“Dere ain’t no trick to usin’ dem. Just give a heave; de end pops off an’ goes blooey.” He picked up one of the pineapples. “Like dis. Only let de ting go. Don’t hang on to it like I did. Get me?”
The others nodded. They formed a tense group in this little room behind the iron door that Skeet had locked as an additional precaution. Skeet dived under the table and fetched up a stack of gas masks. They were provided with goggles that projected above a small cylinder that was made to cover the nose.
“Dese take the stuff dat queers de gas,” explained Skeet. “We wear dem under big handkerchiefs so no guy gets no chanct to lamp dem, see? Now dese masks ain’t no good if dey don’t have de stuff in dem.”
“You got to empty dem after each trip. De stuff keeps, just so long as it don’t get hit by de gas. But dat puts it on de blink. De gas does. Dese masks are empty. Watch while I fill dem.”
FROM beneath the table, Skeet brought out a gallon jug, which was about one third empty. It contained a greenish liquid. The bottle was corked; a tin funnel was inverted on top of it. Skeet ordered Muggsy to hold a gas mask with the cylinder open. He set the bottle on the table; produced a small sponge which he thrust into the cylinder of the mask; then inserted the funnel.
Carefully, Skeet uncorked the big bottle and poured a small quantity of the fluid into the mask. He replaced the bottle, leaving the cork out. He showed the gorilla how to close the cylinder and lock it. Then he took the mask from Muggsy’s hands.
It was Skeet’s intention to replace the mask on the table and proceed with the filling of others. Before Skeet could do so, however, Cliff reached forward and took the gas mask from Skeet’s hands. He examined it in the light.
“This thing is all set?” questioned Cliff. “Ready to use when we go out?”
Skeet nodded.
“And all you’ve got to cover is your eyes and nose?”
“Dat’s right. But keep your mouth shut. Don’t breathe dat way. We ain’t got no piece to cover de mouth because we want de bandannas to cover de whole mask. See?”
“I get you.”
In natural fashion, Cliff attached the gas mask to his head. The others looked on curiously, interested to see how easily the job could be done. Skeet paused with his hands on the large bottle, figuring that this was good instruction for the new crew. Grins appeared when the others saw Cliff in his outfit.
“All set,” remarked Cliff, smiling in return. “All I need” — he looked toward the table and thrust his hand in the big box — “is one of these.”
“Look out dere!” exclaimed Skeet, as he saw Cliff pluck a bomb from the box.
“Don’t monkey wid dem pineapples yet. Easy dere, easy—”
Cliff had stepped back with the bomb. Skeet started forward with an expression of alarm, which the others shared. Before the little crook had taken more than a single step, Cliff performed the unexpected. He had raised his hand; now, with a quick motion, he swung his fist forward and hurled the pineapple to the stone floor.
The bomb burst with a seething hiss. Instantly, a green cloud filled the room, obscuring the figures of those who stood therein. The vapor settled. Cliff, staring, saw the amazing result. His companions were rooted to the floor.
Skeet had settled back toward the table. Muggsy was leaning up against the wall, in a rigid pose. Gabby and Louie, away from table or wall, were balanced oddly on their feet in strained positions. Their bodies were swaying. Gabby’s toppled as Cliff stared; then Louie’s form lost its balance and went tumbling.
Only Cliff had evaded the death sleep. This was by virtue of the mask that he had donned. Cliff stepped over and found Skeet’s keys. He unlocked the iron door to the hall. It opened inward. Cliff saw no need for hurry. The gas had subsided promptly; drops of moisture were drying on the floor.
One task remained. Cliff went back to the table and pushed the big bottle over the edge. The jug smashed; the precious neutralizer splashed across the floor and formed greenish streams that trickled in the direction of the doorway.
THE atmosphere had cleared. The neutralizer was following the evaporation process that had marked the disappearance of the gas drops. Cliff removed his mask, pulled out the sponge and dropped it down a grated drain that he found in the corridor.
His job was done. He had orders to leave the bombs untouched. The whole affair was to look like an accident — as if Cliff had not been here. A bomb set off by mistake; the neutralizer spilled — that would be all. But it left Spud Claxter without a crew; and it meant that no new raiders could fare forth protected against the fumes of the bombs that they might throw.
As Cliff turned back into the little room, he heard a click from down the hall. Someone was opening the door in the passage. Cliff dived back into the little room and shut the door. He locked it. Then he realized the futility of his action.
This must be Spud, coming alone, to see if the crew had assembled. Had Cliff drawn a gun, he could have made a break for it. That was too late. The light in the passage told Spud that Skeet and the others were here. The fact that Spud had a key for the outer door indicated that he had one for this door also.
Spud would be on the alert. He would see trickles of green that had gone out through the doorway. The chances were that Cliff would be trapped. A fight offered the way out even yet; but Cliff feared that it might injure The Shadow’s plans. The game was to make this whole affair look like an accident.
Quickly, Cliff drew the little bag from his pocket. He brought out the syringe and jabbed it in his forearm. Someone was pounding at the door: Spud had arrived. He was announcing himself by name. Cliff was grim.
The keys! He had almost forgotten them. He shoved them back in Skeet’s pocket. The syringe! He must dispose of it. Cliff thrust the needle through the bag; leaning against the table, he reached beneath and pressed the point deep into the woodwork.
Neither object would be found. Spud could come in any time. He was still pounding at the door, but that meant nothing to Cliff. The opiate from the syringe was working. Cliff swayed dizzily and slumped softly to the floor. Consciousness faded.
Two minutes later, Spud Claxter decided to unlock the door. The barrier swung inward. The mobleader started in consternation. Five henchmen — all in a stupor. The neutralizer gone! Fierce curses came from Spud’s evil lips.
Crime was off for tonight. This crew of rookies had made some blunder. A dropped gas bomb; a broken jug. That ended the game that Wolf Barlan had planned. Spud fumed; then became calm. He knew that he would have to take care of these henchmen. That meant a call to Wolf for instructions.
Spud looked the crowd over before he left to call Wolf. Cliff Marsland, like the others, was lying in a rigid posture. He passed Spud’s inspection. The mobleader took Cliff — like the others — for a victim of the death sleep.
That emergency measure, the use of the quick-acting hypodermic, had been the final touch of The Shadow’s scheme. It had served Cliff Marsland when he needed it. The thrust was made. All was well. Through his agent, The Shadow had delivered a stroke to forestall crime.
CHAPTER XIX
AT THE HOSPITAL
EARLY the next evening, Lamont Cranston’s limousine drew up in front of the Talleyrand Hospital. Two persons alighted; one was Cranston, the other, Commissioner Wainwright Barth. They were chatting as they went up the steps.
“It is nearly forty-eight hours since the crime was attempted at Galder’s,” Barth was explaining. “If the present victims responded as did the others, they should be recovering very soon.”