Crime, Insured s-129

by Maxwell Grant

  Bradthaw sat down. His manner signified that the interview was ended. He began to sort through papers that lay upon the desk. One was the message that had come from Strampf. Bradthaw was reading it when Caudrey arose dejectedly, to take his leave.

  "Wait!"

  Bradthaw's exclamation halted Caudrey. The actuary saw the insurance executive glance at his watch. It was almost half past two. Bradthaw smiled; motioned for Caudrey to sit down.

  "I expect another visitor," remarked Bradthaw. "I should like you to be here, Caudrey. Perhaps, when we have discussed matters, we shall be able to issue you a policy in the Preferred Class, Triple A!"

  There was a confident smile on Bradthaw's compressed lips, as crime's profiteer sat back to await the arrival of Strampf.

  CHAPTER X. CRIME SPREADS THE DRAGNET

  STRAMPF was announced punctually at half past two. Caudrey showed a gleam of recognition when the spidery man entered Bradthaw's office. Caudrey knew Strampf by sight and reputation. The fellow was a wizard in his particular line.

  Strampf was an insurance investigator. For years, he had tracked down false claims, exposing schemers who tried to swindle big insurance companies. It was Strampf who had traced the five wives of Algernon Ringley, all supposedly dead. Ringley had collected insurance in each case and had divided proceeds with the women.

  At present, all were in prison for fraud; and Ringley had been tagged with a bigamy sentence, in addition.

  Similarly, Arno Shawlee was safe behind bars. He had been the mainspring of an arson ring that collected huge sums from fire insurance companies. Shawlee's arrest was also credited to Strampf.

  There were other cases; dozen of them. Strampf had produced results in every field of insurance. Not only was he a genius in his own right; he was smart enough to employ clever subordinates. He had them everywhere, in every walk of life. Persons who produced the information that Strampf wanted, and gave it without question.

  Louis Caudrey had a high regard for Marvin Bradthaw's cunning. That regard was greatly increased when Caudrey learned that Bradthaw owned Strampf.

  In a sense, Strampf was a human machine, who did any task to which it was put. Strampf's one joy was the accomplishment of such tasks. Such matters as ethics and human welfare did not interest the fellow.

  Marvin Bradthaw had recognized that trait in Strampf. That was why he had acquired the remarkable investigator. Bradthaw had put Strampf to the task of studying the hazards in crime insurance, and finding methods of removing them. Specifically, that meant that this man with a clockwork brain had investigated The Shadow.

  Most amazing was the fact that Strampf had gained his results in a very short time. Although his preliminary work had begun ten days ago, his really active efforts had been recent. Once he had chosen a plan of operation, Strampf made things move.

  "THE Melrue case," stated Strampf in his harsh, mechanical tone. "We know that Wally Drillick was intercepted before he reached the Adair Apartments. I have identified the man who took Drillick's peace.

  His name is Harry Vincent. He lives at the Hotel Metrolite."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Bradthaw. "Then Vincent is The Shadow!"

  "He is an agent of The Shadow," corrected Strampf. "The next agent that I identified is a man called Cliff Marsland."

  "I've heard that name -"

  "Yes - in a crime plan submitted by Duke Unrig. Marsland was the lieutenant hired by Unrig, to replace Nogger Tellif. That explains how The Shadow interrupted the robbery of the armored truck."

  Bradthaw sat back in his chair and contentedly puffed his half-finished cigar. Strampf's research was taking the exact trend that Bradthaw wanted.

  "Marsland visited Unrig's hideout," continued Strampf. "He took the money that we paid Unrig for his recent claims. Marsland gave the money to a slippery fellow called Hawkeye. Reputedly a sharp crook, but actually another member of The Shadow's organization."

  Sorting the cards in his hand, Strampf called off other names in order, with items of information.

  "Clyde Burke," he announced. "A reporter on the New York Classic; another of The Shadow's agents.

  He picks up facts at police headquarters. Moe Shrevnitz, a taxicab driver. His independent cab is probably the property of The Shadow. Shrevnitz is another agent."

  Strampf was again shifting the cards. Bradthaw put a question that he doubted could be answered. He was due for a surprise.

  "How do these agents contact The Shadow?"

  "Through a contact man named Burbank," replied Strampf, promptly. "We tapped wires to overhear their telephone calls. We have Burbank's telephone number, and have traced its location. There is another man who sometimes receives reports from fellow-agents. His name is Rutledge Mann. He is an investment broker, with offices in the Badger Building."

  "Excellent!" purred Bradthaw. "But who is The Shadow?"

  "That, I have not learned," admitted Strampf, in a rueful tone. "I know only that he poses as Lamont Cranston; that he spends most of his time at the Cobalt Club, where he sometimes meets Police Commissioner Weston.

  "There is a real Lamont Cranston - at present in South Africa. When I learned that, I thought that I might discover The Shadow's actual identity. That may be difficult -"

  "Why bother?" inserted Bradthaw. "As usual, Strampf, you have kept pressing for more details when you have acquired a sufficiency. Since The Shadow passes as Cranston, we can regard him as Cranston, for the present. We shall trap him - as Cranston."

  Strampf looked doubtful. He found another card and studied it. He asked for a large city map. Bradthaw produced one that was so huge it covered the entire top of his big desk. Strampf placed his finger on a definite spot.

  "The Shadow has a headquarters in this area," he declared. "I have narrowed it down to one place: a small office building that has very few tenants. I have studied that building. There is only one portion that could contain The Shadow's secret abode. That is the north section of the basement, near the rear wall."

  STRAMPF had accomplished something much more remarkable than he supposed. He had discovered a spot that crooks had sought for years, with such little success that the underworld no longer believed the place existed.

  Strampf had located The Shadow's sanctum!

  "Let me remind you," continued Strampf, in serious tone, "that I have not seen The Shadow enter that headquarters. That would be impossible, since he would go there only when cloaked in black, and the whole neighborhood is dark, at night.

  "Obviously, The Shadow must have a private telephone wire connected through to his contact man, Burbank. We may assume also that The Shadow's files and other equipment are located in that headquarters; the place is a stronghold. In an emergency, The Shadow would go directly there."

  Strampf wanted to say more, but Bradthaw interrupted with a gesture. The insurance man's big brain was at work. The mind that had devised crime insurance had a genius for crime itself. Bradthaw had foreseen a duel with The Shadow. He was ready for it.

  "We shall act at once!" announced Bradthaw. "Not by a crude thrust, for The Shadow would meet a direct move. Instead, we shall take quick, unexpected steps, until The Shadow finds himself confronted with the very emergency that you have pictured, Strampf. We shall finally finish him, in the one place where he least suspects it. His own headquarters!"

  Bradthaw produced lists that gave the names of big-shots of Duke Unrig's ilk. With those names were details of their organizations. A dozen big-shots had scores of smooth workers; hundreds of finger men and members of cover-up crews whom they could reach.

  Until today, each big-shot had worked independently. That was ended. Those big-shots were to become lieutenants, under the command of one mighty crime-master, Marvin Bradthaw.

  As Bradthaw mapped his immediate campaign, Strampf and Caudrey looked on, swept by approving admiration. They heard Bradthaw make telephone calls to certain contacts. The word was on its way.

  Bradthaw settled on the zero hour.

  "Five o'clock,"
he stated, "will mark the beginning of The Shadow's Waterloo."

  IT was five o'clock when a chubby, round-faced man came from the Badger Building and stepped aboard a cab. He was Rutledge Mann, the investment broker who served The Shadow as a contact man and research specialist. Mann promptly experienced the greatest surprise that he had ever encountered in The Shadow's service.

  Two well-dressed but hard-faced men stepped into the cab with him, one from each side. A thuggish driver started the cab; in the rear seat, Mann sat prodded between two gun muzzles, too helpless to move.

  At five-thirty Harry Vincent entered his room at the Hotel Metrolite. The telephone bell rang. An even voice, a perfect imitation of Burbank's, gave brief instructions. That voice was talking from the hotel lobby; but Harry never guessed it. The orders were to visit the apartment where Wally Drillick had formerly lived.

  Harry reached that apartment, twenty minutes later. The moment that he entered three men overpowered him. Bound and gagged, Harry was taken out through a service elevator.

  Meanwhile, Clyde Burke had received a faked Burbank call at the Classic office. In response, he left the newspaper building and headed for the Rat's Hole, expecting to find something from Hawkeye in the rear room.

  Instead of another suitcase, Clyde discovered a trio of beefy hoodlums. They ganged the reporter in expert fashion and loaded him into a touring car that was waiting in the side alley.

  It was nearly eight o'clock, when Hawkeye sidled through the darkened alleyway where he sometimes met Cliff Marsland. Tonight that gloom hid waiters other than Cliff. Hawkeye heard a suspicious stir; he whipped out a gun and started to retreat.

  A wall of attackers closed in behind him. Hawkeye was suppressed before he had time to fire a single shot.

  At eight-fifteen Cliff Marsland was ready for a short trip from his hide-out. As he started from the window, he heard a slight clang from the fire escape. A husky was through, grabbing for Cliff before he could produce a gun.

  Cliff settled that rowdy with one punch; smeared a second who came through. A third attacker piled upon him; as Cliff grappled, others crashed the barred door of the room. Five against one, they added Cliff to the increasing list of prisoners.

  At half past eight, Moe Shrevnitz was about ready to leave a hack stand near Times Square to head for the Cobalt Club, where The Shadow wanted him at nine o'clock. A couple of men in tuxedos started to board the cab. In thick half-drunk style, one gave the address of a hotel where they wanted to go.

  The hotel was on the way to the Cobalt Club. Moe decided to take the passengers as the easiest way to avoid a delaying argument. When the cab reached the darkness of a side street, the men in back were no longer tipsy.

  One reached through the front window and cooled the back of Moe's neck with a revolver muzzle. He told Moe to pull to the curb. Moe did.

  There two lurkers got in. A few minutes later one of the newcomers was handling the cab, while Moe was riding in the rear seat surrounded by a trio of captors.

  Crews of crooks had rounded up The Shadow's agents. The stage was set for the trapping of The Shadow himself!

  CHAPTER XI. TO THE SANCTUM

  LUCK had favored Marvin Bradthaw far more than the crime-master knew. Bradthaw had planned well in taking off the agents one by one; and he had wisely left Burbank until later. He knew where the contact man could be reached at any time; and Burbank was the one person who communicated directly with The Shadow.

  In the case of Rutledge Mann, Bradthaw had been exceptionally lucky. On almost any other day, Mann's disappearance would have been promptly noted by The Shadow. If it had been, Bradthaw's plans would have been broken. Through sheer luck however, Bradthaw had picked the time when The Shadow expected no word from Mann.

  At five o'clock, Mann usually went to an office on Twenty-third Street and there deposited an envelope-load of reports in the mail box of a mythical person named Jonas. The Shadow came later to pick up that envelope. Today it was not required, so The Shadow had not missed it.

  There had been no need for Mann to accumulate information regarding large insurance companies. The Shadow was handling that matter himself. As Lamont Cranston, he was at the Cobalt Club, going through a stack of volumes in a stuffy alcove of the secluded library.

  It happened that the Cobalt Club was well provided with financial reports of insurance companies. The Shadow could not have picked a better place to look for the information that he wanted.

  During crime's recent run there had been two peculiar phases. Big-shots had followed the odd policy of delaying after plans were made. That had frequently enabled The Shadow to forestall them. The big-shots had also kept on with crimes after they should ordinarily have admitted themselves licked.

  Duke Unrig had outlasted the others. His case had produced the evidence of payment received for unsuccessful crimes. A good enough reason for Duke's persistence.

  It showed why the others had kept on despite The Shadow's pressure. It indicated that all had received payments when they failed. That meant disbursements must have amounted to millions of dollars.

  Only some huge corporation could have furnished so much money. Banks and utilities had big funds; but there was no reason why they should make crime. Insurance companies were the only other source. That gave The Shadow the answer that other investigators would have regarded incredible.

  Crime insurance!

  REGARDED commercially, crime was a billion-dollar industry. Although outlawed, it was organized much like big business, but it had lacked one advantage: protection against unforeseen losses. It had remained for some tycoon of the insurance world to make crime insurance a reality.

  A straight survey could reveal the mastermind behind the racket. He would have to be a man who knew insurance, with an organization that included actuaries, brokers and investigators. He would need a legitimate insurance business of great size; both to serve as a smoke screen and to provide the cash for payment of claims.

  Big mutual companies had too many officers to be tied up with the racket. So were concerns too specialized in one form of insurance. The field was narrowed to large corporations that controlled a great diversity of smaller companies, with one man at the head of all.

  He would be able to shift funds as he chose. In with that group would be the hidden enterprise of crime insurance.

  Occupants of the club library could have noticed the slight smile that showed upon the lips of Lamont Cranston, when his finger rested on a page that listed the Solidarity Insurance Company. The same finger reached the name of the organization's president, the man who controlled it outright.

  The name was Marvin Bradthaw.

  No other man in the insurance world could match the manipulations that Bradthaw had managed. The reserve funds at his disposal were huge, although he would have to account for them. Bradthaw could handle that without difficulty.

  He had the resources to finance crime insurance. He had the shell - composed of those legitimate companies - to hide his vast undertaking from the world.

  STROLLING from the library, Lamont Cranston reached the foyer and entered a telephone booth. He put in a call. A voice came methodically:

  "Burbank speaking."

  "Report!"

  "No reports."

  It was actually Burbank who had responded. The lack of reports was not unexpected. The Shadow's agents had been enjoying an off-period since yesterday.

  Leaving the club, Cranston reached the sidewalk. There, the doorman called a big limousine from across the street.

  Looking about, Cranston saw no sign of Moe's taxi. He had intended to send the limousine to New Jersey and use the cab instead. Since Moe was absent, Cranston used the limousine. Once inside, he began a transformation as the big car rolled southward.

  From beneath the rear seat, he produced garments of black. Soon he was cloaked; a slouch hat fitted over his head. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. As The Shadow, he intended immediate moves.

  There had been
no reports from agents; yet it was after nine o'clock and Moe's cab had not arrived. That meant that Moe should have reported to Burbank. That made the lack of other reports significant.

  To The Shadow, the lull of events foretold an immediate storm. As the limousine rolled along, he saw evidences of it!

  As the car turned a corner, a slouchy panhandler noticed it and gave a hand motion. A taxi swung in to follow the limousine. At the next corner, a hotel doorman saw the big car and the trailing cab. He bobbed inside to make a telephone call.

  Going southward on an avenue, other cars took up the limousine's trail. At another hotel, two men in evening clothes hurriedly jumped in a taxi and joined the procession.

  Big-shots had responded to Bradthaw's call. The shock troops of the underworld were out to get The Shadow. Underworld denizens were everywhere; and among the hundreds were men whom the law had never identified with crime. Finger men and silk-hat crooks were massing to reach crimeland's greatest foe.

  The Shadow performed the very sort of move that Marvin Bradthaw had anticipated.

  The crime executive had arranged this display of crooks for The Shadow's benefit. To The Shadow, it looked overdone; but he took that as evidence of Bradthaw's newness to crime.

  The case was quite the contrary. Bradthaw wanted The Shadow to drop the part of Cranston. The supercrook had chosen the right way to do it.

  As a matter of policy, The Shadow decided to leave the limousine and let crooks find it empty. That, ordinarily, would make them suppose that they had made a wrong guess about The Shadow. In Cranston's calm tone, The Shadow told the chauffeur where to stop. The big car rolled into a side street near Greenwich Village.

  The Shadow was gone before a single pursuer was in sight. Cars passed; signals were given. Men approached on foot; spoke to the chauffeur. They saw that the limousine was empty.

  The Shadow had taken a passageway to the next street. He followed a twisty path; found a parked taxi and boarded it. He told the driver to take him to an East Side elevated station.

  Bradthaw had foreseen that move. Henchmen had been told to watch for it. Finger men had flooded this area, moving in like troops. Every cab was spotted; someone suspected the one in which The Shadow rode. By the time that taxi had reached Fifth Avenue, pursuers were wheeling on its trail.