Maxwell Grant
The Four Signets
CHAPTER I. ONE BIRD FLIES
TAP — TAP — TAP—
The point of a heavy cane was clicking upon the cracked pavement. Bent forward, a man with black spectacles was finding his way along the sidewalk beneath the looming structure of an East Side elevated.
It was night; the dull lights of cheap shop windows cast their glow upon the street. But the man with the cane seemed oblivious of the illumination. His right hand was feeling its way with the cane, while his left clutched a tin cup in which coins were jingling. From pockets bristled the ends of unsharpened pencils.
A blind peddler, returning to some hovel. Not an unusual sight in this district. For the other passers who slouched along the grimy sidewalk were fellows of his ilk. Unshaven bums were shambling by, clutching the money that they had begged for a night’s lodging.
Ahead lay a lighted corner, where a wide cross-street passed beneath the elevated. This seemed to be the spot that lured the passers of the night, even though they approached it in suspicious fashion. That corner was a focal point on the fringe of Manhattan’s underworld.
The blind peddler was headed toward the corner; but before he reached it, his course took a sudden change. With an uncanny precision, he swung from the sidewalk and headed out into the thoroughfare.
Whether by chance or intuition, he picked a moment when the block was free from traffic. With quickened hobble, the man gained the opposite sidewalk and made straight for the darkness of an alleyway.
Hardly had the blind man disappeared before a crouched figure arose from the cover of a darkened doorway. Furtive eyes watched until a bum had passed; then a wiry, scrawny figure stepped out to the sidewalk. Yellowish light showed a pasty, wizened face. This man crossed the street, but avoided the alleyway. He slouched into a lighted cigar store, where a group of smoking loungers eyed him.
“Hello, Dopey!” growled a big man who stood behind the battered counter. “What you back again for? There ain’t been nobody call and ask for you.”
“Lemme use your phone, Jake,” whined the pasty-faced arrival. “I gotta call up de guy. He ain’t never stood me up like dis before.”
“All right,” decided Jake. “Your nickel’s as good as anybody else’s. But when you get through phoning, scram. This ain’t no hangout for hop-heads.”
“DOPEY” nodded as he shambled toward the rear room. Idlers grinned as they saw his hand rise pitifully for a sniff of imaginary snow. They knew the reason for Dopey’s whine; they also understood why Jake was anxious to get rid of the intruder.
Dopey had run short on coke. He had been counting on the arrival of a dope peddler. The man with the supply had not shown up. Dopey had put in two calls without result. He had come in to plead indulgence for a third. He was trying to locate the promised supply.
Such was the unanimous opinion of the loungers. But had they followed the hop-head into the rear room, they would have been surprised at his conversation. Dopey had straightened up. His whining tones had changed to a quick and coherent whisper.
“Dat you, Joe? Dis is Dopey… Yeah. Dopey Roogan… Yeah, I spotted him… Creeper Trigg… Headin’ for de hide-out… Maybe de mugs are still dere…
“Yeah… I getcha… You’ll see me by de alley… Like I was waitin’ for somebody to show up… Yeah, de sixt’ house, dat’s de one…”
His call ended, Dopey Roogan grinned. Then his expression changed. Worried of face. Slouchy of manner, the fake hop-head was ready to pass out through the cigar store. Pretense was necessary in the presence of those loungers. For Dopey Roogan was a spy in the underworld. He had just put in a call to Detective Joe Cardona. Dopey was a stool pigeon, passing information to the police.
MEANWHILE, the blind peddler had reached the destination that Dopey had given to Cardona.
Shambling into a space between two crumbling houses, he had unlocked a side door that gave him entrance into a darkened passage. Through a second door way, the man stopped and turned on a light.
He locked the door behind him.
Standing in the center of a room that contained a chair and battered desk, this arrival lost no time in dropping his part of “Creeper” Trigg, the blind peddler. He placed his cane in a corner. He removed his dark spectacles and placed them on the desk. He pulled off his tattered coat and trousers to reveal a smooth, well-fitted business suit beneath.
Opening a drawer in the desk, the ex-peddler produced a mirror and a jar of cold cream. Blind no longer, he grinned as he smeared away the yellowish make-up that gave his face an aged appearance. He brought out a neatly folded towel, wiped away the cold cream and stood erect. His face showed him to be a man of keenness.
There were other doors in the room; one to the right, the other straight ahead. It was from the second of these barriers that short raps came with a sudden impulse. The man approached and spoke in a whisper:
“Who’s there?”
“Hoot Shelling,” came a cautious response. “That you, Doc?”
“Yes.” The fake peddler paused. “Wait a minute. I’ll let you in.”
Hastily, the speaker pulled out a bag from beneath the desk. He piled away the articles that had formed his peddler’s attire; then kicked the bag out of sight. He stepped to the further door, opened it and admitted a husky, square-faced ruffian, who showed his teeth in a wolfish grin.
“Hello, Doc,” greeted “Hoot” Shelling, closing the door behind him. “Thought I’d drop in to see you — through that back way you told me about. How’s the peddling business?”
The pretended blind man stared. His eyes flashed angrily; his fist half clenched. Hoot grinned.
“Don’t get sore, Doc,” he remarked. “I just guessed it — that’s all. I’ve seen old Creeper Trigg heading this way but I never figured it was you. Doc Ralder, passing as Creeper Trigg. Say — that’s neat!”
“How did you figure it tonight?” demanded Ralder.
Hoot Shelling nudged his thumb toward the corner. Doc Ralder turned, saw the cane. He had forgotten to hide it. The heavy stick accounted for Hoot’s guess. Thick, heavy and knob-headed, it was one portion of Creeper Trigg’s make-up that no one could have failed to recognize.
“Don’t get sore, Doc,” suggested Hoot. “I wised up all of a sudden. Best I should tell you, wasn’t it? Listen. I got something to tell you about. But first, you tell me. Are those three mugs still upstairs?”
“You mean Zarby’s gorillas? Yes.”
“When are they going out?”
“Tonight. After Zarby shows up.”
“He’s going to pay you when he gets here?”
“No. He’s already paid me.”
HOOT SHELLING grinned. This seemed to his liking. Doc Ralder watched wisely; he saw Hoot’s face become sober. Ralder wondered at the change of expression. Hoot Shelling was a thug who seldom became solemn.
“Doc,” declared Hoot, “I’ve got a real bet for you. A new hide-out. One that’s got this place licked. How’d you like to take it over?”
“Right away,” returned Ralder, promptly. “You ought to know that, Hoot. I made a mistake, letting Zarby bring those gorillas here after they cracked that bank in the Bronx.”
“I know that,” nodded Hoot. “That’s why I hopped down here in a hurry. I figured you could use the new place.”
“What is it? Your own hide-out?”
“No. I got a place of my own. This one will be yours.”
“And what’s the catch?”
“I thought you’d ask that,” returned Hoot, with a grin. “Listen, Doc, I’m in on a new racket. A soft one — with a smart guy backing it. Looks like it’s going to be easy, but there might be some hitch. Some shooting—”