Still fumbling, Boots produced the post cards. He handed them, in a small bunch, to The Shadow.
Holding the cards within his gloved left hand, The Shadow, with a smooth, skilled motion, spread them so they formed a wide fan. He raised his hand so that he could look at the cards, and still watch Boots Marcus.
With one glance, he noted that the addresses of the cards were identical. Turning his hand over, The Shadow viewed the reverse sides. Every one of the cards bore the picture of a hotel in a different city.
With another short note of mirth, The Shadow slipped the post cards beneath his cloak. His automatic followed. With folded arms, The Shadow faced Boots Marcus.
The gang leader gasped. The Shadow had deliberately put away his weapon! Could this be a gesture of friendliness? It seemed incredible!
IN his pocket, Boots had a revolver. He realized that it would be possible for him to draw it now. But deep in his dulled brain, the gang leader knew that he could never beat The Shadow on the draw. His only relief came from the fact that temporarily, at least, The Shadow had granted a respite.
“Who is Craig Kimble?” questioned The Shadow.
Boots Marcus hesitated. He eyed his questioner for a few moments; then responded:
“I don’t know.”
The Shadow laughed. His black right hand slipped out of view. Boots sensed the menace of the automatic. He chewed his lips nervously.
“I know the game, Marcus,” declared The Shadow coldly. “I entered that office before this mail came in. It is plain what those post cards mean. I am giving you your chance to tell all that you know. If you do not—”
The sentence ended with a laugh as The Shadow’s hand swept into view. The muzzle of an automatic pressed itself against the forehead of Boots Marcus.
“I’ll — I’ll squawk!” whined the cowed gang leader. “I ain’t goin’ to bluff you. But if I squawk, will you call it quits?”
“I make but one promise,” announced The Shadow, in his chilling whisper. “If you fail to tell me all that you know, you will die. Speak — unless you prefer death.”
Marcus cringed away. He nodded as he felt the pressure of the automatic leave his forehead. The gun disappeared. The Shadow’s arms were once more folded. The threat however, still remained. Boots stared with blinking eyes and chewing lips.
“It don’t mean nothin’ to me,” he began. “I ain’t goin’ to try to hold out on you. If Charley had told me you was mixed in this, I’d have laid off. I don’t think I’d have touched it anyway if it hadn’t been because Charley had me buffaloed—”
Boots paused, as though in final effort to keep from telling what he knew. He fancied that he saw a motion of The Shadow’s right hand. A sudden fear swept over the gang leader. If that automatic should appear again, it might mean the end of The Shadow’s patience.
“Gimme a chance!” pleaded Boots. “I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you the whole works. It’s Charley that’s to blame — not me. Charley Kistelle. I used to work with Charley before he scrammed. That was nearly a couple of years ago. I don’t know why Charley cleared out.”
“Charles Kistelle fled,” declared The Shadow coldly, “because he feared me.”
Boots nodded unconsciously. A sudden understanding told him that by betraying Kistelle, he might save his own hide. It was Kistelle whom The Shadow wanted!
“I–I’ll tell you all I know about him,” repeated Boots. “I thought that Charley” — he paused suddenly, his eyes staring — “I didn’t know that Charley was in wrong with The Shadow. I know you’re The Shadow. You’ve got me — there ain’t nothin’ I can do.
“If I had my mob with me, I could put up a scrap; but there ain’t no chance of nobody comin’ here to help me. That’s why I’m goin’ to talk. If the mob knew what was goin’ on, they’d come here to help me. But there ain’t no use—”
Boots Marcus stared directly into The Shadow’s eyes. He cringed before their gleam; but in his heart, he felt a secret elation. He knew that he could stall no longer; The Shadow’s glance told him that. But Boots, by his sudden change of tone, had accomplished something that he was sure The Shadow could not suspect.
In his brief moment of hesitation, Boots had seen the door of the room move slightly. He realized that Pasty had returned. His words of pleading had been a secret warning to the little gangster. Pasty, crafty and skulking, had taken the tip. The door was moving no longer now.
“Proceed.”
The Shadow’s single word spoke volumes. Its tone showed that further stalling would not be countenanced. Boots Marcus knew that he would suffer if he taxed The Shadow’s patience.
“I’ll come clean,” said the gang leader. “Here’s the whole lay—”
With eyes half closed, Boots began his squealer’s story. He was betraying the man whom he called a friend — Charles Kistelle; but Boots had a purpose in the action. He was doing more than attempting to save his own skin. He was holding The Shadow here until his mob arrived!
CHAPTER XII
GUNS IN THE DARK
“I THOUGHT Charley Kistelle had taken the bump,” explained Boots Marcus to The Shadow. “Then all of a sudden he calls me up, pretty near a year ago. I knows his voice when I hears it. He wants to see me. I had this place then, an’ I told him to meet me here.
“When he comes, he taps on the door an’ says hello. I knows his voice again, see? But when he walks in, it ain’t Charley Kistelle! At least I didn’t think it was.
“When I seen Charley before he went away, he was a guy with a good-lookin’ mug. But this wasn’t the Charley that I’d used to how. He has a round, moony face, an’ he’s grinnin’ like a monkey.
“When I asks what’s happened to him, he just keeps on grinnin’. Says he’s fixed himself so’s nobody can figure who he is. Says he’s goin’ around to square things even with some guys he don’t like. He wants me to help him out. That’s when he tells me about the office an’ gives me a key to the place. All I had to do was go up there an’ pick up the mail.”
Boots Marcus paused to stare directly at The Shadow. The gang leader was using every effort to convince the blackclad master that he was telling the whole truth.
“Charley didn’t say nothin’ about you bein’ on his trail,” continued Boots. “He just asks me to help him out by sendin’ him any letters that come in. He says to use the name Craig Kimble, which was enough like his own moniker so’s I could remember it easy, without any chance of it givin’ him away.
“He never writes nothin’ — just sends post cards showin’ the picture of the hotel where he’s stoppin’ at the time. You picked up the last one. That’s all there is to it.”
“Except the letters,” declared The Shadow.
“Yeah,” agreed the gangster quickly. “There was some letters like the one that come in today. I never opened none of ‘em; just put ‘em in the new envelopes an’ sent ‘em on to Charley. I don’t know what he wanted ‘em for.”
“How many letters have you forwarded to Kistelle?” inquired The Shadow coldly.
“Just a few of ‘em,” began Boots. Then, as he saw The Shadow’s piercing eyes, he added: “Let’s see. There was one — two — three — this one was number four since Charley went away. You see, he was around here a lot of the time. It was pretty near three weeks ago he started out the last time. Before that, he’d go away once in a while, an’ just send me post cards. There weren’t any letters before these begin to come.”
“Where were the letters from?”
Boots acted as though he wanted to evade The Shadow’s question. The gang leader resented the domination which was being exerted over him. He was on the point of pretending that he could not recall any more concerning the letters; but he suddenly changed his mind.