The Hand s-150

by Maxwell Grant

  The Hand

  ( Shadow - 150 )

  Maxwell Grant

  A sinister criminal organization called "The Hand" challenges the Dark Avenger to a fight to the finish.

  From out of darkness comes The Hand to confront The Shadow - and only he could read completely the terrible message it held!

  THE HAND

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," May 15, 1938.

  CHAPTER I

  CRIME FORETOLD

  THE man on the corner looked like a Bowery bum. He was bent-shouldered, droopy-faced, with a bleary gaze that seemed to have two purposes. The first was to find prosperous-looking passersby who could be touched for a drink; the other, to avoid any patrolman who might come along.

  The panhandler had chosen a place frequented by those of his ilk. He was beneath the high-built elevated structure at Chatham Square, near the outskirts

  of New York's Chinatown. Many visitors who scorned the Chinatown busses came to

  the Oriental quarter by the elevated. It was easy to halt them and make the old

  plea for a cup of coffee.

  The one trouble was that too many other bums had the same idea. There was a horde of them about - furtive, vulture-eyed, all hoping to gain their quota of small change.

  A squatty hard-faced man came down the steps from the elevated. He gave a contemptuous glance that took in the array of panhandlers. Most of them shifted

  away. This guy wasn't the sort who would fall for the old flimflam. But the bent-shouldered man thought differently.

  He shambled toward the squatty arrival. Plucking a cigarette stump from the pocket of his ragged coat, he raised it toward his pasty lips, while he whined the query:

  "Got a match, bud?"

  "On your way, bum," growled the squatty man. "Here comes a harness bull.

  Want me to turn you over?"

  "All I asked for was a match!"

  "Yeah! The old build-up! That stall don't work around here. I got you labeled; you're one of them mission stiffs that tries to find a few dimes before crawling in to beg for an overnight bunk!"

  The squatty man turned away, only to twist angrily when he felt the panhandler's fingers pluck his sleeve. Again, the whine: "Honest, bud - all I'm

  lookin' for is some guy to give me a hand."

  There was a hard look in the squatty man's eyes. He saw a slow grin on the

  pasty lips of that face above bent shoulders. In a lower tone, the panhandler reminded:

  "And all I asked for was a match."

  From his vest pocket, the squatty man drew a pack of paper matches, thrust

  them into the bum's fist.

  "There's some matches," he guffawed, "You wanted 'em, so keep 'em!"

  He strode away, while watching bums grinned at the sour look displayed by the stoopy panhandler. Evidently, that episode was enough to settle the unsuccessful fellow.

  HUNCHING his bent shoulders, the droopy-faced man shambled toward Doyers Street, taking the route to the old Bowery Mission, where bunks awaited those of his breed.

  Out of sight along the curving street, the shambling bum didn't stop at that logical destination. Instead, he shuffled onward, through Chinatown and out again, to the gloom of a street where many cars were parked. Some of those automobiles were pretentious, for they were owned by persons visiting Chinatown.

  The bum picked the best car in the line - a huge, imported limousine, in which a uniformed chauffeur sat drowsing at the wheel. Opening the rear door softly, the stogy bum shifted inside. As soon as he had closed the door, he lifted a speaking tube. His voice awoke the chauffeur.

  "Very well, Stanley." An even tone had replaced the whine. "Drive up-town."

  The big car started. Crouched in the rear seat, the ex-bum flicked a tiny flashlight. Its gleam showed the match pack that the squatty man had given him.

  That pack was open; on the inside flap, keen eyes saw markings made with a rubber stamp.

  One token was a clock dial, with an indicator pointing to the hour of nine. Beneath it was another stamped design that served as signature. It was crudely shaped, badly stamped, but easily recognized.

  That emblem represented a human hand; fingers and thumb were close together, but extended.

  A whispered laugh filled the confines of the soundproof limousine. That mirth, too, was a token.

  It was the laugh of The Shadow!

  MASTER investigator who battled men of crime, The Shadow had gotten information that he wanted. One hour's pose as a Bowery bum had proven highly profitable. His next step was to link his findings with those of workers who served The Shadow and his agents. Earphones came from a hidden space in front of the limousine's folding seats. A buzzing announced short-wave contact. The Shadow heard a voice from the ether:

  "Burbank speaking."

  "Report!"

  The Shadow's whisper was all that Burbank needed. The contact man gave news from The Shadow's agents. When the reports were finished, The Shadow spoke

  instructions.

  Replacing the earphones, The Shadow gave Stanley a new destination, using the quiet, even tone that suited Lamont Cranston, the wealthy owner of this limousine and the man whose identity, at times, The Shadow adopted. As the big car wheeled into a side street, The Shadow drew a hidden drawer from beneath the rear seat.

  In the next few minutes, the guise of the bum was obliterated. The Shadow didn't bother to alter his facial make-up; he merely smothered it. A black cloak slid over his shoulders, its upturned collar hiding The Shadow's disguised lips. Long hands clamped a slouch hat on the head above; the hat brim

  obscured The Shadow's upper features.

  When the limousine halted beside a darkened curb, a shrouded figure glided

  from the door. Patiently, Stanley sat at the wheel, supposing that his master was still within the car.

  The Shadow had chosen a hidden pathway through the night.

  SOON, a bluish light flooded the corner of a black-walled room. The Shadow

  was in his sanctum - secret abode in the heart of New York City. Long-fingered hands moved above the surface of a polished table. Into view came newspaper clippings, mostly from tabloid journals. All told the same story.

  After months of comparative quiet, following the smashing of Manhattan's racket rings, crime had again reared itself. It was crime with a sensational touch, although it hadn't brought big monetary results. The main feature was the chief criminal involved. He, at least, was picturesque; although his ways were foolhardy.

  The newspapers called him the "Masked Playboy."

  Heading a small band of marauders, their faces covered like his own, the Masked Playboy entered night clubs and small hotels. In every case, he had forced someone to open the safe and hand over its contents.

  Staring through a slitted bandanna handkerchief, holding a .38 revolver in

  his fist, the Masked Playboy had meant business. When he dropped his Harvard accent to suggest that victims "fork over," they invariably forked.

  The Playboy's constant mistake had been his picking of the wrong places.

  True, he had chosen spots where the police were not around; but real money had been as absent as the law. In four of these surprise raids, the Masked Playboy had netted a total that scarcely exceeded a thousand dollars.

  That made it seem a sure conclusion that he and his crew would soon be on the move again. The law wanted to know when and where. So did The Shadow. He, himself, had found out "when" - from the message that he had picked up in Chatham Square.

  Through reports from agents, The Shadow hoped to find out where the Masked

  Playboy intended to appear.

  WEEDING through the typewritten information, The Sha
dow added further data, obtained verbally from Burbank. His whispered laugh toned the darkness beyond the sphere of the shaded lamp. This present run of crime had become the talk of the underworld. As a result, many tips had leaked out.

  By the weeding process, The Shadow found the tip that looked best. The clock on his table showed twenty-two minutes past eight. There was time, plenty

  of it, for The Shadow to be on hand at the place where he expected the Masked Playboy to arrive at nine o'clock.

  The bluish light went out. From then, The Shadow's paths were covered until eighteen minutes before nine o'clock, when a tiny flashlight flickered along a low roof that wedged between two squatty, old-fashioned office buildings near Twenty-third Street.

  The Shadow reached the window of a darkened office. He forced it, silently; crept through the office to a corner door. Opening that barrier, he stepped into another office, where he gleamed the flashlight on the front of an

  old safe.

  The strong-box bore the, lettering, in faded gilt: "NU-WAY LOAN COMPANY."

  The safe was as antiquated as the office. Five minutes was all that The Shadow required to handle the tumblers, taking his time in the process. When he

  opened the safe door, The Shadow whispered another laugh.

  There was nothing of value in the safe. All that it contained were stacks of old papers: bundles of closed accounts that had been stowed here in case of fire. That explained why the offices of the Nu-Way Loan Company lacked protection in the way of burglar alarms.

  The Shadow closed the safe door, gave the dial a twist. He retired to the adjoining office, but went no farther. He was waiting on the hunch that he had found the right place: that the Masked Playboy, always a poor picker, would be running true to form.

  There was another reason why The Shadow lingered. Behind this chain of profitless crime, he could discern a hidden purpose. So far, The Shadow had no clue to the underlying reason, but in assuming that one existed, he was far ahead of the law.

  Tonight, The Shadow intended to learn the real motive that concerned the Masked Playboy. This would be the ideal spot to gain the required facts. The Shadow would be looking over crime from the inside.

  Such measures, with The Shadow, usually brought complete success, unless an unexpected element entered.

  This night was to provide the unexpected.

  CHAPTER II

  TOOL OF CRIME

  NINE o'clock proved that The Shadow's surmise was correct. Promptly with that hour came sounds from the outer corridor that fronted the office of the Nu-Way Loan Company.

  Crooks were arriving by the route that The Shadow expected them to use, the straight road to their goal. Since they were coming in through the front door, The Shadow's post in the adjoining office seemed well-chosen.

  There was no reason for criminals to suspect trouble on these premises.

  Once they cracked the ancient safe, they would logically depart by the route which they had used to enter.

  Logic, however, was due for a severe blow.

  Scraping sounds ended at the front door. Flashlights gleamed as the door came open. Those rays were flicked along the floor; but against the outlines of

  the windows, The Shadow could see a cluster of entering invaders.

  More than that, he noted the appearance of the man who entered first, with

  two others at his elbows. The leader's face was masked with a bandanna handkerchief; below his chin was the whiteness of a shirt front, with a black splotch that indicated a bow tie.

  He was the Masked Playboy, attired in tuxedo.

  The Playboy reached the safe, still accompanied by his two pals. Those three weren't all that composed the band; there were others, in the background,

  making about six in all. But evidently, the Masked Playboy depended chiefly upon

  the two who were at his elbows, for they stayed with him, engaging in whispers.

  Audible words reached The Shadow.

  "Go ahead - open it!" The whispered tone was rough; it didn't suit the description of the Playboy's accent. "You got gloves on, ain't you? Two to the right, four to the left - that's it."

  The two men moved away, leaving the Masked Playboy alone. Against the window, The Shadow saw the glimmer of a revolver; but it wasn't in the Playboy's fist. One of the other men gripped the gun, keeping it as a threat.

  Instantly, The Shadow saw the set-up of the game.

  The Masked Playboy wasn't the real leader of the outfit. The man who handled matters was the fellow with the gun. He was forcing the Playboy to go through with the job of opening the safe!

  JUST why had the tuxedoed dupe become a tool of crime?

  The Shadow answered his own question almost as soon as he had mentally asked it. He was watching the Playboy's laborious work with the dial. Although he had been told the combination, the dupe was finding the job difficult.

  His unsteadiness proved that he was either drunk or doped; probably the latter.

  The man with the gun had ceased to bother about the Playboy. He was at the

  telephone, dialing a number. This time, The Shadow heard no more than snatches of his words.

  "Yeah, he's at it..." The tone became a mutter. "Sure. We're counting on the stoolies... It don't look like the grapevine worked too soon..."

  The rest was lost. The phone conversation ended. Intruders waited until the Masked Playboy had finished with the combination. He was wavery clinging to

  the dial with one hand. That was when one crook shifted to a spot between The Shadow and the safe.

  The shifter was carrying a squarish object. The Shadow learned its purpose

  when a gruff voice told the Playboy to look to the right. He swung slowly in obedience; there was a sudden flash of light that filled the whole room like a lightning streak.

  In that moment, The Shadow saw the squarish object. It was a camera, trained on the masked features of the Playboy. The light was the illumination from a photographer's flashlight bulb.

  There was nothing in that quick glimpse by which to identify the Masked Playboy, except his tuxedo. The bandanna covered his face; crouched as he was, his height was difficult to estimate. The crooks themselves recognized those facts. Their next move showed it.

  Swinging the Masked Playboy about, they faced him toward the windows at the left. The man with the camera stepped between them. Rough hands snatched the Playboy's mask, tugged it down to the dupe's neck. Again, a flash bulb puffed.

  This time, they caught a more than candid shot of the Masked Playboy, in his same attire, in front of the very safe shown in the first photo.

  But this time, the Playboy was unmasked!

  Chance had worked against The Shadow. The thugs had turned their tool away

  from his direction, to take that all-important picture of the fellow's face.

  They had begun to work in a hurry, for the camera job was finished. Again, the Masked Playboy had the bandanna across his face, for crooks had lifted it there.

  The real leader of the crew had yanked the safe open. Inside went a box; The Shadow heard the sizzle of a fuse. The safe door clanged shut.

  BEFORE The Shadow could ease forward to surprise the crooks with sudden challenge, a different sound intervened. It was the shrill of a police whistle from somewhere beyond the windows.

  A crook pressed the light switch; others shoved the Masked Playboy to the nearest window.

  A shout from below. Police had seen the masked face, the tuxedo shirt below it. Hands yanked the Playboy from the danger spot, just as police revolvers began to crackle. A mobster doused the light.

  The whole frame-up had been perfectly timed, even to the arrival of the police. That was what the man at the telephone had talked about, when he mentioned stoolies. The Shadow had learned facts on his own, through leaks in the underworld; but afterward, the crooks themselves had let the same word be broadcast.

  They wanted the law to know that the Masked Playboy had been concerned in this crime, so that
the photographs would prove a recognized episode. But in their cleverness, the crooks had taken on a problem.

  They had to be out of the loan company's office in a hurry, not only before the safe was blown, but before the police reached the place.

  There was only one route that offered them security. That path was through

  the adjoining office from which The Shadow watched.

  Promptly, The Shadow stepped back into darkness. Bold, sudden attack was unneeded. Not that he preferred to supply lurking tactics; on the contrary, he would rather have driven in upon the crooks.

  Worried by the thought of their own time fuse; trapped between The Shadow and the law, they would have shown themselves as frantic rats, quite as helpless as others that The Shadow had adeptly handled in the past.

  The Shadow's reason for sudden retirement concerned the Masked Playboy.

  The Shadow knew that he could not depend upon the dupe's cooperation; not even to the point where the groggy man would scramble for safety. He couldn't risk the chance of that victim's death. It was obvious that the crooks wanted to keep the Playboy alive, and get him out of danger. The Shadow decided to let them accomplish that.

  Close beside the window that led to the low roof, The Shadow heard the clatter of the connecting door. Mobsters were coming through, dragging the Masked Playboy with them. They didn't need their flashlights; they could make out the shape of the window. Thanks to the darkness of the office, they couldn't see The Shadow.

  As The Shadow expected, three of the thugs went though the window first.

  The others started to shove the groggy playboy to the men outside. Some seemed jittery, but the growl of their leader steadied them. He was telling them that there was another minute for the fuse; that the blast couldn't reach this room,

  anyway.

  As for the cops, they were still trying to break into the building, as muffled crashes proved.

  THE Masked Playboy lay half across the sill when The Shadow acted. His move was a swoop from blackness, as powerful as it was unexpected. His hand thrust in unseen, to arrest the shoves that the crooks gave. His fingers clamped the dark cloth of the Playboy's attire.