It was plain from Treblaw’s words that the old man thought he had trapped the person who had slammed the door across the hall. It was that fact that made Crawler parry. A smart crook despite his stupid look, Crawler was quick to see a way out.
“Give me a chance, bo,” he whined. “Look — I ain’t in here with no gun. I’m broke and out of luck. Ain’t had nothin’ to eat. The cops was going to grab me for panhandlin’. I was just trying to grab a few bucks.”
The plea was convincing. Crawler looked the part of an underfed panhandler. It was true that he held no gun. The man’s pretense that he was a petty thief seemed an open admission of trivial guilt. Treblaw, however, was not wholly sure.
“Who sent you here?” he snapped suddenly.
Crawler blinked as he eyed the ready .22. He pretended puzzlement as he faced Treblaw’s glare.
“Nobody sent me here,” he pleaded. “Honest, boss, I’m taIkin’ straight. I just sneaked into this hotel because it looked like maybe I could get some easy dough—”
“Did you ever hear of Signet?” snapped Treblaw. “Does that name sound familiar?”
“Sigmund?” questioned Crawler, still feigning much bewilderment. “Sigmund who?”
“I said Signet,” repeated Treblaw. Crawler shook his head.
“Very well,” decided Treblaw, testily. “This is a case for the police. Move back into that corner. I’m going to call the house detective.”
IT was then that Crawler played his ace. The crook had figured that Duster and the gorillas were by this time in the hall. He knew that they had another pass-key. But he did not dare to risk an attack on Treblaw. The old man seemed too ready with the little automatic. Crawler tried subterfuge.
With hands above his head, he backed off beyond the corner, heading toward an opened window. As Treblaw followed him with the gun, Crawler whined a final plea.
“Don’t call the house dick,” he whispered. “He’ll hand me to the cops. It’ll be the Island for me — an’ I can’t go there. I’m a hophead, boss. I got to have snow. If you call the dicks, I’m jumpin’ outta this window! I ain’t foolin’!”
Crawler had shifted; he was raising one knee to the window sill. His gesture looked genuine.
Keen-eyed, Treblaw watched to see what the man intended to do. Crawler did look like a drug addict. But Treblaw wanted further proof.
Crawler, seeing that, swung sidewise from the window, balanced almost for a drop.
His eyes wild, he was staring at Treblaw. And in gazing at the old man, Crawler could see beyond, to the outer door that Treblaw had forgotten as he viewed a man who seemed desperate enough for suicide.
“I mean it, bo!” wailed Crawler. “I’m jittery! I can’t hold out! I gotta have snow! No foolin’—”
Inches would have sent Crawler tumbling to the street, so closely was he balanced on the sill. As a final touch, the crook let his eyes wander to the telephone as if a move by Treblaw toward the instrument would be a final signal for the jump.
The outer door clicked open. Treblaw did not hear it. His sharp eyes, however, saw a rustle of the window curtains against Crawler’s quivering hands. Instantly, Treblaw suspected a draft from the door.
Forgetting Crawler, the old man wheeled.
DUSTER was lunging in upon him. The big crook was brandishing a huge revolver, but did not fire the weapon. Instead, he delivered a swing for Treblaw’s head.
Dropping back with his remarkable spryness, Treblaw aimed to fire at the crook.
Crawler, lunging in from the window, landed upon the old man’s back and tried to grab his arm. Sinking, Treblaw tried for new aim. Duster drove his revolver downward. The weapon crashed hard against the old man’s skull. At the same instant a mobster, piling close behind, thudded Treblaw’s drooping head with a blackjack.
“Douse the glimmers!” ordered Duster, swinging toward the door.
The second gorilla had closed the barrier. He pressed a light switch. The room was in darkness save for a corner floor lamp that threw light upon the rack that held Treblaw’s heavy grip.
Crawler was already in that corner. Pawing through the bag, the pasty-faced crook was snatching out the odd papers that he could find.
Duster growled to the gorillas. They began to rifle Treblaw’s clothes while Duster looked through table and bureau.
The whole work required less than a minute, Duster using a flashlight as he edged away from the corner lamp. Crawler came over and shoved a batch of papers into Duster’s hands. The big crook chuckled. He thrust the documents beneath his coat; then looked at Treblaw’s body, obscure in the gloom of the floor.
“Scram!” he ordered Crawler and the gorillas. “Like you came in. From other floors. I’m following. I’m calling the chief; and I’m leaving this stuff where he can get it.”
Crooks followed their leader’s bidding. Duster was the last to leave the room. He wiped the doorknobs to remove finger prints; then used a handkerchief as he closed the door on departing.
Silence followed in the gloomy room. Three minutes passed; then came the ting-a-ling of the telephone bell. That continued for half a minute; then the ringing ceased.
Stanton Treblaw, sprawled upon the floor, had made no attempt to answer it. For men of crime had carried their brutal work to the limit. Those bashing blows had been more than stunning. Stanton Treblaw was dead.
CHAPTER V
NEW VISITORS
THE murder of Stanton Treblaw had been accomplished rapidly. Fifteen minutes after Crawler had joined the crew in the Hotel Goliath, the last of the killers had departed. Duster, strolling from the lobby, was holding the stolen papers tucked beneath his coat.
The mobleader chose the same drug store that Clyde Burke had used to call The Shadow. Finding a vacant booth, he dialed a number. A gruff, disguised voice answered. Duster was talking to the same man who had called Wickroft that morning.
“Job’s done, chief,” informed Duster, tersely. “Yeah, got the whole batch here with me… Well, here’s a bunch of letters with red seals on them… Some letters that say Burson, Limited…”
Duster paused. Sharp questions were coming over the wire. Duster examined the papers beneath his coat.
“No, we didn’t find nothing like that, chief,” he protested. “Just these letters… No, there wasn’t any old manuscript or whatever you call it. Sure we went through the room. Say, I had the gorillas grab the dough that was in his pockets. To make it look like they were after jack. Sure, we went through the geezer’s suitcase.
“Listen, chief. I’ll go back there, but it won’t be no use, I’m telling you… What’s that? Don’t go back? All right, chief, you’re boss… Sure, I’ll leave these papers where you said…”
Hanging up, Duster walked mumbling from the phone booth. He showed an ugly scowl. Apparently he had failed to get what the chief was after. Yet Duster was positive that he and his men had made a thorough search.
FIVE minutes after Duster’s departure from the drug store, a young man entered the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Goliath. Clean-cut, he looked the part of a guest of the establishment. This arrival chose a lobby chair from which he could eye the elevators.
The newcomer was Harry Vincent, an agent of The Shadow. While Clyde Burke was still visiting other hotels, Harry had been ordered here by Burbank. It was Harry’s job to be about until The Shadow reached the hotel.
Harry knew that Treblaw’s room was on the twenty-fifth floor. He was to keep a chance outlook on any visitors who might apparently be going to see Treblaw.