He was known as a killer — a free lance mobster of enviable repute.
Cliff Marsland always had a bank roll. He never appeared anxious to throw in his lot with the mob leaders who wanted his services. Cliff knew the big shots; he gave deliberate consideration whenever he was offered a lieutenancy.
This was proof of The Shadow’s strategy. The stool pigeons whom the police employed as agents were skulking small-fry, easily spotted if they tried to learn too much. But Cliff Marsland, the man who spied for The Shadow, was recognized as a superior type of crook. Whenever he was absent from the haunts of gangland, it was presumed that he was pulling some big job. Cliff always returned with plenty of money in pocket.
ON the night after Wycroft Dustin’s strange death, Cliff Marsland was present at a gangster hang-out known as the Black Ship. This was the third successive visit that he had made to that notorious dive.
Two nights ago, Cliff had dropped in from nowhere. Last night, he had arrived a second time.
Apparently, his only purpose was the renewal of old acquaintances.
Seated at a corner table in the Black Ship, Cliff was spied by a scrawny, hunch-shouldered mobster who chanced to enter. The fellow came sidling in Cliff’s direction and his mealy mouth formed an ugly smile as he seated himself opposite. Cliff Marsland, calm-faced and stolid in demeanor, gave a slight nod as he recognized this old acquaintance.
“Hello, Punks,” said Cliff.
“Hello, Cliff,” returned the mealy-mouthed gangster. “Where you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Out of town,” replied Cliff in a noncommittal tone.
This was the regular form of greeting that Cliff had given to other old acquaintances. Every time a mobster had accosted him, he had let the fellow do the talking. This particular denizen of the underworld, “Punks” Gumbert, was no different from many of the others with whom Cliff had exchanged brief words.
“Ain’t seen you often since we was out of the Big House,” asserted Punks. “Guess you’ve been doin’ like I have — playin’ a close game.”
Cliff nodded. Punks Gumbert had been in Sing Sing during Cliff’s term of residence at that institution.
“I ain’t askin’ none of your business,” continued Punks, “because it’s your business — not mine. But I ain’t got no reason to keep mum on my own layout. I’m runnin’ with Duke Scurley, an’ it’s a great racket.”
Cliff had heard of “Duke” Scurley. The man was a former mobster who had turned to racketeering.
Scurley had a mob, and Punks Gumbert was evidently a typical henchman.
“If you ain’t doin’ nothin’,” resumed Punks, in a friendly tone, “I can square you in with Duke Scurley.”
Cliff gave no sign of being interested in the offer. He did, however, make a comment which brought a grin from Punks Gumbert.
“Short-handed?” questioned Cliff. “What does that mean — is the racket spreading out or have some of the gang taken the bump?”
“Both,” responded Punks. “Say, you figure things quick, Cliff. You know how the rackets work. Once in a while some guys get theirs.”
“From the bulls?” questioned Cliff calmly.
“Naw,” Punks shook his head, “You don’t think I’d be in the graft if there was trouble with the bulls, do you? I don’t want to go back up the river.”
“So I thought.”
“There’s wise guys that mooch in every racket, Cliff. That is, guys that think they’re wise — until they bump up with Duke Scurley. He shows ‘em different.”
Cliff shrugged his shoulders. The gesture indicated that he was not interested in the affairs of Duke Scurley.
The action made Punks Gumbert more anxious to explain himself.
“Duke’s all right,” asserted the gangster. “He don’t take nobody for a ride, except the guys that have tried to double-cross him. I could tell you how Duke works.”
“The same as every one else, probably.”
PUNKS GUMBERT leered. He looked about him to make sure that no one was listening. Leaning across the table, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Listen, Cliff,” were his words. “Duke Scurley ain’t no slouch. He’s a wise bimbo. When he puts ‘em on the spot, they just slide out. Savvy?”
“They all slide out anyway,” commented Cliff.
“Not like Duke does it,” retorted Punks. “Say — he don’t leave no corpses layin’ around on dump heaps. Where they go — well, Duke’s the guy that knows. Listen — maybe you’ve heard about a few smart gazebos who went for rides and never came back. But you don’t know what’s become of ‘em.”
“No.” Cliff’s manner became derisive. “What are you doing, Punks? Handing me riddles?”
“I ain’t kiddin’, Cliff,” protested Punks. “You’ve heard of Sailor Cook, ain’t you? He went for a ride, didn’t he? Did they ever find him full of lead? You bet they didn’t. I’ll tell you another guy’s name, too. Spud Jagron. Did you ever hear of him?”
Cliff had. His purpose here in the underworld was to gain traces of Spud Jagron. The Shadow’s agent, however, gave no sign of interest in the name. Cliff nodded slowly, as though the mention of Spud Jagron had brought up dim recollections.
“Duke Scurley took both of them guys for a ride,” declared Punks. “I was with him. I seen what happened to them. That’s why I know how wise Duke is.”
“What does he use?” snorted Cliff. “Gold-plated bullets? To make them feel good when they’re going out?”
“He don’t do nothin’ to ‘em!” returned Punks, triumphantly. “He leaves that for some other guy. He takes ‘em for a ride all right; but he drops ‘em off and some other bimbo picks ‘em up to do the dirty work.”
“Taking chances, isn’t he.”
“Have they come back? None of ‘em. Listen, Cliff. Duke has got a racket that has me buffaloed. He gets rid of them eggs that he doesn’t want — and that ain’t all of it. I’m puttin’ you wise because I know you. Duke Scurley get’s a grand for every one of them guys he gets rid of.”
“Have you gone goofy, Punks?” questioned Cliff. “I didn’t know you played the loop joints. Let’s see your arm — I want to look for needle points.”
“Think I’m kiddin’ you?” laughed Punks. “Well, I ain’t. I’ve told you the lay. Listen to the rest of it. I’m in right with Duke Scurley, see? One night, I hear him gettin’ a phone call. Says O.K. to somethin’ — and wants to know about the dough.
“After that, we grab Sailor Cook and take him for a ride. We got him tied and gagged. Duke drives way uptown somewhere — I don’t know where the place is, because I’m in the back seat shovin’ a gat into Sailor’s ribs.
“We pull up by a little alleyway, outside of an old empty house. We dump Sailor in the alley. We go out and wait. After about five minutes, Duke takes a look. Says O.K. We ride away.
“You know what happened? Somebody grabbed Sailor Cook and took him out the other end of the alley.
“We done the same thing with Spud Jagron. And there’s other smart wisenheimers that have gone the same route. A grand, Duke Scurley gets, for each of ‘em — for gettin’ rid of guys he don’t want.”
“A cheap racket,” commented Cliff.
“That ain’t Duke’s racket,” protested Punks. “That’s just a side line. Say — Duke needs a good guy like you for his mob. Stick along with me, Cliff — you’re my pal, see? I’ll get you in the money — and if you don’t believe this story I’ve been handin’ you, come along and see it for yourself.”
“What is Duke’s regular racket?” quizzed Cliff.
“A protective association,” explained Punks. “You know the idea. He shakes down warehouse owners. If they don’t come across with dough, we raid their vans. The trouble is, guys like Sailor Cook and Spud Jagron get the idea of startin’ a racket on their own. When Duke sees that, he gets rid of ‘em. Savvy?”