A CLOCK from a tower near Judson Place was chiming the half hour. At that same minute, Rick Parrin was sauntering past the front of the old Criterion Trust building. Looking up, Rick made mental note of the number over the door. He continued around the corner; when he reached the inset side door, he found his men awaiting him.
The wooden blockade had been removed; it was merely leaning in position. Rick and another fellow pulled it aside; the group entered. Rick used a flashlight to pick out a stairway that led to the vault room below.
“Want to look around up here?” came a query from a subordinate. “It’s a big enough place — used to be the main room of the bank — and maybe somebody might be around.”
“Not a chance,” laughed Rick. “We’re going downstairs, to find the fellows who got here ahead of us.”
“The Creeper?”
“No. He won’t be here. That is, I don’t think he will. You never can tell about The Creeper, though. But he gave me the order to get the swag, and told me how. That’s why I figured he’s not coming.”
Rick’s underling threw a flashlight’s gleam about the main room; the passing glare showed nothing but darkened, splotchy corners of ragged walls that had once had marble facings. Clicking out the light, the fellow followed Rick and the others downstairs. He felt sure that the big room was empty.
Outside, on the street, a big truck was coming from Sixth Avenue. It stopped near the back door of the old bank. Its lights went out; as soon as they did, a huddled figure sneaked away from a door on the other side of the thoroughfare.
Moving rapidly, this hunched watcher kept on, past a darkened touring car wherein watching men were mumbling among themselves. The hunched man gained the corner without being seen.
Another touring car was parked up at the corner of the avenue. Gus and Carning had arrived in their truck; Zimmer and his divided band of touts were covering from both directions. The Creeper’s outside men were set.
So were those inside. Rick and his companions had reached the lower floor. They entered a lighted room with roughened walls that had also been deprived of marble fronts. Nick Curlin was waiting with half a dozen hard-faced followers. Former habitues of his gymnasium, these rowdies looked like a group of sweatered thugs.
Rick Parrin ran his hand along the wall beside the stairway, giving a visible representation of a creeping claw. Nick Curlin responded by pushing his fat fist up along the door of a vault, at the far corner where he was standing. The Creeper’s countersign had been exchanged. The fake salesmen fraternized with the phony pugs.
RICK had approached the door of the vault. It was a formidable device, that door, the only piece of valuable equipment which had been left in this deserted bank building. No cracksman would have attempted to smash that massive metal barrier, here in a deserted bank. It would have been too great a task at best; to try to open an empty vault would have been the extreme of folly.
Rick chuckled at the thought. Bigelow Doyd had been a smart one, using this vault as a hiding place for his treasure. The empty building must be part of the deceased millionaire’s property; hence he had owned the vault and could have used it as he chose.
Clever, too, thought Rick, taking the street number of the bank for the combination of the vault.
Something that no one would have ever guessed.
Left — right — left — right — there were four figures in the number; Rick was using them in rotation, figuring that they would probably be alternated left and right. The natural manner, since instructions were lacking on that point. Rick, after delivering the scroll to The Creeper, had received full news concerning the all-important translation.
Click! Rick had unlocked the vault. The door swung outward. Other men crowded up behind their leader. They stared into the vault, expecting to see stacks of treasure chests and boxes. The interior of the vault was large; but the light from the room filled every space; and the entering glare brought growls of anger from The Creeper’s henchmen.
The interior of the vault was empty. Nothing — not even a trace to prove that swag had ever been there.
Whether they had been beaten to the goal, or whether they had been sent upon a hoax, these minions of The Creeper could not guess.
AS harsh snarls subsided, a sudden sound came to the ears of the dozen men in that lower room. All looked toward the bottom of the stairway; for it was from there that the startling noise came. The steps turned at the bottom; hence they could not see who was descending.
The sound, however, was recognized instantly by Rick Parrin. He knew that strange, crawling tread, that must surely be coming closer, even though its intensity remained the same.
“The Creeper!” rasped Rick. “Stay quiet, everybody! Maybe he’s got some new dope for us; maybe that’s why he’s here. We—”
Rick paused. The sound had stopped. Eyes were straining toward the bottom of the stairs, where deep blackness reigned. They expected to see the advent of The Creeper. Instead, they witnessed the unexpected.
Blackness rose suddenly; it swept forward into the light, like gloom that had materialized. A strident, sardonic burst of mockery swept echoing through that underground room. A cloaked shape towered before the goggling eyes of Rick and his companions. Gloved fists thrust huge automatics forward; above the guns, peering from beneath a hat brim, were eyes that fairly flashed their fire.
Astonished crooks stood helpless and dumfounded, their arms rising mechanically. Not a gun was ready; for these rogues had expected The Creeper. Instead, they saw a being who had simulated the elusive creeping of their evil chief, to arrive upon them unawares.
The Shadow, arch-enemy of crime, stood in view of The Creeper’s cowering henchmen. With ready guns he held them all at bay; for not one of the dozen crooks dared yank a weapon while covered by those looming muzzles!
Well had The Shadow planned his arrival; well had he guessed what its result would be. He had trapped a clustered group of foemen, so suddenly that they could find no chance to fight.
CHAPTER XXI. SPOILS OF THE CREEPER
TENSE seconds ticked while covered crooks glared helpless. These henchmen of The Creeper were not products of the underworld; their crafty chief had been too wise to recruit his followers from among men who were wanted by the law. But they had turned to crime, these cowering scoundrels, and they had learned to know the menace of The Shadow.
They had come, to-night, prepared to fight if battle should be required. All, however, had counted upon working with the pack. Among them, there was not one who dared to start combat with The Shadow.
Such course would have meant instant destruction to the rogue who tried it.
Seconds became minutes. Steadily, The Shadow held the quailing men at bay. They wondered at his purpose; then, from a distance came the answer. From far out on the street, muffled gunfire began a sudden rattle. It was a signal to The Shadow; again, his hidden lips delivered a weird taunt.
Rick Parrin understood. Somehow, The Shadow had learned of this expedition. He had entered the old bank building; he had lurked upstairs, allowing crooks to come in and descend. He must have left another watcher outside. That aid had gone to tip off the police.
Those shots outside were from the guns of detectives, closing in upon the old bank building, trapping Gus and Carning; fighting with Zimmer Funson’s covering touts.
Rick had guessed right. The Shadow had been here; he had heard Nick Curlin talk with Kayo. He had departed, only to return before the zero hour. He had left Hawkeye across the street, to call Burbank when the stage was set.
It was Burbank who had made those anonymous calls that had kept Joe Cardona on duty. Burbank’s methodical voice had impressed Cardona with the fact that these were no ordinary crank calls.