whisper. “It’s me — Croaker. All set?”
“Sure am,” responded Beef. “Say, Croaker. I wouldn’t have knowed you by your mug. Was that the moll?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
Stooping, Croaker cautiously lifted loose canvas at the side of the tent. He edged beneath and Beef followed. They were in Lucille Lavan’s private tent. Ten feet away, the girl was sitting at a small dressing table, applying cold cream to remove her make-up.
Croaker Zinn pounced forward. Lucille, staring in the mirror, spied the face of Cleed. Gamely, the girl swung to meet the intruder. She was too late. Croaker’s fingers caught her throat.
Beef Malligan aided in ending Lucille’s struggles. Together, they produced leather thongs and bound her hands and feet. A large handkerchief served as an effective gag. Croaker pointed to a couch. Beef placed the girl upon it.
“No rush,” chuckled Croaker. “Wait a couple of minutes, Beef, while I get rid of this punk make-up I’ve been using.”
Dipping his fingers in cold cream, Croaker smeared the substance over his pallid countenance. The job was a quick one. A mopping towel finished it. Beef Malligan grinned as he saw the swarthy features of Croaker Zinn supplant the pasty visage of Cleed.
“All right,” ordered Croaker. “Out through the back. How far away is your car?”
“A hundred feet.”
“You lead the way. I’ll bring the moll.”
Croaker was chuckling as they neared a darkened sedan. Over his shoulder, he held the bundled form of Lucille Lavan. In an undertone, he was telling Beef Malligan the story.
“They call this jane Lucille Lavan,” Croaker was saying. “That’s who she thinks she is — Lucille Lavan. That’s the name she’s always used; but it ain’t her right name. She’s Lucy Aldon, the million-dollar moll.
“Open the back door, Beef. We’ll chuck her in there. That’s the stuff.” Lucille’s huddled form rolled on the back seat. “You take the wheel, Beef. We’re going places—”
The two mobleaders were side by side as Croaker’s speech came to a sudden end. Something had clicked from the hood of Beef’s car. The two crooks were standing in the glare of a flashlight. The torch was held by Harry Vincent.
But it was not the glare that caused the two crooks to stop in their tracks. It was a figure in the range of light that made them cower with upraised hands. There, like a living specter, stood a shape whose power they well knew.
Burning eyes blazed from beneath a blackened slouch hat. The mouths of mammoth automatics loomed like tunnels that boded death. Silent, The Shadow had risen from the dark. The master of vengeance had arrived to conquer crime!
CHAPTER XIX
MEN ACCUSED
WHILE The Shadow had been laying his trap for the abductors of Lucille Lavan, a brief meeting was going on in Tex Larch’s office. Three men — Tex, Cap and Wilbart — had arrived to find the office occupied by a single individuaclass="underline" Sheriff Howard.
The three nodded to the official. The sheriff was persisting in his vigil merely as a matter of formality. He had given up hope of uncovering the missing swag. Tex Larch, worried over matters that concerned his circus, had practically ignored the sheriff’s presence on the lot.
It was plain, too, that Tex had little time for Jonathan Wilbart. He shook hands hurriedly with the magnate, then began to take papers from a drawer in the desk. Wilbart, noting a worried expression on the showman’s face, was prompt with a question.
“What is the answer, Tex?” he inquired. “Did you hear from New York? Do you intend to sell?”
“No,” replied Tex. “That goes for both questions, Wilbart. I didn’t get the wire from New York. I don’t know how I stand. So I’m going there on the next train. That’s all.”