CHAPTER IV. IN THE MANSION
Up by the huge house, huddled figures were in conference. Harsh voices were whispering beside an opened window. Men of crime had parked their cars close by the big building. They had found others awaiting them.
“That you, Driller?” came a query.
“Yeah,” was the gruff response. “Where’s Gat Lober?”
“Inside. Waitin’ for you. He jimmied the window while we was waitin’.”
“O.K. Come on, men.”
Driller clambered up through the window. Others followed. Bags were hoisted through. Two of “Gat’s” men remained on guard outside. Driller spoke in the darkness.
“Who’s bringing the bags?”
“I got ‘em,” came a growl.
“All right, Tonk.” Driller recognized the voice. “Lug them along and stay with me.”
Light showed through the crack of a door that lay ahead. Driller groped in that direction and tapped a signal. A low voice came from the other side. Driller acknowledged.
The door opened slightly. Followed by four mobsters, Driller Borson entered a huge living room which was illuminated by the flicker of candles on the mantelpiece.
In this light, Driller was revealed as a lanky, long-jawed individual, well-dressed despite his rough appearance. Facing him was Gat Lober.
This ruffian was short, stocky and vicious of appearance. He had an ugly scar on one cheek; his lips showed an evil smile. A slouchy mobster stood beside him.
“Hello, Driller,” greeted Gat. “All ready for you. The box is in the next room.”
“What’s the idea of the candles?” quizzed Driller.
“Didn’t want too much light,” returned Gat. “Particularly after we grabbed the servants.”
“The servants?”
“Yeah. Take a look.”
Gat led the way to a far corner of the room. Two more mobsters stepped up; Driller had not seen them in the dull light. These gorillas were standing guard over two men huddled on the floor. Bound and gagged, the victims were staring with frightened eyes. Both were clad in pajamas.
“Couple of caretakers,” explained Gat. “They mooched in just after I jimmied the window. So we snagged them. They had a flashlight and got a squint at our mugs. That makes it too bad for them.”
“Blotting them out?”
“Sure. After you crack the box. Listen, Bo — I’m supposed to be out in St. Looey or somewhere West. You don’t think I’m going to leave these squawkers to tell what I looked like, do you?”
“I’m not kicking, Gat. Go ahead. Rub them out. But give me time to clear with the swag before you give them the lead. You can hear shots a mile off in this territory.”
“Leave that to me. Where’d you park your cars?”
“Out beside your sedan. Left a couple of gorillas to watch them.”
“Good! Listen. You crack the box and move out with your mob. When you’re clear, I’ll bump these bozos and follow with my crew. We’ll go our way — like we’ve done before.”
“Suits me. Where’s the box?”
“In here.” Gat stepped across to a door near a far corner of the room. “It’s sort of a study—”
“Wait a moment.” Driller turned around. He picked out a puny member of his crew. “You, Skeeter — keep by that door so you can hear anything from outside. And you, Tonk” — this to a tall, stoop-shouldered fellow who wore a grimy sweater — “come along and bring those bags.”
“SKEETER” went back to the outer room. “Tonk” followed Driller and Gat into the study. There, Gat turned on the light to reveal an oak-furnished room with drawn window shades. A large safe stood in the corner.
“Ten minutes,” calculated Driller, with a laugh. “Maybe less. All right, Gat. Leave it to me.”
Gat went out. Tonk closed the door behind him. Driller was moving over to the spot where the tall mobster had laid three suitcases. Driller started to pick up one of the bags. Tonk stopped him and hefted another.
“This one has the drills,” he remarked. “The others are empty. For the swag.”
“Right you are,” declared Driller, opening the bag that Tonk had indicated. He removed a drill. “Well, boy, here goes. Might as well start to get those empty bags ready. We’ll have the swag quick enough.”
Driller went over to the safe, leaving Tonk with the bags. As a safe-cracker, Driller was proud of his ability. His nickname — Driller — had been well gained. His pet drill began to bite into the steel door. Driller kept on steadily.
At moments, he paused to eye his work. During those intervals, he spoke briefly, without turning. He wanted Tonk to witness his skillful workmanship.
“Hurry up with those bags,” chuckled Driller. “They won’t be empty long, Tonk. Not if this safe of old man Lovenson’s has got all the stuff that it ought to have. They say the old gent cleaned up heavy with his soap business.”
The drill resumed operation. Again, Driller paused to make comment:
“Just about finished, Tonk. Bring the bags over. Get ready to call Gat when I open this box. I always let him take a look.”
Driller heard Tonk approach. The safe-cracker went back to his task. The job came to a quick finish.
With a short chuckle, Driller opened the door. A laugh came from his pasty lips.
“Get a load of this, Tonk!” he exclaimed. “Stacks of bank notes — spending money that the soap king left lying around. And mamma’s jewels! Look at them! Lamp the swag, Tonk!”
There was no reply. Driller had the sudden impression that his companion was moving away, not approaching closer. Puzzled, the safe-cracker stood up and turned toward the door. His eyes bulged.
Tonk was no longer in the study. He had left the bags in the center of the room: one open, the other closed. But the open bag had not been empty. Its contents had been removed. That bag had contained garments. Tonk had donned them.
In place of Tonk the mobster, a weird figure had joined Driller Borson in the secluded room. Tall, menacing and formidable, that transformed personage stood guarding the closed door.
A being cloaked in black. A countenance — once Tonk — shaded by the brim of a slouch hat. Burning eyes as symbols of a new identity. Below those fierce orbs, a pair of mammoth automatics bulging from black-gloved fists.
While Driller had been at work, his companion, too, had found a task. One of sinister significance. The change was complete. Driller Borson, startled, was revealing the swag to an arch enemy of crime!
For Driller knew that these garments were no masquerade. Through his startled brain throbbed fearful facts. Tonk, the mobster — Tonk Ringo — had joined this mob for a secret purpose. His identity had been a clever disguise.
This weird figure at the door was Tonk Ringo in his true form. He was a grim avenger of whom Driller Borson had heard — one whom Driller had hoped never to meet.
From Driller’s faltering lips came the gasp that pronounced the identity of this mysterious foe:
“The Shadow!”
CHAPTER V. THROUGH THE NIGHT
DRILLER cowered as The Shadow moved inward from the door. Tall, sinister, with blazing eyes fixed steadily, The Shadow’s very silence was terrifying.
Driller tried to frame pleading words. He failed.
Staring hopelessly, Driller looked for death. His career of crime had been a checkered one. Murder had gone along with safe-cracking. Driller was a rat who deserved to die. The Shadow knew that fact.
Coughed words came from Driller’s lips at last. In response, The Shadow uttered a whispered laugh.
Halted a few paces from his quarry, this master of vengeance was voicing contemptuous mirth, its uncanny tones confined within this room.
Still staring, Driller had a wild hope. Perhaps The Shadow would show undeserved mercy. There were others in the big room outside. If The Shadow opened fire, he would be trapped. Driller saw a chance to make a deal.