The Hand s-150

by Maxwell Grant

  Meriden saw the logic. He knew that the false Quaine could explain this visit by saying that he came to ask questions regarding Reggie's identity. As for Pinkey, he would back anything that the false Quaine said. Believing Slick to be a real detective and Pinkey to be a bona fide businessman named J. B.

  Corston, Meriden could find no loophole. He looked dazed; but he managed to gather his wits and ask one important question.

  "What about my son?" queried Meriden, "Where is he?"

  On the boat," returned Pinkey, "Getting some sleep after a bad night. The bulls nearly nabbed him, after that job. Why don't you call him, Meriden?

  They've got a telephone service to that ship. Make sure that he's all right."

  MERIDEN made the call. He controlled his tone while he talked to his sleepy-voiced son, and made no remarks that Reggie could have interpreted as knowledge of last night's episode. From that conversation Meriden convinced himself that Reggie was not in the clutch of crooks.

  "Satisfied?" queried Pinkey, when the call was ended. "You ought to be.

  Why should we be worried? We don't have to keep our mitts on the kid. That packet doesn't sail till noon. Bill Quaine, here, has still got two hours to show up with a squad and yank Reggie off the boat."

  Meriden nodded. His lips were firmly pressed. Pinkey produced an agreement

  of sale, laid it on the desk.

  "The price for Interstate Service Stations," he announced, "is two hundred

  and fifty grand."

  "You mean" - Meriden was amazed - "a quarter million?"

  "Why not?" returned Pinkey. "Your company has got plenty of dough. You can

  make this look like a swell buy! Use the phony reports that I sent you."

  Meriden winced; mechanically, he reached for his pen. He applied his signature to the agreement. Pinky reminded him that a check would be in order.

  Meriden wrote one for fifty thousand dollars, stating that he would have to make the payments in installments.

  "Write out the rest of them," ordered Pinkey. "Date them ahead, a month apart. We know you won't welsh on them. We've got the goods on you, now, Meriden, along with your son Reggie."

  Meriden made out the remaining checks; he passed them weakly across the desk. Pinkey arose, beckoned to Slick. Together, the crooks went out toward the

  elevators. At the information desk, Pinkey spoke to the girl.

  "Better look in on the boss, sister," remarked Pinkey. "He wasn't feeling so good when we left him. Maybe he's feeling sort of sick!"

  Slick was waiting at the opened door of an elevator. Pinkey stepped in with him. As the door clanged shut, the girl at the desk heard the finish of two ugly chuckles that came from the lips of Meriden's visitors.

  Two crooks were mutually agreed on the proposition that crime, when properly framed, could pay in plenty.

  CHAPTER V

  LINKS TO CRIME

  IN all the reports of the Masked Playboy's final crime, there was no inkling of the real purpose. The public, like the law, assumed that the tuxedoed criminal had merely led his crew in another profitless expedition -

  this time with such bad results that the Playboy might well be tired of his crooked business.

  One badly wounded thug had tried to slow the police, and had received more

  bullets. That thug was dead; hence, he couldn't talk. It seemed plain, though, that something had gone wrong before the police arrived. That made the law decide that rival crooks had tried to muscle into the Playboy's ill-timed game.

  There were reports of flashes that had been seen from the windows of the loan office prior to the blasting of the safe. Those were attributed to tests with fuses, before the charge was set.

  No investigators guessed that flash bulbs had been used for photographs; that the whole episode of the Masked Playboy was a frame-up. That knowledge belonged in one lone personage, who had been an eyewitness; namely The Shadow.

  From his personal observation, The Shadow knew that blackmail was the motive behind the game. To prove that case was a more difficult proposition.

  The identity of the Masked Playboy was a riddle. The Shadow correctly sized him as a dupe; probably a young man of good social status, fallen in with

  bad companions. That helped little.

  There were probably a few thousand such young men in New York. Any one of them might be eligible for the part of the Playboy.

  Similarly, it was a hazy problem to identify the crook who had actually led the invading crew.

  The Shadow classed him as a small-time mobleader; and the underworld was full of such ugly characters. Recently, New York had undergone a clean-up, wherein a special prosecutor had smashed a wide-spread racket ring. Lots of little fish had slipped through the mesh, but they were big enough to be leaders of hoodlum crews.

  Last came the mobbies themselves. There, again, The Shadow drew a blank.

  The actual thugs had been recruited from here and there, through an endless chain wherein each knew only a few others and none was acquainted with the persons higher up.

  The Shadow had personal knowledge of that situation, for he had posed as one who was "in the know." That was how he had managed to receive the hand-stamped message down at Chatham Square.

  The man who had passed the match pack to The Shadow was merely a messenger, slipping partial information to anyone who gave him the password.

  By

  mentioning a "hand," The Shadow had become one of the recipients.

  From that incident, however, The Shadow gained a link with the past. He knew the meaning of the crudely stamped hand symbol. It went back to conditions

  that had existed many months ago, during the clean-up of the so-called "racket ring."

  There hadn't been a single racket ring; there had been several. All had learned the advantages of cooperation, shaking money from prosperous businesses. New York had been a land of plenty for the racketeers. Expecting trouble from the law, they had avoided strife among themselves. In fact, their organizations had reached an interlocking stage, even to the point where they had "fixers" and other peacemakers, who had kept everybody satisfied and happy.

  Eventually perhaps, gang wars would have come; but the law hadn't let it get that far.

  Rackets had been shattered right and left, with The Shadow and his agents playing an active but hidden part in the clean-up. Prominent racketeers had been brought to trial; to be rapidly convicted and sentenced. The public thought that those men had been the brains of the racket ring. That was true; but only in part.

  For every big-shot who had found the interior of a prison cell, there had been three or four who had fled from New York before crime's citadel crumbled.

  The Shadow had not forgotten those who had vanished. Seated in the corner of his sanctum, The Shadow was at work beneath the bluish light. From a stack of files he drew one that was stamped with an appropriate symbol: human hand, with extended thumb and fingers.

  This was a case-book dealing with one group of racketeers who had teamed together, with double result. Not only had they made their profit while rackets

  were going strong; every member of the group had cleared New York before the clean-up.

  Where they were, what each was doing, were matters that concerned The Shadow. That was why he laid a stack of recent reports close at hand, where he could refer to data as required.

  Upon a sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed five names:

  "Thumb" Gaudrey

  "Pointer" Trame

  "Long-Steve" Bydle

  "Ring" Brescott

  "Pinkey" Findlen

  One by one, The Shadow checked the list. Gaudrey was in Bermuda posing as a retired business magnate seeking a rest cure. Trame had headed for Havana to gamble some of his ill-gotten gains at the casino. Bydle had actually gone into

  business, in Chicago.

  Brescott had made a trip to California, probably to test some racketeering

  enterprise; but without result. Latest repo
rts stated that he would soon be coming East.

  One man alone was unaccounted for. He was Pinkey Findlen, the last crook on the list.

  The Shadow laid the sheet aside. He began to visualize recent crime in terms of Pinkey Findlen. It was plain that the pack had become lone wolves; that each was dangerous in his own right. Of the five, Pinkey was the first to start an individual enterprise. Therefore, The Shadow had to deal with him alone.

  Pinkey knew rackets, thoroughly. Therefore, he certainly recognized that the usual sort of racket would be hopeless in New York, at present. Rackets depended upon numerous small collections from many harassed business men. They required too many collectors, all weak links in the chain.

  So Pinkey had simply reversed the procedure. Instead of building up many small profits, he was working to gain a few large sums. That meant contacts that Pinkey could handle personally, with enough precautions to prevent leaks.

  He needed his strong-arm men; but he wasn't using them as collectors.

  Their job was to frame dupes like the Masked Playboy, thus giving Pinkey opportunity for big-time blackmail on a high pressure basis.

  UPON the table came clippings: past reports of the Masked Playboy. The Shadow's laugh was audible beyond the bluish light. He was studying the past crimes attributed to the Playboy. They had simply been build-ups to the final one.

  Whether the Playboy had been shoved into those crimes, or whether someone had impersonated him, did not matter to The Shadow. He was interested in the crimes themselves; and among the list of pitiful raids, he saw one that stood out strongly.

  That robbery had been committed at a place called the Bubble Club. The Masked Playboy had marched in upon Claude Ondrey, owner of the night club trapping him in his own office. Ondrey had passed over some cash; he provided the police with an elaborate report of the episode.

  From The Shadow's viewpoint, Ondrey had talked too much. That happened to be a habit with Claude Ondrey.

  When the police had cracked the night club racket, during the big clean-up, Ondrey had been one of the most talkative informants. As a victim of the racket, he had paid many visits to the special prosecutor's office.

  The Shadow had records of Ondrey's testimony. Oddly, with all his talk, Ondrey had provided nothing new. He simply corroborated statements that other victims had given before him.

  That marked Ondrey for what he was. The Shadow had him labeled as a man leagued with crooks. For everything that Ondrey told the prosecutor, he brought

  back valuable facts for the big shots who ruled him.

  Claude Ondrey could be blamed for the fact that five big men of crime had left New York before the prosecutor was ready to order their arrests. The law had missed that fact, but The Shadow hadn't.

  From the past, The Shadow had his key to the present. Pinkey Findlen, back

  in New York, was employing the human tools that he had used before. Claude Ondrey was one of them; and his Bubble Club was also valuable. It was one place

  that Pinkey Findlen could use as a headquarters, when he wanted.

  But Pinkey hadn't been there the night when the Masked Playboy had visited

  the Bubble Club. That was just the old game over again. It had strengthened Ondrey's position with the law, enabling him to retain his pose as a victim of crime, instead of a man leagued with crooks.

  THE SHADOW clicked off the sanctum light. His whispered laugh brought shuddering echoes from walls that were invisible in the pitch-darkness. Those echoes faded. The Shadow had left the sanctum. But he still chose paths of blackness.

  Evening had come to Manhattan. In the darkness of narrow side streets, The

  Shadow was no more than a gliding shape as he chose a route to his waiting limousine, a few blocks away. Stepping into the big car, The Shadow dropped his

  hat and cloak.

  A street lamp showed his face at the window. No longer was The Shadow disguised as a droopy-faced panhandler. His features were hawklike; impassive and distinguished. He was immaculately attired in evening clothes.

  The order that The Shadow gave the chauffeur was spoken in a calm but lazy

  tone - that of a man who seemed bored with life and was looking for some diversion:

  "Bubble Club, Stanley!"

  CHAPTER VI

  AT THE BUBBLE CLUB

  THE Bubble Club was located on a side street not far from Times Square.

  It

  rated high among night clubs, and many well-known persons chose it as their favorite bright spot. Drinks and meals were reasonably priced, and no other nitery provided a better-balanced floor show. In fact, every evening was a triumph for Claude Ondrey, who was always on hand to greet his patrons. Ondrey was portly and genial, with a bald head that kept bowing as he walked from table to table. His handshake, though, was flabby, and his smile a sham.

  Ondrey

  didn't make his real money from the customers who thronged the Bubble Club.

  That

  was apparent on this present evening, when Ondrey finished his rounds and returned to his fancy office at a back corner of the club.

  Three men were seated in the office. One was Pinkey Findlen, who wore a hard grin on his lippy, sallow face. The second was Slick Thurley, maintaining his usual wise pose, in constant imitation of Detective Bill Quaine.

  The third arrival was a chunky block-faced man, who looked presentable despite the squinty way he shifted his eyes and the side-mouthed manner in which he grinned. He was "Bugs" Hopton, leader of Pinkey's strong-arm crew.

  Ondrey was pleased to see his visitors. From his coat pocket, the night club owner brought a notebook that he handed to Pinkey. While the big-shot studied red-ink figures, Ondrey spoke an explanation. "The place is packed,"

  he

  said, "but it can't make money. Not at the prices we give them. If I could put on a cover charge, we'd break even."

  "Forget it!" snapped Pinkey. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and

  counted off the required amount. "This clears you, Ondrey. Keep running things the way you have. I don't want you to run no clip joint. That brings squawks."

  "But some of the best places have cover charges -"

  "So what? That makes this joint better than them, don't it? Better than the best; that's the way I want it. I'm willing to pay for a front that everybody falls for. When you spend dough that way, it ain't wasted."

  Pinkey gestured Ondrey to a chair. Then:

  "We're sitting pretty, Ondrey," declared the big-shot. "So pretty that we're going to tell you all about it. We've finished three jobs out of four; and when that one goes across, we'll have a million bucks in the bag!"

  Settling back in his chair, Pinkey began to recount the victories to date.

  "FIRST was Howard Milay," Pinkey declared. "General manager of Sphere Shipping. He was a cinch, because he had a past that he was trying to forget.

  We dug up the dirt; he had to come through.

  "So he let one of his boats go to the bottom, when we fixed it for him.

  Only an old tub that ought to have sunk anyway. It was loaded with a cargo of junk metal, and that helped the dive. That cargo" - Pinkey chuckled - "was on the books as supplies worth three hundred grand. Milay collected the insurance dough and passed it to us."

  Ondrey knew of the case, but hadn't heard all the details. His shammy smile took on a genuine appearance.

  "Next was John Thorry," continued Pinky. "He was the president of a company called Western Oil Fields. He won't forget that trip he made to New York. We framed him a couple of ways, and let him crawl out by buying some punk

  oil wells. He'd been lucky at picking good ones, so he can laugh off some lemons. Anyway, that brought the total up to half a million."

  "And after that" - the interruption came from Bugs Hopton, who spoke with raspy tone - "the going got tough!"

  Pinkey swung about angrily in his chair. "Whatta you mean by tough?"

  "I mean last night," retorted Bugs. "You said it w
ould be soft, framing young Meriden. But it wasn't - not with The Shadow barging in on us."

  "Forget The Shadow!" scoffed Pinkey. "He got left behind, didn't he? And today, Slick and me put the deal through with the kid's old man. That's one thing The Shadow ain't wise to."

  Bugs didn't continue the argument. He helped himself to an expensive cigar

  from a box on Ondrey's desk. Scratching a match on the mahogany, he lighted the

  cigar and puffed it in silence.

  "The next job is soft," assured Pinkey. "We've already put through a lot of forged checks and notes with World Oil interests. There's only one guy who can spot that phony stuff. He's Lewis Bron, the auditor. He'll smell a rat as soon as he goes over the books.

  "What we're going to do is get to Bron before he sees the books. When we've done that, he'll see things the same way we do. Once the books have his O.K., there'll be no more worry."

  No one asked Pinkey how he intended to handle Bron. The big-shot's word was good enough for the listeners. Even Bugs had no objection. He knew that Pinkey always changed his game when occasion required. There wouldn't be another tangle like the Masked Playboy proposition.

  IT was Ondrey who voiced the main thought that all the others held.

  "Over a million bucks," said the night club owner, in an eager tone. "You get half of it, Pinkey, and we three divvy the rest. Fair enough."

  "That's only half the story," inserted Pinkey. "This ain't just a million dollar proposition. I'm going to double it, before I've finished."

  Eyes popped, including those of Bugs Hopton. That was unusual; it took plenty to surprise the chunky mob-leader.

  "Here's the lay," confided Pinkey. "All these companies we've nicked are owned by one outfit, and that's the World Oil interests. They call those companies subsidiaries; but that's just a business term. Big business is just a

  racket anyway, from my way of looking at it.

  "Western Oil Fields pumps the oil. Sphere Shipping runs the boats that bring it here. Eastern Refineries peddles the gasoline to the public. The gravy

  all goes to World Oil, because it owns the rest of them.