Maxwell Grant
The Wealth Seeker
CHAPTER I. AT RED MIKE’S
EVENING had come to the bad lands of Manhattan. The fading of dingy dusk had brought an insidious gloom to the district which marked the strongholds of the underworld. Skulking figures of shifty mobsters, quick steps of persons bound on innocent business, the stalwart forms of patrolling policemen — these were the manifestations that marked the beginning of a new period of danger.
Gangdom had come to life after dark. Ways of crime, neglected while daylight held sway, were once more in the making. Every empty house, every deserted alleyway, might be the lurking spot where evil men awaited the word to wage war against the organized forces of the law.
This district was the breeding place of crime. Mobster hideouts and meeting places were all too frequent. Yet the police, although they knew the evils that existed, were handicapped by the very law which they served.
Unless violence broke out within the precinct, or orders were received to arrest men wanted for crime, the patrolling officers could make no legal inroads. They were forced to ignore the dives where crime was instigated; to wait until rats of the bad lands came forth and committed evil in respectable districts.
Then would come the task of stopping the rats as they scurried back to cover. But once the furor had ended, the old routine would rule the bailiwick of crime.
This night was typical of underworld activity. There was no doubt that crime was being fostered almost within hearing distance of the patrolling policemen. The men in uniform could not learn such details.
Marked as men of the law, they were handicapped.
Spies, alone, could gain the secrets of the underworld. Yet even detectives who appeared within this area were easily spotted by shrewd-eyed watchers. Stool pigeons served as secret workers for the law; they, too, were insufficient, for they were outcasts who feared mob rule.
Indeed, the denizens of gangland were contemptuous of the law. So far as the police were concerned, they feared no interference with their plans. There had been a time when plotting gangsters moved abroad with very little effort to cover up their actions. Yet on this night — as on many more before it — the stealthiness of those who skulked was evidence of some hidden foment beneath a surface that seemed more than usually calm.
ON one narrow street where passers-by hastened on their way and every doorway seemed to shelter prying eyes, a man was strolling alone. There was both caution and challenge in his attitude. His step, though regular, was not quick. His course, though favoring the shelter of darkness near the buildings, was not furtive.
A patrolling policeman eyed this passer as the man came within the dim glare of a street lamp. The officer saw a firm, square face that denoted self-assurance. The features were not of the usual gangster type; they lacked the uncouth coarseness so prevalent in the underworld. Nevertheless, the man’s confidence marked him as one who was familiar with this district.
The policeman sauntered on. When he paused to look over his shoulder, he noted that the man had disappeared. He supposed that the walker had increased his pace to reach the next corner.
He was wrong. The man with the firm face had made a quick turn into a side alley and was now moving easily toward a sunken doorway some distance from the street that he had left.
Arrived at his destination, this individual descended the short steps to the door and rapped for entrance.
As soon as the portal opened, he shouldered his way into a stone-walled room. He nodded curtly to a brawny, red-haired fellow who stood behind a rough wood counter at one end of the room. He took his seat at a table; the proprietor brought him a bottle and a glass.
There were more than a dozen men seated about this stone-walled room. They were a hard lot, these rowdies of the underworld. Their conversation seemed to lull as they paused to throw sidelong glances at the man who had entered. Then the subdued buzz was resumed. Evidently the face of the arrival had gained recognition.
Such was the case. This hangout was known as “Red Mike’s,” in honor of its ruddy-faced proprietor.
Only the most capable of gunmen were allowed within the place. Admission here was a mark of gangland’s approval.
The man who had entered was known to most of the patrons at Red Mike’s. Conceded to be one of the most dangerous characters in the bad lands, he was welcome. Thick, bloated lips announced his identity in an undertone.
The arrival was Cliff Marsland, one of the coolest handlers of a gat that the underworld had known.
CLIFF MARSLAND, steady-faced and firm-eyed, knew that his appearance here had caused a buzz of comment. Yet there was nothing in his action that indicated any notice of those about him. Cliff was a man who kept his impressions to himself; he was one whose superiority showed itself among these vicious fighters of the underworld.
Cliff, by his demeanor, seemed to consider the present atmosphere as a normal one. In his thoughts, however, this steady-eyed man could see that all was not well at Red Mike’s. Here, of all places in the Tenderloin, subdued talk was unnecessary. Yet it persisted, and Cliff knew the reason why it did so.
A threat was hanging over gangdom. Fierce ruffians had felt the menace of a hand that they feared. A powerful enemy, dreaded by those who scoffed at the law, had shown his might with devastating results.
Supercrooks had met defeat when they had encountered a superfighter known as The Shadow.
The underworld had hurled anathema at this common foeman. Vicious men of crime had sought to end the strange career of a menacing being garbed in black, whose spectral form appeared wherever crime was loosed. But in every combat, The Shadow had prevailed. Uncanny in his findings, unyielding in his tactics, The Shadow had struck down all who had opposed him.
Some time had passed since the thunder of well-directed automatics had marked The Shadow’s last victory over hordes of evil. Yet The Shadow, silent, was as great a threat as ever. Hence, when mobsters plotted, they chose ways of secrecy. For it had been bruited about within the underworld that The Shadow might be anywhere — or everywhere.
Deeply educated in the ways of gangland, Cliff Marsland had the explanation why the tense atmosphere existed at Red Mike’s. It had been the same in every other hangout which Cliff had visited to-night.
Every newcomer, such as Cliff himself, was spotted by those who patronized the dives. Each arrival was discussed in murmurs. Mobsmen were ready to challenge all who failed to meet their twisted standards of approval.
It was known that The Shadow, a master of disguise, had visited the bad lands in the past. He had joined mobsters, posing as one of their ilk, and had dealt devastating blows to their ranks.
It was also believed that The Shadow utilized agents. That these men must be of unusual ability was a positive conclusion. Hence suspicion rested on all denizens of the underworld, save those whose reputation put them in the elite of gangdom.
Cliff Marsland knew all this. The smile that flickered upon his poker face was an indication that he knew the repute in which he was held. No one would challenge Cliff Marsland. In fact, he would be one of the first upon whom other men of gangland would call should they desire aid in tracking down a suspected underling of The Shadow.
It had been reported that Cliff was gunning for The Shadow. That accounted for the fact that he remained aloof from gang associations. A freelance who roamed at will throughout the crime district, a fighter de luxe who bore a reputation as a killer, Cliff Marsland had a unique prestige.
FIFTEEN minutes after Cliff Marsland’s arrival at Red Mike’s, his entry had been forgotten. Mobsters at a nearby table had raised their voices to a pitch where Cliff could hear their buzzing conversation.