Thus, Spider Carew had been responsible for The Red Blot gaining the spoils from Timothy Baruch’s pawnshop safe. But now, Spider realized that he was no more than a trifling member in The Red Blot’s array of criminal talent.
A tip-off to Merton Hembroke! That had been nervy. A raid upon the East Side Bank! That would add to the prestige as well as the gain which The Red Blot had acquired.
Who was The Red Blot? Spider Carew did not know. He realized only that anyone who could govern such powerful mobsters as Socks Mallory and Moocher Gleetz must, indeed, be a supercrook.
Immunity! That was The Red Blot’s gift. Capable men of crime, handicapped by the fact that they were wanted, had managed, somehow, to dwell in Manhattan, and to operate in security as long as they followed The Red Blot’s bidding.
Spider could feel the lure. He was fearful, now that he had betrayed Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley. The deaths of those two men weighed heavily on Spider’s mind.
Not that Spider Carew had a conscience. He merely knew the law of gangdom and realized that he had disobeyed it. He, too, wanted immunity. Socks Mallory had promised it, beginning with tonight.
SOME time after Socks had gone, Spider Carew stirred. He arose from the cot, donned a shabby coat and cap, then extinguished the gaslight. With skulking progress, the hunched mobster descended the rickety stairway. He reached the alley and shuffled along toward the street where the elevated ran.
Tonight, Spider thought, would be his last in this sector of the underworld. So believing, the shifty gangster headed toward the Black Ship, to look in on whatever might be doing.
Furtively, with eyes frequently looking back over his shoulder, Spider pursued his timorous route. His shadow made a peculiar, huddled blot, as it passed beneath the glare of a street lamp.
Spider Carew still looked back over his shoulder after he had left the illuminated area. If anyone was on his trail - Spider always suspected such - the follower would be apparent now.
No human form appeared within the range of light. Spider grinned sheepishly.
Strangely, with all his caution, Spider was deceived. He had seen no sign of life beneath the street lamp, yet the indication was there. While Spider stared, a long streak of darkness glided across that zone of illumination. It was the elongated silhouette of a living person, yet Spider, looking for a solid body, did not see it.
Spider Carew went along his way. He did not look backward again. His hunched form threw its huddled blotch at every light; shortly afterward, that same long silhouette put in its inevitable appearance.
That patch of moving darkness had a sinister meaning. Silent and unseen, it was the sure indication of the presence which every skulking rat like Spider Carew feared above all others. The Red Blot’s spy would have been filled with trepidation had he known who was following him.
The Shadow, master of darkness, had picked up the trail of Spider Carew!
Where Spider went tonight, there would The Shadow be! Plotted crime was due to strike again. This time it was not from Spider’s suggestion, but the secret spy would be there to watch it.
Trouble loomed for The Red Blot’s minions. Unwittingly, Spider was acting as a guide to the scene of crime!
CHAPTER VI
THE BANK ROBBERY
WHEN Spider Carew left the dive known as the Black Ship, he headed off into a twisting course that eventually brought him in the neighborhood of the East Side Bank. Following the sidewalk just below an elevated structure, Spider made a final turn, and sneaked along a side street until he came to the building opposite the bank.
This was an old house which lad been empty for many months. Spider found a space at the side and wiggled through a window. A few minutes later, he was peering through a grimy pane at the front of the house.
Back at the spot where Spider had left the sidewalk, a gloomy patch of blackness showed strangely on the paving. There seemed to be no reason for that splotch of darkness. Motionless, it indicated nothing. Nevertheless, it was the mark of a living presence.
The Shadow, invisible in the semi-darkness, was studying the path which Spider Carew had taken. Keen, burning eyes were looking toward the window which the shuffling gangster had entered.
The Shadow knew that there could be no cause for crime within that dilapidated building. He readily divined that Spider’s only purpose could be that of a hidden watcher.
The front of the East Side Bank showed upon the other side of the street. The building was a brick structure that had the appearance of a jail. An antiquated institution, the East Side Bank still continued to do business with large wholesale concerns, which found its location a convenience. At the same time, the directors had not seen fit to modernize the building. Of all the banks in Manhattan, this one was least equipped to withstand a foray of accomplished burglars.
Spider Carew’s presence in the building across from the bank was a good indication that the bank itself was intended as a target for crime. The Shadow, moving silently along the street, below the level of Spider’s vision, spotted the space between the bank and the adjoining building.
Picking a strategic point, the being of darkness crossed the street so artfully that his passage was indicated only by a flitting splotch upon the asphalt. Gaining a place some distance below the bank building, The Shadow worked his way backward toward the entrance of the alleyway.
SPIDER CAREW did not see The Shadow. Peering from his window, the squeamish little gangster was too engrossed with what he was viewing at the side of the bank.
Dim light glimmered through from the street a block away; and against that glow, Spider saw the outlines of human forms.
Socks Mallory and his men! They were here now.
As Spider watched, he saw the raiders turn toward the side of the bank. The surprise attack had begun. No time was being lost. A little door, set in an areaway that opened from the passage, was the spot which had been picked by the attackers.
Spider Carew thought that he, alone, was viewing these operations. He was wrong. The Shadow had reached the entrance of the passage. His keen eyes were viewing the activity. Yet The Shadow, a silent, unseen shape, remained motionless; then glided slowly away in the direction from which he had come, moving rapidly from the beleaguered bank.
Keenly, he had sensed that an attack upon the mob would drive the criminals back along their chosen avenue. In flight, the gangsters would head for that distant street. That was where The Shadow would forestall them.
Spider Carew could hear the muffled sounds of a breaking door. Steel jimmies had done quick work. The henchmen of The Red Blot were breaking through. The dull ringing of a bell came to Spider’s ears. The alarm was sounding.
Spider knew the efficiency of bank alarms; and the quickness with which police could respond. Socks Mallory and his marauders had entered. They would be returning shortly. It was nearly time to join them.
The little mobster unlocked the sash of the old window and raised it, ready to drop out into the street. Then, as the report of an automatic reechoed through the space opposite, Spider dropped back to a spot of shelter, and peered over the sill in front of him.
A flash of flame from down the alleyway. Another reechoing shot! Someone had entered from the farther block, to open fire upon the men who were guarding the broken door! Spider could hear a wild cry rising - passed along by those on watch!
Revolver shots burst forth. Spider Carew watched an amazing conflict. A squad of mobsmen were tumbling into the space beside the bank, opening fire upon this unexpected enemy who had entered the path which they had left open for retreat.
THOSE within the bank had heard the surprise. Their work unfinished, they were coming to aid, thinking that the police had already arrived.
Well had The Shadow planned! He had waited until the crooks had broken through, and had started the alarms. Now, by swift attack, he was harassing them while the law was on the way!
Spider Carew saw one mobsman collapse; then another. The rest were clinging
close to the edges of the passage, seeking refuge in the space that led into the rear of the bank, firing vainly at an invisible fighter whose very presence seemed elusive.
Blasts from the automatics came at unexpected intervals. When mobsters fired at a spot, The Shadow was no longer there. The strange battle continued; then came the clang of a police car, swinging from the distance.
The mobsters under Socks Mallory could not have heard that noise, but their leader must have sensed that police intervention was imminent. Spider Carew saw half a dozen revolver bursts at once; then another outpour; then a pause.
The answer?
Powerful blasts from the automatics wielded by the hidden fighter at the other end of the passage. The mobsters began a sudden retreat toward the street from which Spider watched. They fired blindly; then broke into a run. One of their number tumbled forward, to be dragged along by two of his companions.
The police car was coming down the street. Spider could see its lights. He saw the mobsters scatter. Socks Mallory was among them, as they ran down the street, firing back at the police car as they fled.
The automobile jammed to a stop directly in front of the bank building. A mobster jumped up from nowhere; leaping upon the hood of the car, he aimed straight through the windshield. Spider saw a flash of flame from the very entrance of the space between the buildings. Simultaneously with the roar of The Shadow’s automatic, the gangster on the hood took a long, sprawling dive to the street.
Four officers were out of the car. Two were running for the side of the bank. They passed the very spot where Spider had seen the automatic flash. The other pair of officers were chasing Socks Mallory and his fleeing men.
Then, by a mere chance, Spider saw the sight that chilled his blood. In the midst of the momentary quiet that reigned about the abandoned police car, a tall, mysterious figure came into the fringe of the light which the head lamps cast.
Spider saw that shape and recognized its identity. The Shadow, garbed in black cloak and broad-brimmed slouch hat. He was the being who had delivered that counterstroke to rout Socks Mallory and his crowd of mobsmen!
The Shadow! Spider Carew crouched in fright as his trembling lips formed the name of the dread avenger. Sickening terror gripped the cowering crook who had served as The Red Blot’s spy. Spider realized that his own plan was blocked. He could not join Socks Mallory now!
The dread figure of The Shadow disappeared with amazing swiftness. Spider knew where it had gone. The Shadow was doubling back through that passage to the other street, to again deter the mobsmen in their flight!
SPIDER could see four motionless forms; these men had fallen from The Shadow’s fire. Others had been wounded, but were keeping on with Socks Mallory. Spider could offer no aid. His own skin was his only thought.
Stumbling through darkness, Spider reached a back window of the old house, He tumbled through and landed heavily on cement. He did not mind the bruising fall. He saw an opening between two houses at the rear, and scurried through. He had only one design - to reach his hideout before The Shadow could take up his trail.
Meanwhile, The Shadow was still in action. The black-clad fighter had doubled back through the passage. Reaching the street behind the bank, his keen vision caught the sight of fleeing gangsters at the next corner. The automatic roared in time to clip one of the running men.
Revolver shots sounded in the street. The Shadow dropped back out of sight. New police were in the game. Had they not arrived, The Shadow could have carried on; now, with the officers taking up the chase, his presence was not needed.
The noise of pursuit died in the distance. Revolver shots echoed from near-by blocks. Socks Mallory and his men were in a jam. Their crime had been frustrated; their escape had been delayed.
Policemen, entering the space by the front of the bank building, stopped as they heard a strange cry which reverberated through the narrow passage. The tones of a triumphant, mocking laugh - a weird burst of mirth that seemed to come from another sphere!
The laugh of The Shadow!
The policemen did not recognize it, but the cry filled them with alarm. Hesitating, they turned strong flashlight beams down the open space. The glare revealed nothing. The only token of a living presence was the persistent throb of sobbing echoes that had not yet died away.
The Shadow was gone. He had met the hordes of The Red Blot, and had routed them in their grim game. They had fled, like rats, for cover, behind their desperate leader, Socks Mallory.
Thwarted crime! That had been The Shadow’s accomplishment tonight. A police cordon was closing about the area which surrounded the East Side Bank. It might suffice to trap Socks Mallory and his men; it would never snare The Shadow.
Like a phantom of darkness, the invisible warrior had departed.
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE WIRE
RALPH WESTON, police commissioner, was seated in a small office which was located in his luxurious apartment. Here, twenty-four hours after the battle near the East Side Bank, he was studying the reports of thwarted crime.
Weston was a dynamic sort of man. He had been a success as police commissioner because of his persistent efforts to get at the roots of crime. To him, the menace of The Red Blot had been quite as real and as horrifying as the newspapers had chosen to make it.
Weston was grim this evening. On two successive nights, the police had encountered unusual crime. Weston was apprehensive about tonight. He knew that the law had gained success; yet victory had been barren.
Two nights ago, Detective Merton Hembroke had made an effective raid. With a squad of police, he had entered the pawnshop of Timothy Baruch. Two criminals - Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley - had been surprised at an opened safe. Both had been slain.
That was good; the unfortunate part was that Baruch’s safe had been rifled, and the crimson splotch upon a sheet of white paper had signified the evil hand of the unknown master mind called The Red Blot.
Last night, a squad of mobsters had attacked the East Side Bank. Police, responding to the alarm, had driven them off. Five gangsters had fallen; others, wounded, had kept on. Two dead men; three who had died from their wounds - of the latter not one had spoken. Sullenly, they had kept sealed lips regarding The Red Blot.
No crimson splotch had appeared last night; yet Weston was sure that The Red Blot was in back of it. All five of the dead mobsters had been men of crime whom the police had believed were out of New Yolk.
Commissioner Weston picked up an afternoon newspaper. His own picture appeared upon the front page, together with his statement that The Red Blot must be found. Weston, in fact, had issued words which savored of immunity to anyone who would put the police on the direct trail to the master crook.
WESTON began to pace his little office. He had talked with Inspector Timothy Klein not long before, the subject being the proper handling of these new crimes.
Detective Joe Cardona, dubbed the ace of the New York force, was still investigating the first cases in which The Red Blot had appeared. In the meantime, another sleuth had sprung into active prominence. Merton Hembroke, whose surprise raid at Baruch’s had marked the first success against The Red Blot, was working on the affair at the East Side Bank.
Commissioner Weston had a marked respect for Joe Cardona’s ability. At the same time, he was disappointed at the ace’s lack of results. On certain occasions, in the past, Weston had been harsh with Cardona. Every time, Joe had come through in the end.
Tonight, Weston had the same problem, but there was chance for a few solution. Instead of relying upon Cardona, he could depend on Hembroke. No doubt about it: Hembroke was a comer. Klein had just reported that Hembroke was at headquarters, sticking there, hoping for some break that would lead him closer to The Red Blot.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted Ralph Weston’s soliloquy. The police commissioner picked up the instrument and grumbled a short “Hello.” A pause; then came a response in a whining tone that Weston did not recognize.
>
“Hello!” demanded the commissioner. “Who is it?”
“Are you Commissioner Weston?” came the query.
“The commissioner speaking,” said Weston.
“Say” - the voice was nervous - “is that straight dope you was givin’ tonight in the paper? If there’s a guy that’s got somethin’ on The Red Blot - you’ll treat him square if he squawks?”
“Do you know something?” challenged Weston.
“Yeah,” said the voice. “But I ain’t goin’ to talk unless I can see you. I don’t trust the bulls. I ain’t -“
“Is this a hoax?” demanded Weston.
“I ain’t kiddin’, commissioner,” persisted the voice, in a new, plaintive tone.
“Say - I’ll give you some dope over the phone - right now - if you’ll give me a chance to come up to your place. You can have the bulls there. I’ll tell you who I am before I come, if only you’ll promise to give me the chance.”
COMMISSIONER WESTON was a sage individual. He sensed that he had a real informant on the other end of the wire. To alarm the man might end the call; to give him too much assurance might mean a change of mind on the fellow’s part. Tactful and practical, Weston decided to learn what he could while the opportunity was here.
“If this is no hoax,” he said, in a calm voice, “I am quite ready to talk with you. It does not matter if you have participated in crime which involves this man they call The Red Blot -“
“I ain’t done nothin’, commissioner,” the voice intervened. “Let me give you the low down. Are you listenin’?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been tippin’ off a guy, understand? Talkin’ with a fellow who works for The Red Blot. He wanted me to go along with him - get the idea? I was scared.”
“The Red Blot’s goin’ to pull somethin’ big, commissioner. You can’t stop him, but there’s a guy that’s goin’ to make trouble for him. The Shadow - that’s who, commissioner! The Shadow is out to get The Red Blot! I’ve seen him - The Shadow!”
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