The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  Commissioner Weston repressed a snort of disdain. He had heard of The Shadow - a strange phantom garbed in black who warred with crime. One of Joe Cardona’s pet beliefs - The Shadow.

  This awed voice, speaking from somewhere in the underworld, was adding new testimony to prove the existence of The Shadow, a thought which Weston had constantly tried to belittle.

  “If The Shadow gets The Red Blot” - the voice seemed more scared than before - “he’ll go after the whole works. He’ll get me, maybe, because I know about The Red Blot. That’s why I’m tippin’ you off.”

  “Tipping me off?” queried Weston testily. “You haven’t told me anything yet.”

  “You’ve got to believe me,” complained the voice. “Listen, commissioner - put this down and you’ll know I’m right. There’s a guy named Socks Mallory. He’s supposed to be out of New York. He’s here - he was in on last night’s job. He’s out to get a big shot named Tony Loretti -“

  “Yes! Yes!” Weston spoke eagerly as the voice broke off.

  “I can’t tell you no more,” pleaded the informant. “I’ve got to see you. If Socks Mallory knew that I was squealin’, he’d get me, sure.”

  “Listen, commissioner. I’ll come up there if you’ll let me. I’ll tell you how I’ll come - and you can cover me all along the way. Send along some dicks - they’ll know me, an’ they can stick close to me.”

  “Go ahead,” ordered Weston. “I’ll agree to see you.”

  “An hour from now,” said the voice, in a relieved tone. “Say - you’re on the level -“

  “Absolutely.”

  “O.K., then. I’ll get on the Lexington Avenue sub at Fourteenth Street, an hour from now. Tell the dicks to cover me. Spider Carew - that’s me. They’ll know Spider Carew. I’m a little guy, wearin’ a cap, an’ sweater under a coat. I’ll get on a local to Thirty-third Street. Off there an’ over to your place. Let the dicks trail me - but if they grab me, I won’t talk. I’ve got to see you, commissioner.”

  “That’s exactly right, Carew,” said Weston, in a soothing tone. “Come right along. You will not be molested. That is my promise.”

  “I’m goin’ back to my hideout,”’ informed Spider. “Then I’ll do a quick sneak over to the sub. I’ll play straight, commissioner!”

  The receiver clicked. The call was ended.

  COMMISSIONER WESTON lost no time. He called Inspector Klein.

  “One hour from now,” Weston told the inspector, “a man named Spider Carew will enter the Lexington Avenue subway at Fourteenth Street. He is coming here. I want him trailed, but he is not to be arrested.”

  Klein’s reply of acquiescence came over the wire.

  “He is a small man, Klein,” explained Weston. “He wears a cap, and a sweater underneath his coat. He will take a local train to Thirty-third Street; from there he will walk here.”

  Weston hung up the receiver after Klein had promised to make the arrangements promptly. A few minutes later, the bell rang, and the commissioner again heard the inspector’s voice.

  “I told Detective Sergeant Markham to cover Spider Carew,” explained Klein. “He was to leave with three men. In the meantime, Hembroke came into my office.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Weston. “You put him on the job also?”

  “Yes,” returned Klein, “He gave me a valuable suggestion. The detectives will leave here separately; each will arrive at Fourteenth Street within thirty minutes. They will post themselves so that they can watch each other. When one spots Spider Carew, all will follow the lead.”

  “Excellent,” decided Weston. “That is better than sending them as a squad.”

  “Anything else, commissioner?”

  “Yes.”

  Weston recalled his conversation with Spider. Normally, the commissioner would have mentioned the names of Socks Mallory and Tony Loretti; but another name crowded those from his mind.

  “This man Carew” - Weston’s tone became a bit ironical - “said that he feared The Shadow. I am telling you that, inspector, but there is no need to mention it to our men. You know my opinion regarding The Shadow. He may be a myth for all I know. That is all, inspector.”

  The call ended, Commissioner Weston sat at his desk. He now recalled the names of Mallory and Loretti, and jotted them on a pad. These could wait. Spider Carew had committed himself, and would surely come here now. Direct questioning would bring more detailed information about The Red Blot.

  As Weston pondered, he found himself thinking of The Shadow. Despite his disbelief in the activities of that mysterious being who fought with crime, the commissioner could not forget the awed tone of Spider’s voice.

  The Shadow! Weston was doubting his own opinions. Spider Carew had said that he had seen The Shadow. That would be one subject upon which Weston would examine the informant, when Spider Carew arrived for his appointment!

  CHAPTER VIII

  ON THE SUBWAY

  APPROXIMATELY one hour after he had telephoned to Police Commissioner Weston, Spider Carew arrived at the Fourteenth Street station of the East Side subway. The slinking gangster was more furtive than ever. He looked about suspiciously, half expecting someone to accost him.

  Detectives were here, Spider was sure. He feared that they might not play the game. Spider was worried about the double cross that he was perpetrating on Socks; yet Spider felt sure that there was nothing to fear from the gang leader who served The Red Blot.

  The great menace in Spider’s mind was The Shadow. That fear dwarfed all others. Nothing - so Spider was convinced - could stop the wrath of The Shadow. The little mobster feared that the black-garbed avenger might already be on his trail.

  Down the steps of the subway, to the platform where both local and express trains stopped on their way uptown, Spider went. Forty or fifty people were here. Spider clung to a little cluster. He tried not to notice anyone.

  Men were watching Spider Carew now. Detective Sergeant Markham, Detective Merton Hembroke, and three other sleuths - all five kept up a stern vigil. A local rolled into the station, Spider Carew sidled into the third car. Hembroke, watching, saw three detectives follow. Then Hembroke boarded the train also.

  Where was Markham? Hembroke, always keen, looked back to the platform. He saw Markham still waiting. The detective sergeant was moving along the platform.

  Hembroke frowned. Working independently, Markham had decided to stay for some special purpose.

  The local pulled out. Hembroke shrugged his shoulders. He set an example for the other detectives by keeping away from Spider Carew. The rat-faced little gangster was hanging on to a strap, staring out through an open window.

  BACK on the Fourteenth Street platform, Detective Sergeant Markham was staring suspiciously at a man who was resting against a post which bore a chewing-gun machine. As Markham glanced in the fellow’s direction, the man turned his back and began to make a pretense of dropping a coin in the slot. Markham was sure that he had seen this man before. Tall, heavy - someone connected with crime -

  Markham’s thoughts broke off as an express roared into the station. He saw the man start slowly for one car; then, on an impulse, hurry down the platform and board the train at another spot. The doors were closing. Markham leaped aboard, two cars away from his quarry.

  As the train started, the detective sergeant was on his way to the car where the other man had entered. There were four watching Spider Carew; it would be well to watch this fellow also. There might be some connection, Markham decided.

  The detective sergeant reached the car where the man was just as the express was passing the Eighteenth Street local station.

  Then came the unexpected. Before Markham’s eyes, a drama of crime crept into actuality, so subtly that the detective sergeant did not realize what was about to happen until the actual deed occurred.

  First, Markham recognized the profile of the man whom he was watching. A pair of bloated lips, a pudgy nose, a bulging forehead; these and roughly shaven cheeks awoke the detective ser
geant’s recollections.

  Socks Mallory! One-time racketeer - owner of the Club Janeiro - a man wanted for murder! That was the fellow whom Markham had followed on a hunch!

  The local train had pulled out of Eighteenth Street, and at the very moment when Markham made his discovery of Mallory’s identity, the express was overtaking the local. The detective sergeant caught a peculiar gleam in Mallory’s eye. He realized that the man was watching for something as he stared from the window.

  Markham looked in the same direction. He was near the front of the car; Mallory just beyond the center. Thus, as the express slowly moved past the speed-gaining local, Markham was the first to spy the occupants of the third car in the other train.

  Spider Carew was gripping a strap. Hembroke and the three other detectives were all at least ten feet away from him. Markham noted the anxious look on Spider’s face.

  The express moved slowly by; Markham looked through his own car, and suddenly realized that Socks Mallory was on a direct line with Spider Carew.

  The trains were traveling at almost uniform speed. In the local, the detectives who were watching Spider saw a hunted look come on the stoop-shouldered gangster’s face. They looked into the express. They, like Markham, saw Socks Mallory!

  The hard-faced gang leader yanked a revolver from his pocket. With a sure, determined motion, he leveled the weapon through the open window before him, and covered Spider point-blank.

  With the roaring trains side by side, in the midst of terrific noise, Mallory had a perfect shot at a range of no more than six feet!

  The flash of the revolver was accompanied by a roar that was scarcely heard above the rumbling of the trains. A second report followed immediately afterward, as Socks Mallory made sure.

  THE second bullet was not needed. The first found its mark; the next caught Spider Carew as he was toppling away from the strap.

  The detectives in the local pulled out their revolvers. Markham, in the express, duplicated the action.

  Socks Mallory was too swift. His next deed eliminated all but Markham. With his free hand, the killer reached up and yanked the emergency cord which ran through the car. The air brakes whistled. The cars of the local swept along in rapid succession as the express came to a jolting stop.

  Socks Mallory was springing toward the end of the car. No one moved to stop him. Markham could not fire; too many people were in the way. By the time the detective sergeant had reached the end of the car, Socks had opened the door between the cars, and was leaping to the local track.

  Markham delivered bullets that flattened themselves against a post between the tracks. He leaped from the train to follow the escaping killer. Somewhere along the tracks, heading back toward the Eighteenth Street station - that was the way which Socks had taken.

  Markham kept grimly on. Socks Mallory was well ahead; the detective sergeant could see no trace of him. It took Markham some four minutes to reach the Eighteenth Street station; meanwhile an uptown local and roaring downtown trains had forced him to stick to the uptown express track.

  At sight of the lighted station platforms, Markham paused. He realized that Socks could have scurried by this point; but he knew that the killer would have been seen had he clambered up either platform.

  Markham waited a full minute, undecided whether to keep on, or to take to a station platform. Suddenly a flashlight glared from the uptown station. Markham heard a voice shouting his name. Cautiously, the detective sergeant went across the local track and raised his arms, to be pulled up to the platform.

  It was Merton Hembroke who had called. The detective was explaining how he had arrived back at Eighteenth Street so suddenly.

  “Saw the express stop,” he said. “Left one man at Twenty-third Street when the local reached there. Another to get on the telephone. Brought one man here with me. He’s on the platform opposite. Man on the wire is telling headquarters to cover Fourteenth and Twenty-eighth.”

  “The emergency exits?” queried Markham. “I passed one on the way here, but I didn’t see the man I was after.”

  “Couple of policemen at Twenty-third,” responded Hembroke. “Sent them to cover the emergencies. They’re getting others. Headquarters will take care of it. I came here in a taxi - in a hurry. Say, Markham, I saw the guy. I thought I recognized him. Do you know who he was?”

  “Socks Mallory,” returned Markham. “Wanted for murder.”

  “That’s the bird!” exclaimed Hembroke. “I know him now! Say - I’ve got to pass that word along quick.”

  “Go ahead,” said Markham. “I’ll take charge here and along the line. Leave it to me, Hembroke.”

  THE detective was momentarily piqued at Markham’s assumption of command; then a thought occurred to him. He spoke in the tone of a subordinate, even though his words were a suggestion.

  “Suppose I hop up to the commissioner’s,” he said. “After I’ve passed along the dope on Socks Mallory. The commissioner was waiting for Spider Carew to show up - and Spider’s dead.”

  “O.K.,” agreed Markham.

  Detective Hembroke hurried to the street. He encountered two policemen as he reached the top of the steps. He flashed his badge.

  “Detective Sergeant Markham in charge,” said Hembroke. “Socks Mallory is the man we’re looking for.”

  As Hembroke paused upon the street corner, a police car sirened up to where he stood. Inspector Timothy Klein alighted. He saw the detective. Hembroke stepped forward and gave the information regarding Socks Mallory; then added that he was on his way to Weston’s, at Markham’s approval.

  “Very good,” agreed Klein. “Hurry along, Hembroke.”

  All along the avenue, police and detectives were coming to the search for the escaped killer. Socks Mallory’s daring deed had been quick in its execution. The response of the law had not been lacking.

  Detective Hembroke smiled grimly as he boarded a cab and gave Weston’s address. Socks Mallory was underground. Every exit of the subway for blocks was covered. Whether or not the killer was captured, nothing but commendation could be made for Detective Hembroke’s promptitude.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SHADOW’S CLEW

  WHILE policemen and detectives were engaged in the swift and thorough search for Spider Carew’s murderer, another quest was under way - one which Spider had dreaded, and had taken drastic measures to forestall.

  The Shadow, moving through the underworld, had reached the end of a trail. He was at the threshold of the secret hideout which Spider Carew had so recently abandoned.

  The turn of last night’s events had forced The Shadow to abandon his original course. The Shadow had used Spider as a means of locating the spot where the minions of The Red Blot were to perpetrate their plotted crime. Then, in order to rout the marauders, he had given no further heed to Spider.

  After his battle with Socks Mallory’s mobsters, The Shadow had again been forced to give up the chase. He had left that to the police; they had failed. The Red Blot’s henchmen had made another mysterious disappearance.

  Two courses lay before The Shadow. One was to study the vicinity of the East Side Bank; the other was to locate Spider Carew’s hideout. The Shadow had chosen the latter. Spider Carew, spy and informant, was a connecting link with The Red Blot’s evil hand.

  The Shadow, however, was confronted with a most difficult quest. He had picked up Spider’s trail outside the hideout. To discover the place itself meant a deductive process beginning with the spot where he had first seen Spider.

  The Shadow knew the bad lands well. He had waited until afternoon; then, in the guise of an obscure mobsman, he had begun his survey. Gradually, he had eliminated different districts until he had centered upon several blocks. In one of these, The Shadow was sure, Spider Carew must be located.

  Fate had played strange tricks that evening. Spider Carew, seeking to avoid The Shadow, had left his hideout while The Shadow, himself, was in the vicinity. By pure accident, Spider had taken a street which The Shadow ha
d just abandoned; had made his phone call, and had doubled back to the hideout.

  Leaving again, he had once more prowled a lucky course that had enabled him to escape The Shadow’s search. Less than three minutes after Spider had gone from the alley by his hideout, The Shadow, unseen in the garb of black that he had adopted after nightfall, had come to that exact locality.

  Spider, to avoid The Shadow, had pleaded by telephone with Commissioner Weston. His interview granted, Spider had given little thought to Socks Mallory. He had felt sure that Socks would never know his game. But in eluding The Shadow, Spider had fallen prey to Socks Mallory’s killing hand!

  THE SHADOW understood the psychology of Spider Carew’s ilk. He knew that the stoop-shouldered skulker would prefer his hideout as the best place of security. That was exactly where The Shadow would have found Spider; but for the freakish idea which had entered the little mobster’s mind - the odd thought of communicating with Commissioner Weston.

  Thus, with Spider dead, with the hue and cry out for Socks Mallory, The Shadow was still on his set task. Gliding weirdly through the alleyway, this master of darkness paused when he came to the battered door which marked the entrance to Spider’s hideout.

  This place impressed The Shadow because of its obscurity. Softly, the black-garbed phantom entered the doorway and flickered his tiny flashlight upon the rickety steps. There, he saw signs of use: a boarded hole in one step halfway up the flight. The Shadow ascended.

  In total darkness, the invisible investigator tried the door at the top. It opened; The Shadow’s light again glittered. It fell upon the gas jet. A match flickered; the room was illuminated. The Shadow, his form grotesque and sinister in the wavering light, viewed Spider Carew’s hiding place.

  A newspaper lay on the cot. A sheet of paper was resting on the chair. A black-gloved hand plucked up the second object. Keen eyes read a note which Spider Carew had scrawled. It was the little mobster’s effort to lull Socks Mallory, should the gang leader come here during the absence of Spider Carew.