Strange hands — those of The Shadow! When the mighty fighter fared forth, his hands were gloved in black, in keeping with the spectral attire that clothed him from head to foot. Crooks who had met him had never seen the hands themselves. Long white fingers and the sparkling girasol were tokens of recognition that none had ever gained.
Coded report sheets glistened with bluish ink. The Shadow read the word that his agents had reported.
The writing faded in uncanny fashion. Such was the way with all messages between The Shadow and his agents.
THE SHADOW’S right hand brought forth a pen. Upon a sheet of white paper it inscribed a name that remained in liquid ink of blue.
“Duke” Larrin!
This was the name that The Shadow had written. From two of his agents, he had learned that the famous international crook was in New York. Yet neither informant had picked up Duke Larrin’s trail.
Cliff Marsland, The Shadow’s agent who played the part of a gangster in the underworld, had heard whisperings that Duke Larrin had come to the badlands. No descriptions of the man had been given; it was merely rumored that he was somewhere in Manhattan.
Clyde Burke, reporter on the New York Classic, had gained the same information. Clyde was in touch with Joe Cardona, ace detective at Manhattan headquarters. Through stool pigeons, Cardona had heard the rumors of Duke Larrin’s presence in New York. The ace sleuth was looking for the international crook.
So far, nothing tangible had been learned. The Shadow divined the answer. If crime happened to be in the making, Duke Larrin would be forming secret contacts. With whom? That was the question to be considered.
Black gloves slipped over the long-fingered hands. The light clicked out. A soft laugh sounded in the gloom. The swishing of a cloak; then silence.
The Shadow had fared forth. His destination was the underworld. There he would seek the undiscovered connection between Duke Larrin and men of the badlands.
AT the precise time when The Shadow was departing from his sanctum, a man was strolling along an uptown Manhattan street. The walker paused to study the entrance of an old apartment hotel. He saw the name above the doorway:
RIDGELOW COURT
With a hasty glance up and down the street, the man entered the doorway of the building. He went through a deserted lobby until he reached the obscure stairway. Another glance came from his dark eyes; his crafty, heavy-browed features showed a cunning scowl. The man moved to the stairway. Instead of going up, he took the downward steps.
No one had seen this visitor arrive. His identity would not have been suspected, even if he had been observed in the lobby of Ridgelow Court. But in certain sections of Manhattan — particularly where gangsters were wont to meet — this dark-browed man would have been promptly recognized. He was “Brodie” Brodan, a gang leader who had ostensibly retired from the business.
Reaching the basement of the old hotel, Brodan passed the entrance to a furnace room and continued on until he reached the rear wall of the cellar. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked a door. He took a flight of steps that went down to the little-used sub-basement.
All was dark below. Brodie’s flashlight flickered in the darkness. The illumination showed the doors of old storage rooms. Brodie picked one and unlocked it. He closed it behind him and pushed his way past stacks of furniture until he reached the rear wall. He stopped in front of a wooden wall that had apparently been erected to offset the dampness from the stone in back of it.
Brodie’s flashlight showed a projecting nail-head. The gang leader pressed it, like a button. The nail came back. Brodie waited. A slight clicking sounded. Brodie pressed upward. A portion of the woodwork rose. Brodie went through the opening. He used his flashlight to find his way along a narrow corridor.
The wooden barrier slipped down after he had entered.
The passage was more than a hundred feet in length. It terminated in a metal door. Brodie Brodan stopped at the barrier and gave four short raps. The door slid aside. The gang leader’s flashlight clicked off.
Brodie Brodan stepped into a dimly lighted chamber. A strange room — vaulted — with doors on every side. Deep in the earth, this crypt had been reached through the cleverly concealed opening into the old storeroom of Ridgelow Court.
The iron door clicked shut after Brodie Brodan had entered. Quizzically, the gang leader surveyed three men who were seated on stools within the crypt.
THE dark-browed arrival knew them all. One — a smooth-shaven, languorous fellow — was “Fingers” Keefel. A safecracker of remarkable skill, Fingers specialized in artistic crime. He was a crook who looked for big jobs when he needed them.
The second, a tall man with firm-set jaw and cold, evil eyes, was “Croaker” Mannick. With Croaker, murder was a pastime; yet this dangerous criminal was wary in his ways. He killed when people paid the price and each scratch on his .38 represented the life of some big shot whom Croaker had assassinated at another’s order.
The police had never pinned a murder on Croaker Mannick. The underworld, however, knew his ability.
Brodie Brodan, cagey gang leader, felt that he was in select company with Fingers Keefel and Croaker Mannick.
Yet it was the central figure of the group — the third man of the trio — toward whom Brodie finally looked.
He saw a young man of good appearance, whose face wore the faint flicker of an evil, satisfied leer. This was the leader of the four; the man who had summoned Fingers, Croaker and Brodie to the secret crypt of crime. Brodie Brodan was gazing at the international crook, Duke Larrin.
Cecil Armsbury’s nephew opened the proceedings. He looked from man to man; then spoke in a firm, harsh tone that marked him as a man who accepted leadership.
“We’re all here,” he announced. “I’ve picked the three of you because you are the men I want. You know the terms. They’re the same to all. Ten grand apiece.”
The other men nodded to show their satisfaction.
“Three jobs for two of you,” resumed Duke Larrin. “Fingers gets the swag. Croaker does the bumping. Keep apart. You’ll never see each other except when you do the jobs. You’ve got your instructions. You know the exact times and places.
“Each of you will be washed up after the third job. We’ll work fast, because the fifteenth of the month is the deadline. That’s the time you’re each due back here. The pay-off comes on the fifteenth — and if all goes right, there’ll be more than the ten grand each.”
Fingers and Croaker grinned. They felt that their parts were set. Duke Larrin turned to Brodie Brodan.
“Fingers has his job,” declared the international crook. “So has Croaker. You’re the cover-up man. You have your instructions; wherever Fingers and Croaker hit, you be there with your mob.
“These two fellows will have to make clean getaways. We want it to look as though the mob did the trick. That’s your job, Brodie.”
“Leave it to me,” agreed the dark-browed gang leader.
“There’s a fourth job scheduled,” added Larrin. “It will come on the fifteenth. We’ll need a picked crew for it — and it’s up to you to get them, Brodie.
“None of your regular mob are to be in that crew. Get your special crowd in advance. Have them laying low — doing nothing — until you call them on the fifteenth. They can show up where they’re due — and they can pull the job like clockwork. After that, they’re through. They can scram out of town, with one grand each for their work.”
DUKE LARRIN arose. From his pocket, he drew three typewritten lists. He handed one to each of the crooks. They were detailed instruction sheets. Each read his part. Grins appeared upon satisfied faces.