The Silent Death s-27

by Maxwell Grant

  will do now, Ricordo?"

  "They'll hang around Red Mike's," returned the gang leader promptly. "For a while, anyway. They'll be

  looking for a new guy to watch — some one instead of Slips Harbeck."

  "Excellent," remarked the fiendish scientist. "We shall give them some one else."

  "You mean another guy like Slips?"

  "One better than Slips."

  "Who?"

  "Yourself!"

  RICORDO leaped up from his chair. His eyes were wild. He began an incoherent protest. Professor

  Urlich smiled and waved the gang leader back.

  "Hear me out, Ricordo," said Urlich. "I am planning a perfect thrust. I must rely upon you."

  "But suppose that Cardona has made Slips squawk?" protested the gang lord. "Maybe he hasn't done it

  yet; maybe he will, though."

  "That does not matter," declared the scientist. "In fact, it is essential that you should make it apparent that

  you are Slips Harbeck's successor. You must play the part that Slips has played. You are the one who

  will lure The Shadow to certain doom."

  "Yeah? And suppose the police — "

  "Let me question you once more, Ricordo. You speak of underlings whom you call stool pigeons: one

  belonging to The Shadow; the other to the police. You know that one is named Cliff Marsland. Do you

  think that you could recognize the other?"

  "Sure. I could spot him if I was looking for him."

  "Since there is no evidence that Cardona has learned that you are Slips Harbeck's chief, do you suppose

  that he would have detectives in the vicinity of the place called Red Mike's?"

  "No. Cardona would keep them away. He'd be waiting for some guy that looked suspicious. He'd leave

  that to the stool. If I showed up there, and the stool spotted me, Cardona would hear about it. My next

  trip to Red Mike's would be just too bad for me."

  "Excellent," expressed the professor. "We can assume that The Shadow, too, will utilize the same

  system."

  "Sure," agreed Ricordo. "He can't know that Slips Harbeck tipped us off about Cliff Marsland."

  "Very, very good," smiled Urlich. "My scheme will be to your liking, Ricordo. We are dealing with the

  underworld. There, violence is useful. How quickly could you assemble a squad of gunmen, Ricordo?"

  "A mob of gorillas?" Ricordo laughed coarsely. "I can get them quick. No trouble in that, professor."

  "Excellent. Obtain such men. Take them with you to Red Mike's. Play the part of Slips Harbeck's

  successor. Simply call a false phone number and repeat certain information."

  "And the mob?"

  "Your men will serve two purposes. First, to eliminate the police spy, so that he cannot carry information

  back to headquarters. Second — "

  "To get Cliff Marsland!"

  "To capture him; not to kill him. They must not touch him until after he has communicated with The

  Shadow and informed his master of your plans."

  "But if The Shadow gets on my trail" — Ricordo's voice was doubtful — "I'll be in a jam, professor!"

  "The Shadow will not follow you," announced Urlich. "He will find much to occupy him at the destination

  which you name. There will be work there for The Shadow. Work, with unexpected consequences. If

  my new plan prevails, the career of The Shadow will be terminated."

  "What'll I do? Scram?"

  "You will return here. If your men capture Cliff Marsland, they will carry him to a designated point. There

  you will meet them, dismiss them, and bring Marsland here alone!"

  "I get you, professor. We'll make him squawk!"

  "If necessary, yes. Only if The Shadow, through some freak of chance, should escape our snare. Then,

  and then alone, Marsland will prove useful. Otherwise, I shall eliminate him in my laboratory."

  PROFESSOR URLICH arose. He beckoned to Larry Ricordo and conducted the gang lord down the

  spiral stairway to the laboratory. Urlich led the way to a table in the corner. He pointed to two bottles of

  liquid: one green, the other red.

  Into a test tube, the scientist poured a few drops of each liquid. The mixture became colorless. Urlich

  held the tube in the light. Ricordo watched. A few minutes passed. The colorless liquid began to

  effervesce. Bubbles appeared upon its surface. The scientist smiled as he raised a warning hand.

  In a low voice, he began to explain the purpose of the experiment. With his free hand, he pointed to dead

  rats and mice that lay upon the table. Larry Ricordo listened in astonishment.

  Professor Urlich droned on in the voice of a lecturer. He spoke of the past: of Thomas Joselyn's

  connection with the first scheme of murder; of failures and why they had occurred. He spoke of The

  Shadow; and finally of silent death.

  As the bubbling liquid ceased its action, Professor Urlich smiled and tossed the test tube in a sink. The

  breaking glass tinkled ominously.

  "As I have destroyed that tube," remarked the scientist quietly, "so can I destroy the lives of those who

  block my path. I have told you the perfect plan, Ricordo. Go — and do your part."

  LARRY RICORDO descended the spiral stairway to the floor below. As he walked around the circular

  passage, the gang leader shuddered at the clanking of his footsteps upon the metal floor. He was thinking

  of the terrible machine that lay within the circular wall.

  Death was Professor Urlich's motto. Death to all who blocked his path. Larry Ricordo, in his evil heart,

  dreaded the man whose will he now was serving. He realized that at this very moment, he was walking

  within a zone where death could strike at Folcroft Urlich's bidding.

  Even now, Ricordo realized, a signal light must be gleaming upon the glittering machine within the inner

  pit. That light was caused by Ricordo's treading on the metal plates. A swing of the switch — the gang

  leader shuddered again.

  He did not feel at ease until he had passed the outer door, and passed the range of the metal-floored

  portico. Beyond the zones of death, Larry Ricordo stepped into his sedan. Late afternoon had come. It

  was time to head Manhattanward.

  Death! Silent death! It lurked in Professor Folcroft Urlich's strange, circular abode. Death would strike

  The Shadow, should even he venture thither. Doom would be the welcome to any intruder who passed

  within those sinister portals.

  The Shadow! Larry Ricordo sneered as he started the sedan. The time would never come when The

  Shadow would visit this menacing spot. The master of darkness would learn the taste of death without

  ever discovering the hand that dealt it.

  Stowed within the pockets of his coat, Larry Ricordo was carrying the bottles of red and green liquid.

  The gang leader knew their potency. Death to The Shadow — silent death!

  Larry Ricordo was setting forth to arrange the trail to doom!

  CHAPTER XIV. MOBSMEN STRIKE

  ANOTHER night had come. Denizens of the underworld had begun their assemblage in Red Mike's den.

  The proprietor of the speakeasy, noncommittal as was his wont, cast no more than a casual glance

  toward those who thronged his dive.

  The capture of Slips Harbeck had created no great stir in gangdom. The detectives had effected it quietly

  outside of Red Mike's. There had been no witnesses other than Gawky Tyson, Cardona's stool pigeon.

  Red Mike, himself, was not perturbed by Slips Harbeck's fate. In fact, he had come to consider Slips as

  a liability. Ricordo's lieutenant, fomenting schemes, had been too closely clinging to Red Mike.
The

  speakeasy proprietor was glad that the mysterious phone calls had ended.

  Nevertheless, Red Mike regarded Slips Harbeck as a pal; and in the back of his head, Red Mike was

  ready to bring discomfort to any one concerned with Harbeck's capture. Contrarily, Red Mike did not

  trouble himself to seek the culprit who had brought about the arrest of Slips.

  There were two men in the speakeasy this night who could have given Red Mike information concerning

  Slips Harbeck's doings. One was Gawky Tyson; the other was Cliff Marsland.

  Cardona's stool pigeon was seated near the door that led to the little side room. Cliff Marsland was

  across the speakeasy. Besides them, there were perhaps twenty typical habitues of the bad lands, ranged

  about the big room.

  Two hard-faced gangsters entered. They said nothing. They sat at a table not far from the little room.

  Both Cliff and Gawky eyed them; Cliff with a casual glance, Gawky with a furtive sidelong stare.

  Minutes passed; another pair of mobsmen came in. They paid no attention to the first ones. They, too,

  seemed occupied with their own business.

  "Gorillas getting together," mused Cliff. "Good idea to watch them."

  Cliff's thought was a usual one. It was just such an assembly that had given the final tip-off to Slips

  Harbeck's activities, the night that Ricordo's lieutenant had set forth to Alfred Sartain's apartment house.

  ANOTHER man entered the speakeasy. Cliff Marsland's gaze narrowed. He was sure that he

  recognized these hardened, evil features. Larry Ricordo!

  Cliff had seen the gang lord in the past. Moreover, he was here to watch for any sign of Ricordo, even

  though the chances of the missing gang leader's visit had appeared quite remote.

  Another pair of eyes spotted Larry Ricordo. Gawky Tyson, too, was interested in the gang leader's

  arrival. He had been planted here by Cardona in hopes of this very visit. Thus the gorillas were forgotten.

  Both Cliff and Gawky became concerned with Ricordo.

  The gang leader stopped to talk to Red Mike. As he glanced about the room, Ricordo scarcely noted

  Cliff Marsland. But he did let his eyes pause mildly upon Gawky Tyson, who happened to be the nearest

  person to him.

  As a spotter, Ricordo lived up to his claims. It required only a second glance to assure him that Gawky

  was the stool pigeon the police had posted here.

  Ricordo caught the eye of one gorilla. The gang leader's gaze shifted back toward Gawky Tyson. That

  was the sign that meant suspicion. The gorilla nodded. Ricordo went on talking to Red Mike.

  There was no occasion for Ricordo to mark Cliff Marsland. Among the gunmen whom he had gathered

  in dives other than Red Mike's, were two who knew Cliff by sight. Larry Ricordo repressed a leer as he

  talked with Red Mike. The stage was set; now for action.

  "So they grabbed Slips Harbeck, eh?" Ricordo spoke in a less guarded tone. His words reached both

  Gawky and Cliff. "Well, don't talk about it, Mike. I'll tell you why — I'm picking up where Slips left off.

  Where's the telephone?"

  Red Mike nudged his thumb toward the inner room. He was anxious to please Larry Ricordo. He had

  never heard Slips Harbeck mention the gang leader, but he was willing to take Ricordo's say-so.

  "Sit down," offered Red Mike. "Have a drink on the house, Larry. I'll let you know when a call comes for

  you."

  "Can't wait, Mike," returned Ricordo. "I know the number. I'll call it myself. I was intending to

  wait — that's why I came here. But with this crowd here I — "

  "Somebody may recognize you, eh?"

  "Sure. I've been keeping out of town, you know. I'll chance a call — if I don't get an answer, I'll wait — but

  I'll stick in the little room."

  WHEN he concluded, Larry Ricordo went to the door that Red Mike had indicated. Both Cliff Marsland

  and Gawky Tyson were intensely interested. They were anxious to learn the number that Ricordo was

  calling. The closed door prevented them. But it was not long before that door, which had a habit of not

  staying completely closed, opened inward, as though by accident.

  Ricordo was talking, and the tones of his voice were audible to both listeners. As successor of Slips

  Harbeck, the gang leader was apparently receiving important instructions.

  "Thomas Jocelyn?" Ricordo's tone denoted surprise. "Sure… I'll go there… Afraid he'll squawk, eh? Well,

  he knows too much… Sure… I know where old Jocelyn's apartment is… Leave it to me… Easy. I'll go

  there right away. I can make it in half an hour…"

  The receiver clanked. Larry Ricordo stalked from the inner room. The expression on his face was plain.

  One could see that it boded ill for Thomas Jocelyn. Larry Ricordo stopped in the outer room.

  "I'll have that drink, Mike," he said to the proprietor. "Then I'll start along. Thanks for letting me use the

  phone."

  While Ricordo's back was turned, Cliff Marsland arose quietly from his table. The Shadow's agent had

  shifted before. He was apparently seeking a new place. Instead, he changed his mind and sauntered

  toward the door of the speakeasy.

  Cliff had just reached the door when Gawky Tyson hunched himself upward and began a furtive progress

  in the same direction. He had not gone three paces before one of the gorillas leaped to his feet. At that

  moment, Larry Ricordo was finishing his drink.

  "Well, so long, Mike," said the gang leader.

  A cry sounded through the speakeasy. It was directed toward Gawky Tyson, by the gangster who had

  leaped forward to block the stool pigeon's path.

  "Get this guy!" shouted the gorilla. "He's a stool; that's what he is! Get the squawker!"

  From the door, Cliff Marsland caught the flash of revolvers. He also saw Larry Ricordo approaching the

  door. As the gang leader stopped to view the action, Cliff ducked out into the night. Larry Ricordo,

  looking over his shoulder as he went, reached the door.

  Gawky Tyson was screaming denials. Like a frightened rat, he was squirming away from the mobsman

  who had accosted him. The other gorillas were on their feet, covering the suspect with their revolvers.

  Red Mike was bellowing out threats. He wanted no disturbance in this place.

  Other customers were on their feet. None were friends of Gawky Tyson, but they all knew Red Mike.

  Larry Ricordo watched grimly, knowing that his men must not delay. They could act now and explain

  afterward.

  Two revolvers roared. Other shots followed. With almost one accord, the gorillas loosed their lead into

  the form of Gawky Tyson. The stool pigeon uttered a piercing shriek and toppled to the floor.

  Red Mike, with clenched fists, was trying to put the blame on the proper man. But the gorillas had acted

  with the precision of a firing squad. Backing away, they held their revolvers in menacing hands, as though

  challenging any one who might call them to task.

  LARRY RICORDO stepped through the door. He walked away, glancing back as he went. He saw the

  murderers come hurrying from the speakeasy. Their work was done. Larry laughed as he sauntered

  along and ducked through a side alley.

  These men were half of his corps. The others had remained outside. They had gone; and Larry knew

  where. They had taken up the trail of Cliff Marsland.

  Hurrying his pace, Ricordo kept on for several blocks and finally stopped at a little restaurant. He

  entered, went through to a back room and picked up a telephone. He called th
e number of Thomas

  Jocelyn. He recognized the voice that came over the wire.

  "Hello, Grewson," said Ricordo. "All set? Good… Listen now. You've got the bottles… Do the job

  right… No, I'm not coming there, but there's a guy that thinks I am… He'll be there later. You're to be

  gone when he gets there… Well — fifteen minutes will be all right; but move in a hurry after that… Yes…

  Yes… Scram; keep going clear out of town… You've got the dough I slipped you. There'll be more

  waiting when you reach Chicago…"

  Larry Ricordo left the restaurant. He laughed in a pleased manner. It rested with Grewson now; and

  Grewson was capable. Furthermore, Grewson did not know that The Shadow was concerned in this

  episode.

  As for Thomas Jocelyn's apartment — Larry Ricordo had no reason for going there now. That was part of

  Professor Urlich's scheme. A new trail for The Shadow; another duty for Ricordo. Half a dozen blocks

  to go; and Larry would learn if the rest of his plot had succeeded.

  The gang leader neared the appointed spot. He was back in a secluded district of the underworld, far

  from Red Mike's establishment. A man came out of the darkness to meet him. It was one of the gorillas

  who had been set to trail Cliff Marsland.

  "We got him, Larry," whispered the gangster. "Laid outside the place where he was phoning and nabbed

  him when he came out. Knocked him cold."

  "Is he in the car now?"

  Larry put the question as they stalked along. He saw the gangster nod.

  "Yeah," said the underling. "Him and another guy. This bird jumped us while we were grabbin' Marsland.

  One of the gang socked him with a rod."

  "Who is he?" demanded Ricordo.

  "Some reporter," explained the gangster. "Found his cards in his pocket. Name's Burke — Clyde Burke.

  We didn't want to bump him off because the noise might have made trouble. We can drop him

  somewhere or take him for a ride — "

  They were at the spot where the car was parked. Three mobsters emerged from the side of an old

  sedan. Larry Ricordo used a flashlight to study the two men who were bound and gagged in the back

  seat. He recognized Cliff Marsland. He did not know the other.

  THE gang leader pondered. He wondered if this reporter was an acquaintance of Cliff Marsland or