THE missing bookie had returned in the guise of the slick gambler. Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert were the same. But neither of those names sprang to the lips of the three amazed men who viewed the smiling visitor before them.
In
concert, they exclaimed a bigger, more important name:
"Five-face!"
"I told you I'd be back," drawled the master crook, in the style of Flush Tygert. "You can forget Jake Smarley. He's the same as dead and buried. I'm only sorry that he didn't grab off Melbrun's cash and split it with you fellows.
"Anyway, he made his getaway. That's why I'm here. And remember" - the speaker raised his left hand and bent his forefinger inward - "the Melbrun job was only the first one. There are four more to come" - he was counting his fingers, one by one - "and I'll use a different face for each."
Eagerly, the lieutenants gathered close. Lowering his drawl to an undertone, Five-face began the details of the crime next on the list. As they listened, Grease Rickel and Clip Zelber exchanged approving glances that pleased Banker Dreeb, the lieutenant who had been confident that Five-face could come through.
New crime was in the making - crime that would require the mobbies that the lieutenants could supply. Crime without mercy toward anyone who might oppose it. Five-face, at present known as Flush Tygert, was including all factors in his plans.
There would be a surprise for all foemen who crossed crime's coming path; even for The Shadow!
CHAPTER VII
CROOKS ON THE MOVE
THE black-walled room was thick with darkness, except for a corner, where a bluish light gleamed upon the polished surface of a table.
Deflected downward, the bluish rays made little impression on the deep gloom; in fact, the whole room seemed a mammoth shroud encroaching upon the spotted light. A figure stood beside the table; yet it was invisible against the darkness.
Living things came into the light: a pair of hands that moved like detached creatures. They were slender hands, yet sinewy, showing power beneath the velvety surface of the long, tapering fingers. Upon the third finger of the
left hand shone a strange gem, with ever-changing hues that ran the gamut of the
spectrum.
The stone was a girasol, a magnificent fire opal, unmatched in all the world. The iridescent gem proclaimed the identity of its owner, but only to the
privileged few, who knew the significance of the gleaming token. The girasol was
The Shadow's token.
This room was The Shadow's sanctum, a hidden headquarters where darkness always persisted. Buried in the heart of Manhattan, its very location a deep-guarded secret, the sanctum was the place wherein the master avenger formed his plans to frustrate men of crime.
Newspaper clippings moved about under the touch of The Shadow's fingers.
He was arranging them along with report sheets from his agents: stacks of data,
that often proved important.
Tonight, they meant nothing.
The quest for Jake Smarley had been fruitless. The missing bookie had completely vanished. The Shadow's competent agents had scoured hide-out after hide-out ahead of the police, and had found no trace of crime's new overlord.
Nevertheless, a whispered laugh stirred the sanctum's blackness. The Shadow had probed crime's depths, and understood. He was no longer thinking in terms of Jake Smarley; he was considering the possible moves of a supercrook who had discarded the bookie's guise.
Negative results had told The Shadow that he was seeking a criminal who had more faces than one. He had therewith instructed his agents to drop the search for Smarley. Instead, they were watching for massed moves on the part of
lesser crooks, as sure proof that crime's master hand would again be conniving evil.
A tiny light twinkled on the sanctum's wall. Lifting a pair of earphones, The Shadow clamped them to his head. As the light extinguished itself, a methodical voice came over the wire:
"Burbank speaking -"
"Report!"
At The Shadow's command, Burbank, the contact man, gave long-awaited news.
Crooks were on the move; their destination had been discovered. The Shadow's agents were covering the scene, awaiting the arrival of their chief.
A long hand lifted itself from the table, vanished into darkness. There was a click as the bluish light went off. A low, weird laugh stirred the sanctum, fading with The Shadow's departure.
WITHIN the next quarter hour, a taxicab swung from a side street and followed the Bowery, moving slowly along that famous thoroughfare.
There was a double reason for the cab's slow progress. An elevated railway
ran above the Bowery, impeding speed. In addition, the street was a favorite haunt for shambling bums, who crossed the thoroughfare with little regard for traffic.
Besides those reasons, there was a third cause for the cab's reduced speed.
There was a passenger in the cab, though it looked quite empty. Seated deep in the rear seat, The Shadow, fully cloaked, was enveloped in darkness as he gazed from the window. His keen eyes were studying lights along the street.
For the most part, the Bowery was gloomy, but one building showed a stretch of brilliance.
It was the Diamond Mart. Oddly situated in this doubtful section of Manhattan, the Mart formed an exchange where huge deals in gems were transacted
daily. Its ground floor teemed with booths, the headquarters of merchants who displayed their diamonds and serenely made sales totaling many thousands of dollars, as if dealing in mere trifles.
The evening being early, the Mart was still open. Its doorway was wide; the portals seemed to welcome visitors. But the Diamond Mart was as closely guarded as the United States Mint. To start trouble within its walls would be akin to suicide.
Along the Bowery, The Shadow saw policemen, who were regularly assigned to
guard the Diamond Mart. They were like figures in a guessing puzzle; there were
about twice as many as the eye would ordinarily suppose. In addition to the bluecoats, plain-clothes men were on duty. Patrol cars were also in the neighborhood.
It happened that The Shadow's present destination was a block south of the
Diamond Mart. Knowing that crooks were about, he wisely gave the Mart a careful
inspection as he passed. Had anything disturbed the calmness of the scene, The Shadow would have paused for further study; but it happened that the building was as serene as he had ever seen it.
Inside the Mart were special watchmen, who spotted suspicious customers at
sight. Knowing their capability, The Shadow spoke a low-toned order to his driver and the cab proceeded onward. The next place that needed observation was
The Shadow's special goal, an arcade that ran from the Bowery to another street.
The arcade formed a contrast to the Mart. Long, low-roofed, it offered shelter to the riffraff of the neighborhood, and such characters were plentiful.
At this hour, the arcade was rather dark, and as he passed it The Shadow noted that it held more than its usual quota of human drifters. He observed, too, that many shamblers were circulating about, always keeping within close range of the arcade.
Among these, The Shadow recognized his own secret agents, four in number.
Two of them frequently patrolled the badlands, and were therefore quite at home. The other pair were posing as panhandlers and were doing a good job of it, but they were careful to remain in the offing so as not to be too conspicuous.
Reports were correct: crooks were assembling at the arcade. They were passing themselves as the lowest of human scum, which wasn't difficult, for they were rats by trade. But the arcade, itself, offered no target for crime.
Having covered the Diamond Mart, The Shadow decided to take a look at Chinatown, only a few blocks away.