The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  Timothy Baruch held his head in his hands. He stared at the dead form of Hurley Brewster.

  “You got that fellow?” he queried. “Are there any more?”

  “Two,” said Hembroke. “One went out the back way; the other headed upstairs. We’ll get them. My men are after them.”

  The sleuth’s assurance was gratifying to Baruch. The old man had heard of Merton Hembroke, the New York detective whose swift and effective action had won high commendation. It was noised about that this new crime trailer was gaining precedence over Detective Joe Cardona, hitherto regarded as the ace of Manhattan sleuths.

  Policemen were coming in to report to their leader. One brought the information that the man who had run from the back door had been plugged; that he could not be far away. Officers were scouring the neighborhood for traces of him.

  The others, however, had a barren report. They had been upstairs and down cellar; yet had found no trace of the man who had dived through the side door of the room.

  WITH men close beside him, Hembroke strode to the rifled safe. He noted the sheet of paper lying upon the floor. He picked it up and held it to the light. A stern expression appeared upon the detective’s face.

  “The Red Blot!” exclaimed Hembroke. “So that guy’s in again, eh? Well” - Hembroke laughed gruffly - “we did better than Cardona’s ever done. We nabbed one of The Red Blot’s workers. I know that mug!”

  Still holding the paper, Hembroke was staring at Hurley Brewster’s body. The detective pondered a moment, then laughed again as he gave the dock-walloper’s identity.

  “Hurley Brewster,” stated Hembroke. “But who were the birds with him?”

  As if in answer to the sleuth’s question, two policemen appeared at the rear door, carrying the inert form of Tweezers Darley. They deposited their burden on the floor. Tweezers, like Hurley, was dead.

  “So that’s the guy,” snorted Hembroke. “Tweezers Darley. I’ve got the lay now.

  “Good work, men - I’m glad you plugged him. Tweezers Darley, the only safe cracker in New York who could have opened this box. Working for The Red Blot - he and Hurley Brewster.”

  Turning, the detective put a savage question to the officers who had searched the house.

  “What about the other man?” he demanded. “He’s the one that must have grabbed the swag! Where is he?”

  “He couldn’t have got out of the house,” returned a policeman. “But he isn’t in here, either.”

  “That’s no answer!” growled Hembroke. “He’s either here, or he isn’t here. Which is it?”

  “He’s not in the house,” insisted another searcher.

  “All right,” declared Hembroke gloomily, “then he must have made a getaway. That’s tough, men. Sorry, Baruch.” The detective turned toward the old man, who was seated pitifully in a large chair. “We did the best we could. The tip-off didn’t arrive in time for us to prevent the robbery. Nevertheless, we’ve landed two of the crooks and maybe we’ll get the third.”

  The old man made no response. Hembroke noted the tired look upon his drawn face. Half clad, in trousers and shirt, Timothy Baruch had evidently arisen hastily after hearing the commotion.

  “Help him up to his room,” ordered the detective. “He’s all in.”

  Two policemen responded. They conducted the old man up the stairs. When they returned, a few minutes later, they completed the entire raiding squad, for all others had assembled for new orders.

  Hembroke was studying the bodies of Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley. He made no comment. The others waited for his decision.

  During this interim, they heard the front door open and close heavily. Before anyone could make a move, a stoop-shouldered man came wild-eyed into the room. He was clad in hat and overcoat. Hembroke uttered a surprised ejaculation as he recognized the face of Timothy Baruch.

  “What has happened here?” the old pawnbroker gasped. “I go away this evening. I think that all is well - ”

  Baruch spread his hands and uttered a shriek as he saw the rifled safe. Perplexed looks passed among the policemen. Baruch had gone upstairs - now he was in from the outside!

  It was Hembroke who supplied the solution. The detective gave it in the form of a shouted order.

  “Get upstairs!” he cried. “Grab the old man that’s up there! He’s the one we want - a fake, playing the part of Baruch!”

  TWO policemen galloped to the steps. Hembroke, after a moment’s hesitation, followed at their heels.

  The officers reached the room where they had left Timothy Baruch. Their flashlights played upon an empty bed; then toward the open window.

  That was the new goal. The flashlights flickered from the window to the alleyway beneath. They showed blankness.

  In the space of a few minutes, the pretended Timothy Baruch had made a prompt departure. Some amazing master of disguise had not only evaded capture, but had actually been present to hear Morton Hembroke’s comments; for this elusive being had played the part of Timothy Baruch prior to the real pawnbroker’s arrival.

  Nothing in the alleyway; yet to the ears of one policeman came a faint echo that seemed like a weird whisper in the night breeze. It was the strange tone of a mocking laugh - the triumphant cry of The Shadow.

  The policeman did not recognize the strain, for it came from a considerable distance. Morton Hembroke, by the bed in the room, did not hear the eerie cry. The detective and his men knew only that they had been cleverly tricked by a stranger who had vanished into the night.

  The Shadow!

  No longer playing the part of Timothy Baruch, he had again become the creature of darkness. Garbed in the folds of his black cloak, he was wending his silent, unseen way from this locality.

  A whispered laugh lingered in a deserted street. The Shadow had played a part tonight. Too late to forestall The Red Blot, who had acted at an early hour, The Shadow had found other men of crime and had stopped them from deeds of murder.

  From sullen lips, he had gained an inkling of the scheme behind tonight’s odd episode. A bunched-up little fellow, one with the features of a dope addict - Tweezers Darley - before he died, had spoken of such a man. This was the person whom The Shadow now would seek; for that individual was, in all probability, a spy for the master mind who used the signature of a crimson spot.

  Many denizens of the underworld might answer to the description given by Tweezers. The Shadow would eliminate them one by one, until he found the one he wanted. The Red Blot’s purpose? The Shadow had divined it.

  Some secret spy had informed The Red Blot of the work which Hurley and Tweezers had planned. The Red Blot had ordered his minions to grab the swag. The police tip-off had been given later, so that Hurley and Tweezers would be grabbed at the empty safe, where the sign of The Red Blot already lay.

  The Shadow’s laugh sounded vaguely in the darkness. When The Red Blot struck again, The Shadow would be there to meet his minions. The Shadow had trapped Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley before the police net had fallen.

  He, The Shadow, held the clew he needed. It would not take him long to pick out the secret spy whom The Red Blot had planted in the underworld!

  The Shadow knew.

  CHAPTER V

  PLOTTED CRIME

  EARLY the next evening, a man emerged from a subway kiosk on the East Side, and strolled along until he reached a cross street. He turned into that thoroughfare and continued his progress through a neighborhood that became more and more disreputable.

  Underneath the massive structure of an elevated line, into an ill-kempt street that was scarcely more than an alley, down a narrow space between two crumpling buildings, and into a dirty doorway, he went. These maneuvers brought the man to a flight of tumble-down stairs. At the head of the steps he knocked twice upon a door that needed painting.

  The portal opened. The visitor entered a room that was lighted by a single gas jet. Another man drew back and grinned as he recognized the arrival. The visitor sat down upon a battered ch
air; his host took a seat upon a flimsy cot that had an inverted bucket propped under one corner in lieu of a leg.

  There was a marked contrast between the two men who were holding this meeting in the squalid room. The visitor revealed a square, determined face that possessed a decided ugliness. Puffy lips, mean eyes, and coarse, rough-shaven cheeks, betrayed the identity of a man well known in the underworld - “Socks” Mallory, murderer long wanted by the police.

  The owner of the room was a little man, in comparison with powerful Socks Mallory. Seated on the cot, he made a bunched-up figure, his pitiful frame rendered more pathetic by the weakness of his face.

  Pasty, ratlike in expression, with all the characteristics of a drug addict, this skulking creature was one who furtively roamed the underworld, too unimportant to gain more than contempt from the average mobsman. In the bad lands, he was known as “Spider” Carew.

  There was a significance about this meeting. Both men were wanted. The police had long been searching for Socks Mallory, one-time racketeer, who was now known to be a murderer. But Socks Mallory had not been found in Manhattan.

  Spider Carew, in turn, was wanted; but not by the police. He was wanted by The Shadow. For, within twenty-four hours of eliminating effort, the master of darkness had come to the firm conclusion that The Red Blot’s spy could be only Spider Carew himself, and none other.

  BOTH Socks and Spider seemed quite at ease in the obscure hideout where they were now located. In fact, Socks Mallory was gloating in expression, and Spider seemed to reflect the big man’s satisfied air.

  “How about last night?” questioned Socks, in a gruff voice. “It worked out O.K., didn’t it, Spider?”

  “Sure thing,” grunted the pasty-faced individual. “I gave you the lay, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. But that wasn’t all of it. When Hembroke and the bulls made the raid; they fixed everything jake, though they didn’t know it.”

  “What was the idea, Socks? You didn’t tell me -“

  “About the raid? Why should I? I’m working for The Red Blot - not for Spider Carew.”

  “I know that, Socks - ain’t I workin’ for The Red Blot, too? But what I mean is - this is different -“

  “I get you, Spider,” nodded Socks, leaning back in his chair. “It don’t pay to be curious, but since you’re that way, I’ll let you in on the idea.”

  “You know the set-up. You know that I’m working for The Red Blot. You know that I’ve got a gang of real guys that beat any crowd of gorillas. Every man in my outfit” - Socks swelled proudly - “is wanted by the bulls. Wanted bad, too. Like myself. They think we’ve all scrammed. But you know where we are - right here in New York - but in a place they’ll never find us.”

  Spider Carew nodded.

  “All right,” continued Socks. “When we pull a job, it’s soft. We pick a lay - bust in - clean up and make a getaway.”

  “How?” queried Spider Carew eagerly. “Where? That’s somethin’ I ain’t been able to figure out!”

  “You’ll learn tonight, Spider,” interposed Socks. “Just keep quiet while I’m talking.

  “As I was saying, we pull the jobs perfect, and we know how to duck out after we’re through. Every time we work, we leave the sign of The Red Blot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this stuff we’ve been doing is nothing compared with the big jobs ahead. Nothing! Savvy that? We want to make The Red Blot so important that we’ll have people scared right. We’ve done it. too!”

  Socks delivered a smile which showed an ugly toothed mouth in a grotesque contortion.

  “But last night,” suggested Spider, “you worked different. You ain’t told me why.”

  “I’m getting there!” growled Socks. “Listen, and I’ll tell you! First of all, old Baruch’s hock shop wasn’t in the location we wanted. When you tipped us off that you heard Tweezers Darley talking to Hurley Brewster over the phone, we were all set to do something about it. But we figured a smooth, quiet job was the best. So we pulled it - long before Tweezers and Hurley were due to show up.

  “Who do you think worked the main spring? Who do you think we’ve got in our outfit who would crack that safe in Baruch’s joint?”

  “Moocher Gleetz,” returned Spider.

  “Good guess,” rejoined Socks, with a broad grin. “Well, where is Moocher supposed to be right now?”

  “Out in the sticks somewhere.”

  “Sure. Well, if the safe had been found cracked, with The Red Blot to blame, the cops would have figured one of two guys - Moocher Gleetz or Tweezers Darley. We wanted them to figure Tweezers - and nobody else.

  “So, after we pulled the job - when we knew that Tweezers would still be working on the safe, with Hurley alongside of him - we phoned a neat tip-off to Merton Hembroke. Told him what was up.

  “He traveled there with a squad - down to Baruch’s. He found the front door open, like we’d left it for him. You know the rest. The bulls got Tweezer and Hurley. The Red Blot got the swag!”

  SPIDER CAREW nodded; but his wan face expressed anxiety. Socks Mallory noted it and grunted.

  “Getting cold feet, Spider?” he queried. “Turning yellow?”

  “Don’t say that, Socks!” protested the stoop-shouldered gangster. “I ain’t yellow. But I got a right to be worried, ain’t I?”

  “Well - what’s the worry?”

  “These lays I’ve been givin’ you. Look at last night. Say - there’s plenty of gorillas who’d croak me if they knew I was in on the frame-up that wound up by Tweezers and Hurley takin’ the bump!”

  “Nobody’s going to know. Those mugs are dead. They can’t talk.”

  “They can’t,” greed Spider, “but there’s other guys that may. If I keep spyin’ for you -“

  “That’s all over,” assured Socks. “We’re ready for the big works now. I’m using you tonight, Spider, and when the job is finished, you travel along with us. Say - we’ve been coming out of cover and getting back again, haven’t we? Well, after tonight, we’re going to stay under cover all the time, and do the jobs, too. What do you think of that?”

  “It can’t be done!”

  “It can’t, eh? Well, you’ll see it done - and you’ll be helping us. You’ll know plenty, Spider. You’ll know everything!”

  Socks Mallory sat back and laughed. He seemed to enjoy his companion’s bewilderment.

  “The Red Blot is some smart guy,” commented Spider, in a wondering tone. “Some mighty smart guy. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “Here’s the lay for tonight,” declared Socks, in a businesslike tone. “You know where the old East Side Bank is. Well, there’s a sort of alley runs alongside of it. Straight across from the alley is an old building that’s not worth a nickel. You can get in there and watch from one of the windows - but be close to the door while you watch.

  “We’re coming up the alley from the opposite direction. We’re going to smash into the bank. You’ll see us do it. Then we’ll come out again - the same way we went in - and that’s where you join up. Cut across the street and run with us. Stick with the mob - you’ll be O.K.”

  “Say” - Spider’s tone was apprehensive - “you ain’t chancin’ that, are you, Socks? There’ll be an alarm when you bust in - there’ll be all kinds of cops down there -“

  “Sure,” interposed Socks. “We’ll be making the getaway when they show up. They’ll be all around us - like a net - and that’s where we’ll fool them like we did before.”

  “But there won’t be enough dough to make it worth while!”

  “Listen, Spider,” interrupted Socks gruffly; “I know what I’m doing. First of all, the East Side Bank is an old crib. Easy to bust into, though we can’t dodge the alarms. All right. We’ve got the system for the getaway.

  “Maybe somebody would have tried it before - except that the East Side Bank is a dump that don’t do big business. But right now, there’s a lot of dough piled in that joint - cash that nobody knows about except The Red Blot.
It’s a set-up. Savvy?”

  SPIDER nodded to show that he had a glimmer of understanding. As the secret spy of The Red Blot, he knew that the master crook must be a man of great resourcefulness.

  “So you be there,” repeated Socks, “just like I told you. Scram when we scram. Then you’re one of us. Maybe” - a malicious smile came upon Mallory’s sullen lips - “maybe I’ll take you along with me tomorrow night when I pull the under-cover job. It’s going to be sweet.”

  Rising from his chair, Socks leaned close to Spider’s ear and whispered harshly.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said, “I’m going to bump off Tony Loretti!”

  “The big guy that runs all the night clubs?” gasped Spider. “Say, Socks, he’s a big shot! If you go after him, there’ll be a mess!”

  “Don’t I know it?” queried Socks. “Wasn’t Loretti’s racket my idea? Didn’t I run the Club Janeiro until he muscled in and chased me out?”

  “That was my joint, and I’m going to get it back! The Red Blot wants me to do it - there’s a reason why. So Tony Loretti gets his tomorrow night.”

  With this thrust, Socks laughed hoarsely and arose from his chair. He nudged Spider Carew with a short, friendly punch; then turned toward the door.

  “I’m going back,” informed Socks. “I’ll be getting the mob ready. We’ll be at the East Side Bank inside of two hours. You know where to be. That’s all.”

  The door closed upon Socks Mallory’s departing form. Spider Carew remained seated upon the cot. The pasty-faced ruffian’s countenance went through a series of curious contortions. Through Spider’s mind was passing all that Socks had said.

  For weeks, Spider had been Socks Mallory’s listening post. All that happened in the bad lands; comments which concerned the activities of The Red Blot; other forms of useful news - these had been given to Socks by Spider whenever Socks paid his scheduled visits to Spider’s hideout.

  Secure because of his unimportance, Spider had prowled through the underworld, peering into every hangout, overhearing what was going on. His duties had been amplified; he had been deputed to watch for opportunities that The Red Blot could use.