Maxwell Grant
Tower of Death
CHAPTER I
A TRAITOR’S PRICE
TWO men were seated in a garishly furnished apartment. Beyond the open window came the muffled roar from the street far below. Changing lights of Manhattan formed a flickering glow from the clouded sky.
The appearance of these men was in keeping with the gaudiness of the place. One, attired in a flashy, braided tuxedo, possessed a hard, thick-lipped countenance. The other, though less uncouth, had beady, ratlike eyes that stared from a crafty, evil visage.
Racketeers deluxe, these men were known to the police. The one in the tuxedo was Mallet Haverly, ex-gangster, who had taken up more lucrative pursuits than ordinary thuggery. The other, dressed in loud, checkered attire, was his lieutenant, “Speedy” Tyron.
The two were in conference. Despite the security which they seemed to enjoy in this apartment, it was obvious that both were glum. The reason became apparent when Mallet Haverly broke loose with a deep-throated growl.
“It’s a good bet, Speedy,” declared Mallet, “if this guy Luskin has really got the dope. But the layout sounds kind of goofy.”
“That’s why it looks real,” returned Speedy. “Say — if that dough’s where he says it is—”
“He’s not sure. That’s the only trouble. Just the same, we’re going to chance it. Things are getting too hot here. A little vacation with some heavy work for a wind-up sounds like a good idea.”
Speedy Tyron nodded knowingly.
“Tim Lucas went away for a stretch,” mused Mallet. “So did Terry Yarkis. Those birds were kind of close to us, Speedy. Now the bulls are looking for Rags Wilkey. New York’s no place for him. When they get on the trail of Rags Wilkey—”
“It means we’re next,” completed Speedy.
“Right” agreed Mallet. “Rags is smart enough to fox the bulls. The only dick who could spot him is Joe Cardona. But it’s not healthy for Rags — and that means it’s not going to be healthy for us.”
Speedy nodded gloomily. He struck a match to light a cigarette while Mallet arose and paced across the room. The chief racketeer was scowling as he walked.
“The bulls aren’t all,” he admitted. “They didn’t knock off Conklin’s crew the time he went after the Club Calcutta. You know who it was that gummed the works that time.”
“The Shadow,” declared Speedy, soberly.
“Right,” decided Mallet. “he’s got the rackets like that” — Mallet extended a brawny hand and slowly closed his outspread fingers — “and he’s closing tight — closing tighter—”
SPEEDY TYRON’S face was troubled as Mallet Haverly paused. The mere mention of The Shadow was a deterring influence to men of crime. Throughout Manhattan, The Shadow was known as the master fighter who dealt with crime. His hand was everywhere; and minions of these racketeers had felt its power of late.
Speedy Tyron started nervously as the telephone bell rang. Mallet Haverly picked up the receiver. His tones were low; his words were brief. He finished the call, with this admonition:
“Yeah… We’re washing up… Leaving tonight… Right… Take care of yourself…”
“Rags?” questioned Speedy, as Mallet turned from the telephone.
Mallet nodded.
“Rags Wilkey is getting out of town,” he informed, “and so are we. What’s more, Speedy, we’re dropping the crew that’s in New York. I’m using them tonight, for the last time. After we’re clear, we’ll get hold of some of the old gorillas from the sticks. This new job of ours is going to be a new deal.”
Seating himself, Mallet Haverly drew a post card from his pocket. He stared at it for a few moments; then passed it over to Speedy Tyron. The lieutenant gazed with interest at the colored picture on the back of the card.
The scene showed an old house of fantastic structure. The building centered from a tall tower that was topped by a cone-shaped roof. Odd balconies appeared in front of wide, small-paned windows. Smaller turrets topped the wings.
“That’s the place,” informed Mallet.
“Looks like a spook joint,” commented Speedy.
“Maybe it is,” affirmed Mallet. “According to Luskin, there were guys who never came out of the place after they went in.”
“And he knows why—”
“So he says. But that’s only part of it. The dough is what we’re after. Luskin says we can get it — and we’re going to try if we have to shoot the works.”
Mallet took back the card from Speedy. He stared at the picture, then read two lettered words in the lower corner — the name of the old mansion and its location.
“Montgard — Glenwood—”
Mallet tore the card to fragments. He lighted the pieces with a match, held them as they burned and finally dropped them in a large ash tray.
“An old bloke named Windrop Raleigh built the place,” mused Mallet. “he made it like a fort, so Luskin says — and Luskin was a servant there for years. Luskin knew more than the old man thought — but he kept mum and hung on hoping he’d get rewarded when the old geezer crooked.”
“Faithful servant stuff.”
“That was it. But Luskin had a wrong steer. He got the grand bounce along with a couple of other servants when Windrop Raleigh went the voyage. Jarvis Raleigh, the old man’s son, took over the old house.”
“That was a few months ago?”
“Yeah. Luskin watched the place like a hawk. He wanted to get at the dough. He lived in an old house in the woods, half a mile from Montgard. But he couldn’t figure a way to get in.”
“Plenty of windows in the house.”
“Yeah? Did you see those little panes? I’ll tell you what Luskin said about them. Those aren’t window slats between the little panes. They’re steel rods — like bars.
“The only way to get in is through the front door — in the big tower. They keep it bolted — and there’s a second door within. Luskin knew all that; he knew he didn’t have a chance to crack the place. That’s why he gave up the idea of working it alone. He came to New York, looking for a bimbo with a rep. He found me.”
“Say,” laughed Speedy, “Luskin has spilled the whole story, hasn’t he? How come he doesn’t figure that you might try the game alone?”
“He probably figured it,” returned Mallet, with an odd laugh. “But he knows he has me. Suppose I did let him down. You know what he’d do, don’t you?”
“Squeal to the bulls.”
“Sure. That’s why he’s not worrying. He wants me to take you and a gang out there and use the cottage as a hideout. When the time’s right, we raid the old mansion. That’s Luskin’s idea.”
MALLET HAVERLY pronounced the last sentence with a harsh chuckle that made Speedy Tyron stare. The lieutenant popped a quick question.
“Luskin’s idea, eh?” he asked, “I take it that you’re not going to work it the way Luskin has suggested.”
“You’ve guessed it, Speedy. I’m using a system of my own — working on what Luskin has told me. He’s given me the whole story as he knows it — the names of the people in the old house — the terms of the will and all that. So when Luskin shows up tonight, I’m going to make him a proposition. I’m going to get him to step out.”
“You mean—”
“That I’ll offer him cash for what he’s told me; that I’ll promise him plenty if he’ll scram.”
“How much?”
“Forty thousand dollars — maybe fifty or—”
“Fifty grand! Have you gone cuckoo, Mallet? That dough for a chance to grab a lot of swag that may not be where you expect it?”
“Wait a minute, Speedy. Think over what I’ve said—”
The telephone interrupted. Mallet answered it. He leered as he listened at the receiver. He growled orders and hung up.