The little gangster tapped on an upstairs door. He followed this signal with a whispered statement:
“It’s Pasty.”
“Come in,” was the response from the room beyond the door.
“Pasty” entered to find a thickset man seated by the window of a gaslighted room. The shade was drawn and the occupant was alone. Pasty, whose flour-white countenance showed the origin of his nickname, grinned as he extended an envelope and a post card.
“Here you are, Boots,” he solid. “I picked these up at the office like you told me to.”
“BOOTS” examined the post card. On the front, it bore the address of the Eastern Specialty Company, but it carried no message. The back of the card showed the picture of a New Orleans hotel.
Boots made no comment. He merely tossed the card on the table beside him. He examined the envelope. It was also addressed to the Eastern Specialty Company, and it was post-marked Daltona, Georgia. Boots dropped the envelope with the post card.
“Thanks, Pasty,” he said. “These don’t mean nothin’. Just the same, I thought you might as well get ‘em for me an’ bring ‘em here to the hideout. Nobody saw you sneakin’ in here, did they?”
Pasty shook his head.
“Nobody seen me,” he responded, “but I ain’t sure nobody wasn’t watchin’ me somewhere along the line. You know how I am, Boots. I can spot anythin’ that’s wrong before it begins. Seems to me like there was someone hangin’ around that office where you sent me. D’ya think there could’ve been any one layin’ there?”
“Up there?” quizzed Boots. “Nah! Forget it. You’re the only guy I ever sent up there. That place ain’t got nothin’ to do with the racket. I just wanted you to go up so I wouldn’t have to slide out of here. That’s all. Just so long as nobody seen you doin’ a sneak in here, it’s O.K.”
“Well,” responded Pasty, “there’s a lot of gorillas who’ve got it in for Boots Marcus. It ain’t a bad idea to be careful.”
“Well,” growled Boots, “I’m hidin’ out, ain’t I? You don’t think I’m scared, do you? The only thing is, I’m wise. Keepin’ in here saves me a lot of trouble. That’s why I use you as a go-between.
“You make a good messenger boy, Pasty. When there’s anythin’ doin’, then’s when I step out with the mob. Believe me, Pasty, there’s a lot of bozos who wouldn’t be pushin’ up posies if they’d been as wise as I am.”
“Sure enough,” agreed Pasty.
“O.K.,” responded Boots. “Scram. Stick around with the mob an’ come let me know when they’re ready to go out. Remind me then that I’ll have a letter to mail.”
“You’re a great guy, Boots,” commented Pasty. “Here the mob has a hangout half a block from your hideout, and they don’t have no idea where you’re layin’. It makes me laugh sometimes—”
“Can that hokum!” rejoined Boots, with a growl. “Your business is to do what I tell you, an’ quit thinkin’ too much. Go on, now. Scram!”
Pasty grinned and opened the door of the room. He waved a scrawny hand in parting; then closed the door.
Boots Marcus picked up the post card and the envelope.
IN the underworld, Boots Marcus was known as the tough leader of a flock of trained gorillas. He and his gang had a racket of their own — blocking the plans of would-be big shots. As a result, Boots, though fearless when at the head of his pack, considered it the part of discretion to keep away from the live spots of the bad lands.
Pasty, who cut but little figure in the underworld, was, as Boots had remarked, the gang leader’s messenger. He was the go-between who kept up contact with the mob. But of late, Boots, guarding himself more closely than usual, had given Pasty a new duty. This was the job of visiting a small, deserted office on an uptown street, to bring back any mail that might be there.
Communications to the Eastern Specialty Company were comparatively few. They were chiefly picture post cards, like the one Boots now held. On other occasions, Boots had received envelopes. These he forwarded instead of keeping.
Tonight, in conformity with his method, Boots Marcus produced a larger envelope than the one that had come by mail. Upon its face he wrote the name of Craig Kimble. He looked at the picture postcard, and used the name of the New Orleans hotel as the address on the envelope which he was inscribing. Then he inserted the letter that Pasty had brought, and sealed the large envelope.
As he completed the duty, Boots Marcus shrugged his shoulders. Opening a drawer in the table, he tossed the post card within.
After affixing a stamp, Boots placed the envelope in his pocket. He arose from his chair and walked away from the window. He glanced upward in an absent-minded fashion, and stood stock-still.
Facing him, from just within the door, Boots Marcus saw a man clad in black. Tall, weird, and imposing, this personage might have come through the floor, so unnoticed had his entrance been. A long, flowing cloak hung from the visitor’s shoulders. A broad-brimmed hat obscured his features. Only his eyes were visible as they shone with penetrating gaze.
It was not the eyes alone, however, that impressed Boots Marcus. In an outstretched, black-gloved hand, the stranger held a huge automatic. The muzzle of the weapon yawned like the entrance of a tunnel as Boots viewed it with alarm.
The gang leader never budged when he saw that he was covered. The only change that came over him was a pallor that swept his face.
For Boots Marcus, man of the underworld, knew that he was in the power of The Shadow!
IT was an axiom in the bad lands that a meeting such as this was a sure forerunner of death. Boots Marcus, engaged only in wolfish battles with others of his ilk, had felt himself somewhat immune from The Shadow’s wrath.
But it was also known that the ways of The Shadow were mysterious. He seldom gave a reason when he struck. Hence, Boots Marcus, petrified by sudden terror, felt the sign of approaching doom.
A low, soft laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Whatever doubt Boots had entertained regarding the identity of this phantom being were now dispelled. That laugh carried an unearthly echo.
Boots had heard talk of The Shadow’s laugh. Now he had heard the chilling tones themselves. The gang leader shuddered.
“Go back to where you were,” came The Shadow’s voice, in solemn, whispered tones. “Sit down — by the window. I have questions to ask you.”
Boots Marcus obeyed mechanically. For the first moment since he had seen The Shadow, he felt a touch of relief. The eerie whisper was fearful; but its words at least offered a chance for parley.
“I ain’t done nothin’ against you,” began Boots, in a choking, fear-tinged tone. “What d’ya got against me? I ain’t never even as much as tried to buck The Shadow—”
A repetition of the laugh curbed the plea that Boots was making. The laugh was sinister now. Its foreboding tones made Boots decide that silence was in order.
“You have recognized me.” The Shadow’s words came in a weird monotone. “That is excellent. It will enable us to terminate our business promptly.”
The Shadow was approaching the gang leader. The automatic was directly before the eyes of Boots Marcus. The hard-boiled mobster quailed. Then The Shadow’s free hand was extended.
“Give me the envelope that is in your pocket,” demanded The Shadow.
Boots fumbled for the envelope and produced it. The Shadow took it from him. The envelope disappeared beneath the black cloak.
“Now those postal cards,” added The Shadow. “The cards with which you placed the one that you received tonight.”
Boots gasped as he realized that The Shadow must have entered immediately after Pasty had departed. The Shadow had seen the post card that went in the drawer. He had seen other cards lying there.