Henley nodded. There seemed no flaw in The Crime Master’s procedure. The old man chuckled as he rearranged his men in their original order.
“This center,” declared The Crime Master, “is the only spot of danger. But the whites could never be located there. Only that black piece — the one that I discarded — could be a menace to my plans.
“I did not break the black piece, Henley. We have eliminated The Shadow for the time, according to the reports that we received. Let us hope that he is dead; yet we have no proof of it. We know only that he is disabled. He may return to annoy us later on. Tonight however, we need not worry.”
THE red moves made by The Crime Master were being enacted while the old man talked. Near the vicinity of the Wingroft Jewelry Store, men were approaching in the manner of chance idlers. While some stationed themselves at the corner of Sixth Avenue, others approached a doorway on a side street.
Preparations followed. They were skillfully done. Less than a dozen seconds after one o’clock, a mighty boom reechoed in the side street. A heavy door was shattered. Raiders sprang to life.
Into the smoky opening they dashed. Jimmies wrenched open an ordinary door. Bull’s-eye lanterns threw their powerful rays into the jewelry store. Eager rasps came from gangster lips.
Suddenly, revolvers answered. From counters, niches and ledges of barred windows sprang officers of the law. Outnumbering the bombers three to one, they had the strength to back their surprise attack.
Bullets pumped into the mobster ranks. Curses mingled with groans as hoodlums sprawled upon the tiled floor. Turk Bodell, squatty, vicious chieftain of the blasters, fired venomously from behind the men who had preceded him. Then, as bullets zipped in his direction, he broke and fled with the remnants of his shattered crew.
Whistles — sirens — police and patrol cars were approaching. Shots broke out from blocks close by. A touring car shot up with two police machines in pursuit. Turk and four henchmen sprang for the running board. Bullets from police cars flattened two of the underlings. Officers coming from the shattered door of the jewelry store picked off a pair clinging to the near side of the touring car.
Only Turk, on the far side of the running board, was making a getaway. A powerful band of The Crime Master’s raiders had been overwhelmed by the terrific odds mustered by the police.
Half a dozen detectives and policemen were on the sidewalk, with guns ready as they watched the police cars continue the chase. From the shattered door came an imposing figure. Police Commissioner Ralph Weston had taken personal charge. He was the commander of the thirty-odd officers who had been waiting within the jewelry store.
Elsewhere, scurrying minions of The Crime Master were presenting useless interference. Thanks to the readiness of the law, they were unable to beat the arriving police. Guided by sounds of gunfire, members of Weston’s legion spread out through the neighborhood. Soon all of The Crime Master’s minions were in flight.
TWO o’clock. The Crime Master, his fists crumpling the papers which they held, was reading reports that Henley had brought. The superfiend had met a Waterloo. Failure had followed previous successes. Beaten, scattered, the escaping minions who served him had sought the safety of the East Side.
Turk Bodell’s outfit had been eliminated. Mobs were depleted. Snipers and cover up men had been slain or captured. Disaster had befallen all the forces that The Crime Master had used tonight.
A THIN smile showed upon a pale face that lay pillowed on a bed. Lips were moving as The Shadow spoke to Burbank. Already, Cliff Marsland, lingering late at the Black Ship, had heard reports of The Crime Master’s failure. Clyde Burke, on late shift at the Classic, was relaying facts that the newspaper had gained from the police.
The Shadow had used the forces of the law to make a counterthrust. With Cliff Marsland’s aid, he had sent the precise type of information that had encouraged Commissioner Weston to proper action.
Yet The Shadow was thinking of the future — not of the present. He knew the power of The Crime Master. Deeds of evil would be abated, thanks to this victory for the side of justice. But one defeat could not damage The Crime Master’s coming plans.
The hidden overlord of evil still had hundreds of mobsmen at his beck. New minions would be groomed to replace those who had fallen. Craft — not brute power — was the only means by which the final curtain could be lowered on The Crime Master’s drama.
While the supervillain made new plots, The Shadow would be planning. While The Crime Master schemed to gain new wealth, The Shadow would be finding ways to thwart him.
Eventually, these two must meet. Such accounting was inevitable. The Crime Master — superman of evil; The Shadow, superfoe of crime.
Theirs would be the final conflict. Mobsters and police, no matter how fierce their battles, were but ordinary pieces of The Crime Master’s board.
CHAPTER XVI
THE CAPTURE
ONE week had passed. All was quiet in scumland. Yet there was something ominous in the placid situation. Men of crime — great and small — were waiting, afraid to move.
The Crime Master had declared an armistice. Save for his message passers, none were performing active work. The generalissimo of evil was waiting until the triumph of the law had been forgotten.
Crooks, still in awe of The Crime Master’s power, were doing no jobs of their own. Gorillas who needed funds found money from their leaders. Cash was plentiful in the underworld. It was advance payment of crime that was to come.
Since that one night when he had acted so efficiently, Cliff Marsland had not been called upon to serve as courier. This was a disappointment. Cliff knew — through advice received from Burbank — that somewhere among the string of message bearers, envelopes must come directly from The Crime Master.
Could Cliff discover one of these points where messages were infused into the underworld, he would be accomplishing the vital result that The Shadow sought. Cliff knew that his chief was recovering from grievous wounds. He was anxious to serve The Shadow to the utmost during this emergency.
All the while Cliff sensed that spies were at work. The Crime Master had stool pigeons — more capable than those of the police. Cliff was sure that they had ferreted out all informants who worked for the law. He felt, however, that his own position was secure.
The police — not The Shadow — had smashed the raid at the big jewelry store. The Crime Master’s chosen investigators would be looking for those who had passed the word to Weston.
It was up to Squawky Sugler to take care of himself. Cliff had seen the furtive stool on several occasions since the big night. Each time, Squawky had been at the Pink Rat, feigning the part of a hophead. Cliff could see through the pretense. He suspected that others would do the same, if Squawky were not careful.
TONIGHT, Cliff was at the Black Ship. He was chatting idly with members of Louie Harger’s gang, when another of the outfit entered. The fellow — an ugly faced rowdy — dropped into a chair beside Cliff.
“Louie wants to see you,” informed the newcomer. “Up at the hotel. Says to be there inside an hour.”
“All right.”
Cliff arose and left the Black Ship. There was no need to call Burbank until after he had seen Louie. Twenty minutes later, Cliff was knocking at the door of the gangleader’s room in the Hotel Spartan.
“Come in.”
Cliff responded to the growl. He found Louie seated at the corner table. The gangleader produced one of The Crime Master’s envelopes.
“Pass it along, Cliff,” ordered Louie. “Same way you did before.”