Apparently, the occupant of this apartment lived in extreme simplicity; but his surroundings did not seem to trouble him. He was fully concentrated upon his work at the typewriter. If he held any contact with the outside world, it could only have been by means of a telephone which was perched upon a stack of directories in the corner.
A bell buzzed. Not the telephone; this signal indicated some one at the front door. The weary-faced man looked up, his face alarmed. He hesitated; the buzz was repeated.
Going to the door, he pressed a button to admit the visitor through the front door. Then he opened the door of the apartment and peered out into the hall.
An angle of the wall blocked the weary man’s view. But he could hear some one approaching. Clumsy, faltering footsteps were punctuated by heavy groans. Wondering, the weary man waited.
A huge, bulky figure bulged into view. The man at the apartment door saw an ugly face that showed distorted agony; he observed that the arrival was pressing his left hand against a spot below his right shoulder. Big, grimy fingers were stained with blood that dripped with every ooze.
“Slugger!” gasped the weary-faced man. “Slugger Haskew!”
“You — you’re Jerry Kobal.” Slugger stared groggily as he spoke. “Jerry Kobal. Thought — thought I’d find you here. Lemme in, Jerry. I got somethin’ dat I got to tell youse.”
Jerry hesitated. His lips twitched; then, pitiful of the big mauler’s plight, he decided to let Slugger enter.
He stepped aside; Slugger staggered through the doorway.
Jerry closed the door and tried to guide the crippled killer to the couch in the bedroom. Slugger pushed him aside with his free right hand. He chose the chair instead. Jerry produced a glass of water from the kitchenette. Slugger gulped the liquid. It revived him for the moment.
“Listen, Jerry,” he growled, “I’m t’rough! I got mine! I’m t’rough! Youse was de only guy I could get to, see? Beef told me onct dat you was livin’ here — widout no name on de door — just dat you was livin’ in dis apartment—”
SLUGGER sank wearily; then, with an ugly snarl, he straightened up and glared toward Jerry. Shoving his big right hand beneath his coat, the mauler pulled out a crumpled parchment. It was the Latin scroll.
One corner of the document was smeared with blood; but none of the wording had been obliterated.
“You gotta take dis, see?” Slugger was harsh as he spoke. “Scram outta here. I’m gonna croak, so dat don’t matter. Don’t leave nothin’ dat will put de cops wise. Dey’ll t’ink dis is my hide-out. Get it?”
Jerry began to shake his head.
“Can’t do it, Slugger,” he stated. “I’ve gone straight. No more dirty work for me. Right now, I’m writing out my own story. I’ve got enough cash to see me through until I sell it. All about the rackets that I’m through with — what I went through while I was in the Big House—”
“Can dat mush!” growled Slugger. “Youse is wid me. Savvy? If you t’ink you ain’t—”
The big man came half up from the chair. He still had stamina for combat. Jerry winced as he saw the mauler raise a bludgeonlike fist. Even though wounded, Slugger would be a formidable antagonist.
“I’ll get you to a sawbones, Slugger,” pleaded Jerry. “This telephone is still connected, even though it isn’t mine. I’m through with crooked stuff; but I’m willing to call a doc who isn’t too particular about his patients. If—”
“Lay off,” growled Slugger. “I don’t want to see no croaker. I’m t’rough, I tell you! Kickin’ in! You’re doin’ what I tell you, Jerry.” With a thrust, Slugger shoved his right hand in his pocket and yanked out his .38, to aim the weapon at his companion.
“You’re doin’ what I tell you — an’ if you ain’t, dis gat goes off! Dat will bring de cops here” — Slugger’s distorted grin was vicious — “bring de cops here, dat’s what it’ll do.”
Jerry’s eyes gleamed suddenly. The fellow nodded and motioned for Slugger to lower the revolver.
“I’m with you, Slugger,” announced Jerry, his face betraying a wise look that the dying mauler did not notice. “Give me that paper. While I’m packing up, you tell me what I’m to do.”
He clutched the scroll, rolled it and thrust it in his pocket. He hurriedly shoved the typewriter in its case and began to gather up the pages of his manuscript, with the blank sheets as well. He rolled them, bound them with a rubber band and thrust them in his other pocket.
Slugger was speaking, his eyes half closed, his voice almost a groan. His words, however, were plain.
“Go to dat old hotel — you know de joint — de place dey call de Alcadia. Stick dere, Jerry. Wait until some guy comes to see you. A guy called De Creeper—”
“The Creeper?”
“Dat’s it. Give him de paper dat I handed you.”
“How will he know I’m there, Slugger?”
“Don’t worry about dat. Leave dat to me. Scram outta here, in a hurry. Got dat paper, Jerry?”
“I’ve got it.” Jerry was in the bedroom, donning hat and overcoat. “Hotel Alcadia. Wait there for The Creeper. How’ll I know him, though, Slugger?”
“When youse hear him,” replied Slugger, groaning. “You’ll know it’s him. De way he walks — wid a creep — dat’s why dey call him De Creeper. He’s a big shot — dat’s what he is—”
JERRY KOBAL had gathered his few belongings. With a sad shake of his head, he clapped Slugger on the back. Pockets bulging, typewriter case in hand, he hurried from the apartment. In his haste to reach the front door, he did not notice the trail of bloodstains on the floor of the dim hall.
Outside, Jerry hastened to the nearest corner. Turning it, he kept on, getting away from this dangerous vicinity. His weary face was serious as he headed for the subway. For Jerry had gained sudden fear of the consequences that might follow, had he remained with Slugger Haskew. He was confident that the big mauler had been engaged in murderous activities.
One minute after Jerry Kobal had turned the corner, a form appeared beneath the lamplight of the street above. The glow showed a fleeting trace of a cloaked figure. Keen eyes spied another blood mark on the sidewalk. The Shadow was closing in on Slugger’s trail.
Blending with darkness, he crossed the street. His flashlight glimmered to locate a dull red spot near the front of the old building that was now an apartment house.
In Jerry Kobal’s untidy apartment, Slugger Haskew was still seated in the chair. His breathing, coming in long heaves, stopped tensely. His eyes opened; the murderer looked about. He saw that Jerry was gone.
Half snarling, half groaning, Slugger twisted himself from the chair. He staggered to the corner, slumped to the floor; then grasped the telephone with his right fist. He withdrew his left hand from his wound, changed his grip on the telephone and clumsily dialed a number with his right forefinger.
A voice responded over the wire. It was Nick Curlin. Groggily, Slugger spoke, coughing his harsh words into the mouthpiece of the telephone.
“Dis is Slugger,” he informed. “I–I got clipped! I’m t’rough, Nicky… Yeah. T’rough… Sure, I got de paper. Off of Dopey… Yeah, I bumped de mug… No, I ain’t got de paper here…
“I slipped it to anodder guy… Wot’s his name? Is he wise? Sure dis guy is. Jerry Kobal. Dat’s who I slipped de paper to… Yeah, Jerry Kobal… Yeah, I told him to be at de Alcadia. To wait for De Creeper…
“You better close dat gym of yours, Nick… Better take it on de lam… De Shadow’s in dis. He’s de guy dat plugged me…”