THE deal began. The game proceeded. Amid clouding cigar smoke, the five players kept up terse snatches of conversation as hundred-dollar chips changed hands as lightly as if they had been worthless disks of cardboard.
“Seen Velvet Laffrey lately?”
Rowdy Kirshing, squeezing five cards in his left hand, peered from the corner of his eye as he heard one player address the question to another.
“No,” came the reply. “Maybe he’s scrammed from town.”
“They say the bulls are looking for him.” The speaker paused; when no return comment came, he added: “Maybe they think he was the guy who hooked Hubert Apprison.”
Silence followed, broken only by the clicking of chips. The speaker’s reference had been to the disappearance of a prominent banker. Newspaper reports were to the effect that Hubert Apprison had been kidnapped.
The man who had brought up the subject said no more. Direct references to individual crime activities were taboo at this protected club. Rowdy Kirshing, his poker face inflexible, dropped four chips on the center of the table to raise a bet.
The game continued. Rowdy’s stack of chips was dwindling. Some one commented on the fact. The big shot laughed.
“Guess I’ll be buying some more,” he asserted. “It always takes a few grand to get started.”
“What’s a few grand to you, Rowdy?” laughed one of the players.
“Not much,” decided Rowdy. “I go in for big dough. And it’s as big as ever.”
With this retort, the big shot arose from the table. He reached in his right coat pocket and counted off the remainder of his roll, a matter of four thousand dollars. He pulled a revolver from his pocket and planked it carelessly upon the table, while he fished in his pocket for loose bills.
Grinning as he found none, Rowdy reached into his left pocket. He drew out a fat bundle of crisp notes. The stack was encircled with a broad strip of paper. The eyes of the players bulged as they saw the high denominations on the bills when Rowdy Kirshing riffled the ends.
Holding the stack in his left hand, the big shot tried to pull a group of bills free from the others. He wanted to do this without breaking the encircling paper band. The speculative players wondered why, but gave the matter little thought. Had they been able to view the side of the packet that was toward Rowdy’s eyes, their passing curiosity would have become keen interest.
THE near side of the band was marked, not with a printed or written statement of amount, but with a most unusual emblem. Thrust through the band itself was a feather of jet-black hue.
It was this object that Rowdy Kirshing did not want the other men to see. That was why he did not tear the band. He glowered, as the tightly-packed bills failed to come free. The players leaned back in their chairs and waited.
Thus came momentary silence, that lacked even the slight clicking of poker chips. It was the sudden lull that caused Rowdy Kirshing to look up quickly as his ears detected an unexpected sound from across the room.
Rowdy was facing the door; the other men stared as they caught the expression that appeared upon the big shot’s face. Rowdy’s hands stopped their motion. Gripping the ends of the packet of bills, the racketeer gazed in petrified horror.
The others turned their heads in alarm. Like Rowdy, they became as statues. Unseen, unheard, some stranger had entered the secluded gaming room. Like a specter from the night, a figure had appeared before these men of crime.
Looming just within the door was a tall form clad in black. A cloak of sable hue hid the arrival’s body. The upturned collar concealed his features. The turned-down brim of a black slouch hat obscured the visitor’s forehead. All that showed from that darkened visage was a pair of burning eyes that focused themselves upon the crisp bills gripped in Rowdy Kirshing’s hands.
From a black-gloved fist extended a huge automatic, its mighty muzzle looming with a threat of instant death. It was the sight of that weapon that caused five watching men to quail.
Then, as no one moved, there came a token more terrifying than either the being himself or the mammoth gun which he displayed. A whisper crept from unseen lips. It rose to a quivering, shuddering laugh that echoed sibilantly through the room.
That was the laugh feared throughout the underworld. It was the cry that men of crime knew for a knell of doom.
The laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II
THE SHADOW SPEAKS
THE SHADOW!
Every one of the five racketeers trembled at the sound of the visitant’s laugh. Though four knew that the sinister sound was directed toward one — Rowdy Kirshing — there was no comfort for them.
These men were crooks. To them, crime had become a science. Payers for protection, they had found ways to offset the efforts of the police. But, like all denizens of gang land, they held a common fear.
They knew that all participants in crime were threatened by a common menace. They knew that a mysterious fighter was ever ready to battle with those who fought the law. They had heard tales of a being clad in black, a lone wolf whom none could balk; and they knew that he was called The Shadow.
Swift death came to those who sought to thwart The Shadow. Often had this phantom being arrived in spots where gangsters lurked, to deal vengeance upon fiends who plotted crime. But of all spots in Manhattan where security from The Shadow could have been expected, this guarded gaming room within the steel-domed club had promised greatest security.
The Shadow’s presence was incredible. The trapped men stared as though viewing a ghost. There was an unreality about the black-clad shape; but it was brought to grim actuality by the tokens of The Shadow’s power.
The blazing eyes; the looming automatic; the weirdly whispered laugh — these were signs of The Shadow’s wrath. The men who saw and heard were quivering. Not a hand stirred as horrified minds hoped only that The Shadow would concentrate upon the man who first had seen him — Rowdy Kirshing.
A moment of chilling silence. Then came The Shadow’s voice. A sneering whisper formed words that hissed with terrible threat.
“Rowdy Kirshing!” The Shadow’s tones seemed to mock the name that they uttered. “I have found you with ill-gotten spoils. Before I depart, you will tell me of their source. You will betray the part that you have played in evil crime!”
The tall form was moving inward from the door. There was weirdness in The Shadow’s approach. As his dreaded figure neared the table, the seated men crouched away; but all held their hands above their heads as token of surrender.
ROWDY KIRSHING’S face still wore its sullen fear. His hands, however, were trembling. The crisp bills crinkled between them. The big shot was cowed.
“Speak!” The Shadow’s voice was commanding. “Tell me the name of the underling who has served you!”
Rowdy’s lips were rigid. Then, like the big shot’s hands, they began to tremble. The menace of The Shadow’s automatic seemed imminent.
“Speak!” came The Shadow’s harrowing tone.
“Terry,” gasped Rowdy Kirshing. “Terry — Terry Rukes. He’s the fellow — who’s working for me. But I’m not in it—”
The Shadow’s laugh came as a chilling interruption. Rowdy Kirshing’s scarred face showed pallor.
“You are the go-between,” sneered The Shadow. “The money in your hands is payment for your services. You have purchased men for crime.”
Rowdy Kirshing’s protest ended. There was accusation in The Shadow’s sinister utterance. The big shot could not meet it.
“Name the man,” came The Shadow’s order, “who has provided the funds for crime.”
It was a moment before Rowdy Kirshing gained his voice. His words, when uttered, were hoarse, with a plaintive quaver that seemed incongruous from his roughened lips.