“Persistent bird, this Burke. I knew that everything should already have been taken out of the dead men’s pockets; but just to please Burke, I made another search. You know what I found — a folded piece of paper that was missed before — on it the words: ‘Manhattan Armored Truck — Eighth Avenue — ten o’clock.’ How it happened to be in that gorilla’s pocket, I don’t know.”
“But you followed the armored car,” inserted Weston, “and you and your squad drove off the raiders in a running fight.”
“Sure we did,” admitted Cardona. “But we were lucky. The holdup gang had three cars, commissioner. By rights they should have given us a lacing. We hadn’t prepared for anything like what we got.
“If that armored car had been standing still, those crooks would have smashed it and taken the dough. But when we busted in, the guy driving the armored car was smart enough to run for it. If it had been nighttime, the holdup boys would have smeared us. But they couldn’t chance a long fight in broad daylight. That’s why they beat it. We bagged a couple of small fry” — Cardona shrugged his shoulders — “and I’ll take credit for that. But outside of that, commissioner, we’ve got nothing. We’re back where we were.”
“You mean that crime is still rampant? That this ineffectual raid will not deter the plans of other malefactors?”
“I mean just that, commissioner. I figure more jobs are on the way — bigger jobs than the taking of an armored car — and they’re due to hit fast and heavy.”
“You must find clues!” Weston pounded his fist on the desk. “We must anticipate crime before it strikes!”
“I landed one clue,” returned Cardona. “This morning — by luck — that paper in the gorilla’s pocket. But where’s the next one coming from? Frankly, commissioner, I don’t know.”
CARDONA placed one elbow upon the desk. Leaning forward, he wagged his forearm in emphasis as he spoke. Weston listened, his forehead furrowed in a frown.
“Gangland is organized,” asserted Cardona. “That’s all I’ve learned, commissioner. Things are tougher there than ever before. It seems like nearly all the mobs are linked. I came through a tough district tonight. I had a hunch that I was being watched all along.
“Peddlers, loafers, small-fry crooks like pickpockets — even storekeepers — I suspect them all. Everybody is answering to some one else. Unless I’m mighty far wrong, it’s all part of the same chain. Crooks are lying low — like they’re waiting for orders. On the surface, commissioner, the underworld looks tame. Beneath — it’s fierce.”
Cardona paused. Weston sat silent. The commissioner was waiting for more. The detective gave it.
“The stool pigeons are scared,” declared Cardona. “We’ve got thirty of them on the job and twenty-five of the lot are afraid for their dirty hides. They think they’re being watched. They won’t go near the places where they usually get information.”
“And the other five?” interposed Weston, dryly.
“Drawing blanks,” replied Cardona. “They hear whispers — buzzings — but no talk. The best of the lot is Squawky Sugler. I talked to him when I was getting on the el, twenty minutes ago. He says there’s nothing stirring. On his way to a joint called the Pink Rat when I left him. Maybe he’ll land something there; but I doubt it.”
“This is serious, Cardona,” observed Weston. “Let me commend you again — this time for your frankness. Then let me ask your opinion. What do you intend to do — what would you intend to do if left to your own resources?”
“Wait,” asserted Cardona, summing his chief plan in the single word. “That’s the best I can do, commissioner. I’m going from here to headquarters; then back into the district where I was before.”
“To visit the dives?”
“No. But to be ready if anything stirs. Some of these stool pigeons may get knocked off. There may be another mob scrap. There’s no telling what may hit. But if you’re leaving me to my own plans, commissioner, I’ll head back to the neighborhood of the Pink Rat.”
“Very well.” Weston arose. “Go your way, Cardona. I am relying on your judgment; and I hold the hope that you may find new clues of coming crime.”
“And meanwhile?” questioned Cardona, anxiously.
The commissioner was silent for the moment. When he replied, his tone was grim as he phrased his answer:
“The law must wait!”
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW ACTS
WHILE Joe Cardona was in conference with the police commissioner, Squawky Sugler, the stool pigeon, was slouching his way toward the Pink Rat. Shambling through the baser districts of Manhattan, the sweatered stoolie was observing signs that Cardona had already noticed.
The Italians in the barber shop; the loungers by the pawn shop; the riders in the elevated car — they were but typical. Members of society’s upper crust might share the elation which Commissioner Weston had felt over the episode of the armored truck; but those who dwelt close to the realm of crime could scent the beginning of a wave of terror.
Squawky, scruffing along the sidewalk, was watchful. Like Cardona, he suspected spies everywhere. The detective’s movement had been reported from the little shop where he had stopped to phone. Cardona could assume such a risk; but Squawky, the stool pigeon, could not.
Conditions were precarious so far as stoolies were concerned. Ordinarily, an informant might expect trouble only from the crooks on whom he squealed. But Squawky, tonight, seemed to accept all passers as his enemies. At times, he paused to raise a knuckle to his nostrils. A sniff — and again Squawky was on his shambling way. Acting the part of a dope addict, Squawky felt more secure in his present venture. Cokers were seldom banned from the Pink Rat.
With shifty strides, Squawky neared his destination. He followed a darkened alley; paused when he reached a dilapidated doorway; then opened the barrier and took a poorly-lit passage that brought him into the dive itself.
THERE was tension in the Pink Rat tonight. Squawky sensed it the moment that he entered the big room that constituted the major portion of the joint. Men were seated in small groups at scattered tables. Mumbled conversation buzzed through the smoke-filled room.
Squawky seated himself in a corner. He nodded as a sour-faced waiter approached with bottle and glass. He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and gave it as payment. But Squawky was slow about drinking. He spurned the bottle while he indulged in pretended sniffs.
Coke and hooch were not a usual combination. Squawky knew that fact; hence his reluctance with the liquor. Satisfied that he was getting by, the stool pigeon began a series of furtive glances about the dive.
Hard-faced gangsters prevailed tonight. Among the thugs and rowdies whom he observed, Squawky saw none who looked like police agents. Stools were keeping clear; Squawky felt sure that he was the only one who still had the nerve to pry into gangdom’s secrets.
Crime was the theme. Squawky knew it, although he could not catch words of conversation. Were mobsters talking about the episode of the armored truck? Or were they discussing the probability of coming crime?
Squawky did not know. He was sure of but one point: namely, that a shroud of peculiar mystery had lowered over the affairs of the underworld.
Squawky spied a trio of men seated at a table twenty feet away. He knew their faces. One — the most imposing of the three — was “Trigger” Maddock. Square-chinned, blunt-nosed, with beady eyes that blinked with snakelike stare, Trigger was a character highly feared where gun fights were concerned.