The cab in which The Shadow rode was his own. Its driver, Moe Shrevnitz, was one of The Shadow's agents and a very capable hackie. At his chief's order,
Moe weaved the cab into Chinatown, where a slow rate of speed was natural.
Chinatown proved as quiet as the Diamond Mart. Along the curve of Doyers Street, The Shadow saw patrolmen on their regular rounds. All was quiet near the corner of Mott and Pell, the real center of the district. Moe continued his
roundabout course, finally making another trip past the Diamond Mart.
The cab halted there, abruptly, to let another cab stop. The Shadow saw the man who alighted, watched him wave an affable greeting to a detective who shifted into sight. The dick recognized the arrival; so did The Shadow. The man
from the cab was Flush Tygert.
HE was a different Flush Tygert from that afternoon. He was more prosperous in appearance. Flush was wearing a natty-looking suit; the lights from the Mart brought a gleam from a diamond on his finger, and his cuff links showed the same sparkle. Moreover, Flush had cash. He showed a bundle of it when he paid the cab driver.
Flush peeled his bank roll like a head of lettuce. He had thumbed through ten-dollar bills and twenties before he found a stray five among the fifties.
He used the smaller bill to pay the driver. While the cabby was finding difficulty in making the change, Flush stuffed the big roll back into his pocket.
Chance played its hand right then.
A scrawny bum was slouching past the Diamond Mart. The shambler showed interest at sight of the cash. He shoved himself toward Flush, mouthing something about "sparing a dime." Flush gave a glance at the fellow's pasty face, then told him to be on his way.
The detective stepped forward; the bum made a quick scramble. A little farther along, he stopped to tell another panhandler what had happened. Both threw quick glances back at Flush.
This episode had all the markings of a well-timed act. It looked as though
the two bums were on hand to spot how much cash Flush had with him. The gambler's bank roll certainly ran into thousands of dollars, big enough game to
account for the assemblage down in the old arcade.
Diamond cut diamond; crook rob crook. The set-up impressed The Shadow, as his cab wheeled away. Flush Tygert was certainly flush tonight, and the news had been passed along.
As for Flush's presence at the Diamond Mart, it was natural enough. The Shadow had listed Flush and his habits, long ago. Records showed him to be a gambler who played the ocean liners, varying his trips, traveling to Europe and
South America. When he came back with big winnings, Flush always invested them in diamonds.
Not having seen Flush that afternoon, The Shadow naturally assumed that the gambler had been lucky on his last South American excursion, since European
voyages were no longer popular. Therefore, his trip to the Diamond Mart was logical.
Flush might rate as a crook on boats beyond the twelve-mile limit; on shore, he passed muster. The Shadow classed him as a normal customer at the Diamond Mart.
Elsewhere, Flush might be prey, either for his cash or his diamonds, particularly if he passed the old arcade after he left the Mart.
On the chance that such might be the case, The Shadow decided to drop in on the meeting place where he had seen too many mobsters. At his order, Moe swung the cab past the next corner.
Flush Tygert had not seen The Shadow. It was unfortunate, therefore, that the unseen cab rider had not waited a little longer. For Flush performed his next action in a fashion that was a trifle too dramatic. Pausing in the doorway
of the Diamond Mart, the crook tried to light a cigarette with a lighter that worked too well.
Several times, Flush's ticking thumb produced a flame, which he promptly suppressed. He didn't want his light as soon as he was getting it. An elevated train was approaching, high above. As it came by, Flush finally let the cigarette lighter work, and held the flame steadily until the train had roared beyond him.
Then, with a gleaming smile, the man who called himself Five-face stepped into the welcoming portals of the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert had used his cigarette lighter to touch off crime of a most unusual sort.
Things about to come would reveal the planning of a master plotter whose tricky schemes were to convince The Shadow that a real brain had designed them.
Crime was due, in the very presence of The Shadow, before he could reach the main scene of its action!
CHAPTER VIII
CRIME IN REVERSE
IT took The Shadow just three minutes to reach the vantage point he wanted: the rear street in back of the old arcade. During that interim, the elevated train stopped at a station and an oily faced man stepped off.
The passenger was Grease Rickel; he had caught the signal given by Flush Tygert with his cigarette lighter.
In his turn, Grease was spied by crooks below. He didn't have to leave the
elevated platform. He merely stepped to the rail and gave a quick gesture. It started the real fireworks. Flush had supplied the flame; Grease was the fuse.
Instantly, a brawl broke loose outside the old arcade. It looked as though
two bums had started to grab for a loose dime that they saw in the gutter and their scramble brought a flood of others, like sparrows flocking for a crust of
bread.
The sudden strife brought shouts from policemen, followed by the pound of footbeats. Then, as the brawl increased, a whistle sounded.
Fighters accepted the police signal as their own. Not only did they break apart; there was a flash of revolvers, followed by quick-stabbed shots in the direction of the officers. Diving for shelter of doorways and elevated pillars,
the police pulled their own guns, to return the fire.
Like a thing rehearsed, the swirl of shabby men went into the entrance of the arcade. Thinking the opposition poorly armed and in retreat, the officers followed, their own fire bringing up reserves, who were prompt to aid them.
No outside aid could have stopped the coming slaughter. The charging police were thrusting themselves into the ugliest ambush ever designed in the badlands.
Seldom did crime's success depend upon such wholesale killing. Few big brains of crime, no matter how fiendish or desperate, cared to stir the vengeance of the law by a massacre of policemen. But tonight's crime had a reverse twist which slaughter would aid, and it was being managed by a supercrook who could laugh at the law after the deed was done.
The police would never find Five-face, no matter how far they looked for him. He had wiped out one personality, that of Jake Smarley. He could as easily
dispose of his present guise. With crime done, Flush Tygert would no longer exist.
Five-face had given the word for slaughter in the name of Flush Tygert, and gleeful mobsters were eager to deliver death. Banked within the entrance of
the old arcade were two squads of marksmen, four to a side, waiting for the decoys to bring the police into the fatal mesh.
No longer posing as bums, the killers held big revolvers of .45 caliber.
They had chosen the "smokewagons" as weapons in order that their bullets would produce a fuller share of carnage. As the last batch of decoys came diving into
shelter, a harsh voice gave the word:
"Give it!"
With the signal, assistance came to the officers, who were already in full
sight. It didn't come from outside the arcade; that was impossible. The men who
sprang the surprise were in the very midst of the crooks.
Four in number, The Shadow's agents. One pair had entered the arcade earlier; the other two had hurried in with the decoys. But all four had the same objective.
Whipping out guns of their own, they flung themselves upon the firing squads, slashing hard at heads and arms, determined to prevent the reception that the crooks intended for the police.