The Hand s-150

by Maxwell Grant

  With a grin, Bugs pulled the letter from his pocket.

  "Right here," he said. "I'm starting for Bron's now. Give me fifteen minutes start, Slick, and you'll get there just when you'll be needed."

  Bugs pulled the switch to bring down the elevator. The letter was the last

  thing the two saw, when the panel went shut.

  Ondrey flopped behind the desk, mopping his bald head.

  "Bugs had me nuts!" he panted. "I'm glad that's over."

  Slick Thurley didn't reply. His eyes had a hard gaze; his lips were set.

  He was thinking that Bugs Hopton had tossed a boomerang by trying that shake-down on Roy Parrington.

  Slick's hunch was right. Matters were to take a trend that crooks wouldn't

  like. But there was one element that Slick didn't include in his calculation; that was the part that chance was to play.

  Lady Luck was already riding along with crime.

  CHAPTER XII

  CHANGED TRAILS

  THE SHADOW'S first inkling that something had gone wrong came when the lights went blank in Bron's office. That was curious, since Bron was supposed to be here until midnight. It couldn't mean that plotters were on the move, because there was only one entrance to the office building and Bugs Hopton hadn't arrived to use it. Furthermore, another incident furnished The Shadow with proof that crime's plans had been balked. Half a minute after Bron's lights were out, the side office went dark. Pinkey Findlen had evidently learned that Bron had gone out of the building.

  Very soon, a man came from the front of the building. He was tall; his long legs made awkward strides toward the corner. The Shadow caught a glimpse of a tight-skinned face beneath a derby hat. Those features answered the slight

  description that The Shadow had gained concerning Lewis Bron. Wherever Bron was

  going, he was in a hurry, for The Shadow saw him hail a cab. Blinking a flashlight toward the next corner, The Shadow waited until his own cab came along. Boarding it, he took up Bron's trail.

  Turning the corner, The Shadow looked back. He saw Pinkey come out of the office building. There wasn't another cab in sight. That left the big-shot stranded. The fact pleased The Shadow; but it was to prove another of the grim jests that fate was supplying tonight.

  Unsuspecting that The Shadow was on Bron's trail, Pinkey strode away in the opposite direction, and reached a subway station. Huddled in the corner of a half-filled car, he rode a few stations northward, muttering all the while.

  It didn't take him long to arrive at the house adjoining the Bubble Club.

  The elevator was on the top floor when Pinkey reached there. He stepped into the car; before he had time to push the button, someone pulled the switch at the bottom of the shaft. When the car reached the ground floor, Pinkey came face to face with Slick Thurley.

  For once, amazement showed on the features of the fake Bill Quaine. Slick couldn't figure what had brought the big-shot here, until Pinkey broke the news

  that Lewis Bron had made an unexpected exit from his office.

  "We should have met earlier," rasped Pinky. "I didn't have a chance to tail the guy. Where he's gone, I can't even guess. But it looks like the deal is off for tonight; and that" - Pinkey's lower lip thrust forward - "may ruin the works tomorrow."

  Claude Ondrey, seated behind his desk, put in a sudden theory regarding Bron.

  "Maybe Parrington called him!" exclaimed Ondrey. "And if Parrington squawked -"

  Ondrey caught himself. He didn't know just how to break the news to Pinkey.

  "Squawked about what?" demanded the big-shot. "Say, you mugs" - he swung from Ondrey to Slick - "what's been going on here?"

  GRUFFLY, Slick gave the details, stating the facts in brief. When Slick had finished, Pinkey raged.

  "And you helped him with that screwy idea!" ranted the big-shot. "Pulled a

  small-change shakedown, didn't you, on a guy that was supposed to know nothing?"

  "How could I know what was up?" demanded Slick. "I thought maybe Parrington had got wise to Bugs, and wouldn't give him a letter to Bron. I figured that was why he wanted to put the heat on the guy."

  Pinkey saw merit in Slick's alibi. He swung toward Ondrey, to blast the portly man.

  "You saw what Bugs was pulling, didn't you?" roared Pinkey. "Why didn't you do something about it?"

  "Bugs made me jittery," replied Ondrey. "Before I'd catch up with him on one thing, he was off on another, until finally -"

  "Until finally he stuck Parrington on the elevator! That was swell, wasn't

  it? If Parrington wasn't wise by that time, he got his chance to really think it

  over. The guy knows all three of you were working together, so he tipped off Bron."

  Silence followed. If Slick or Ondrey had any ideas, they didn't express them. They were letting Pinkey do their thinking for them; and it was the smartest system that they had yet used. Pinkey formed some rapid conclusions.

  "Parrington must have called Bron right away," he decided, "from a phone down at the next corner. The question is, what did he tell Bron? There's only one answer."

  "He told Bron that his friend Hopton was a phony, and he advised Bron to get out of the office before Bugs showed up there. He may have told him a lot more, but I don't think so. If Parrington is going to make a big squawk, it won't be to Bron."

  "Maybe Parrington will figure that the bulls ought to know about one of their own bunch." Pinkey swung toward Slick. "For instance, about a smart dick named Bill Quaine. That would put a bad crimp in your style, Slick."

  This time, Pinkey was met with a steady stare, the sort that Slick used when he meant business.

  "Parrington fell for the bluff tonight," reminded Slick. "He'll fall for it again, if I drop in on him."

  The suggestion awoke a response from Ondrey.

  "Of course he will!" exclaimed the night club owner. "After all, Parrington didn't see you take the money. I've got it in the safe, Slick. You can take it with you -"

  Pinkey interrupted Ondrey by shoving the portly man back in his chair.

  "That dough stays where it is!" hoarsed the big-shot. "If things go sour, we'll make Bugs eat it. You're going after Parrington, but I'm the guy that's going with you. Between us" - Pinkey produced a revolver - "well fix Parrington

  so he'll never blab to nobody!"

  THE next question was where Parrington lived. That was something that Bugs

  could have answered, for he was the only one who had traveled around with Parrington.

  Bugs wasn't needed, however, for the telephone directory provided the information. There was only one Roy Parrington in the book; he lived at an address in the Sixties, which Pinkey decided must be a small apartment house.

  Slick remarked that he didn't have a gun, for he had planted his revolver on Parrington and Bugs had kept it, afterward. Ondrey dug up a .32 that Slick decided would do. Shoving the gun in his pocket, Slick swung to Pinky with the words:

  "Let's go."

  Pinkey told him to wait a minute. He wrote out a phone number on a slip of

  paper; handed it to Ondrey. "Give a call there," he told Ondrey. "One of the mob

  will answer. Tell 'em you're calling for Bugs. They'll believe you, because they're dumber than he is. Have 'em cover up at Parrington's because they may be needed."

  Ondrey asked what he was to do in case he heard from Bugs.

  "Send him up there, too," ordered Pinkey, "and tell him to take charge of this outfit. Bugs ought to be calling here pretty quick, because, by this time,

  he's probably found out that Bron has left his office."

  Pinkey glanced at his watch while he and Slick were riding up in the elevator.

  PINKEY figured he hadn't lost much time by his trip to the Bubble Club.

  It

  was directly on the route to Parrington's address.

  "I saved time coming by the subway," Pinkey told Slick, "because the show-break had started at Times Square, and being drizzly toni
ght, there was a lot of traffic there."

  Slick didn't reply. Pinkey gave him a poke, asking raspingly what Slick was thinking about. "I'm thinking about Bron," declared Slick. "I've got a hunch that maybe he went up to see Roy Parrington."

  "Yeah?" Pinkey was enthusiastic. "Say, that would be nifty, wouldn't it?"

  "Maybe. Its going to be hard to put the heat on Bron, though, if we walk right in and croak Parrington." That comment brought a string of oaths from Pinkey; most of his remarks concerned Bugs Hopton, for the way in which the mobleader had queered tonight's setup. By the time they had reached the street,

  however, Pinkey's fuming had ended.

  "With all that traffic jam," Pinkey decided, "Bron has just about had time

  to get to Parrington's. If we hop to Sixth Avenue and get a cab there, we'll be

  out of the tie-up. The two of them won't have time to gab much, before we show up.

  "What we'll do when we get there, we can decide right then. It would be hoping too much, to croak Parrington and frame Bron, the way we wanted to.

  Anyway, whatever we pull, there won't be nobody around to get wise."

  Slick, the hunch producer, agreed with every word that Pinkey uttered; and, thereby, both were totally wrong. Matters were to take a twist that neither believed possible. They were to find that everything could turn out as they wanted it, more effectively than they could have planned.

  They were mistaken also, on their second conjecture; namely; that whatever

  they did would remain unwitnessed. There was one being whose ability was unwisely discounted by both Pinkey and Slick.

  That personage was The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XIII

  MISTAKEN MURDER

  LEWIS BRON had actually started for Parrington's apartment. That had been the burden of Parrington's phone call - that he had to talk with Bron right away, regarding a matter of vital importance to both of them.

  But Bron had been a long while getting to his destination; precisely as Pinky had calculated. That fact was worrying Roy Parrington, as he paced the living room of his little apartment. It didn't occur to the promoter that traffic might have delayed Bron.

  Parrington's face was haggard; his lips had an increasing twitch. The gradual strain became too much for him. When his nerves finally broke, he showed it by pouncing for the telephone. Within a few minutes, the haggard man was talking to police headquarters.

  Across the wire, he heard a gruff voice that announced the speaker to be Inspector Joe Cardona.

  It took Parrington a few gulps, before he could talk. When he found control of his vocal cords, he was loath to explain matters fully. At last, he decided to take the line of least resistance: to blame the one man whose name would make Cardona eager to listen.

  "Listen, inspector," gulped Parrington, "I want to tell you, something about a man I met tonight - a fellow who says he's a detective. His name is Bill Quaine."

  "What's that?" Cardona's query was sharp. "You saw Bill Quaine tonight?

  You couldn't have. He's away on a vacation. Say - who is this calling, anyway?"

  Parrington gave his own name and address. He insisted that he had seen Quaine, and began to describe the detective. Parrington's memory was good; his description graphic. The sketch that he gave of Slick Thurley was a thorough one.

  Cardona, totally ignorant of the fact that Quaine had a crooked double, was soon convinced that Parrington had actually met the vacationing dick.

  "Funny thing, Quaine being here in town," gruffed the inspector. "Just what did

  he have to say to you?"

  "He threatened to arrest me," returned Parrington, "for something that I didn't do! If you come up here, inspector, I'll give you all the details."

  "You bet I'll be up there!"

  Parrington hung up the receiver, highly pleased with himself. He resumed his pacing of the living room, to be interrupted by a hard rap at the door.

  Thinking that it was Bron, Parrington went to the door. As he turned the knob, he asked, hoarsely:

  "Is that you, Mr. Bron?"

  For reply, the door itself came banging inward, so hard that it staggered Parrington across the room. By the time the haggard man had stopped against a chair, a hard-faced arrival was upon him.

  A revolver jabbed Parrington's ribs; he stared into the face of Bugs Hopton! He recognized the revolver as the one that had been recently planted on

  Parrington. With it, Bugs started Parrington toward the door. Reaching it, Bugs

  halted, simply closing the door with one hand, until it was almost latched.

  "So you called Bron, huh?" Bugs plodded harder with the gun. "Well, I got an idea maybe you would, so I came up here instead of going down to his office.

  The boys seemed to have got an idea that I ain't smart. They'll think differently after this!"

  Leaving the door as it was, Bugs backed Parrington toward the center of the living room. Frightened, Parrington began to plead. He swore that he had told Bron nothing, and Bugs began to believe him.

  It was mere coincidence that changed Parrington's tune. His hand brushed a

  table; his knuckles slid past the base of a heavy lamp. Eye to eye with Bugs, Parrington suddenly had the thought that his tormentor hadn't noticed the lamp,

  which stood unlighted.

  A frantic scream came from Parrington's lips as he grabbed the lamp and swung it toward the other man's head. He tried to twist away from the gun muzzle at the same moment, but Bugs shoved his hand forward to prevent the victim's escape.

  The dodge that Bugs gave saved him from the swing made by Parrington.

  Simultaneously, Bugs pulled the revolver trigger. Parrington was spinning as the lamp crashed the floor. Clamping his hands to his side, the haggard man slumped to a chair.

  Bugs pounced toward him, flourishing the revolver under Parrington's nose.

  "Want another dose of it?" he taunted. "You're going to get it, whether you want it or not! I came here to croak you, Parrington -"

  Bugs was interrupted by the victim's sudden move. Shooting his hands forward, Parrington made a frenzied clutch for the gun. He was mortally wounded, but he didn't know it, and the pain drove him to a show of strength that took Bugs totally of guard.

  Bugs tried to twist away. His move merely hauled Parrington from the chair. They reeled across the floor together, and by the time they jounced the wall, the gun was in Parrington's possession.

  During the next stagger, it would have been doom for Bugs, if they hadn't encountered a chair just as Parrington was shoving the revolver against the mobleader's temple. The two took a long spill; it caused Parrington to lose the

  gun. But Bugs didn't wait to snatch up the weapon.

  The door to an inner room was open. Bugs dived through, slammed the door behind him. Parrington found the gun; came to his feet unsteadily.

  He had heard the slam, but couldn't locate the door. The room was going black. All that Parrington could think of was the hallway, the natural exit that Bugs would have chosen. Parrington reeled toward the outer door.

  SOME one was knocking when he arrived there, but Parrington didn't hear it. The knocks sent the loose door inward; staggering sideways, Parrington almost fell into the arms of a man who had arrived outside.

  He didn't recognize Lewis Bron. Parrington was thinking in terms of one man alone: Bugs Hopton.

  With a strength that would have suited a death-grip. Parrington pointed the gun toward Bron. All Bron could do was shove the weapon upward, while he threw his weight against the attacker. He didn't realize that Parrington was badly wounded. Bron was wrestling for us own life.

  The pair rolled into the living room. From the hall stairway came a figure

  in black. Though he hadn't kept to close to Bron's trail, The Shadow was near enough to witness the struggle at the doorway and his expert eye had noted something of Parrington's plight.

  Ready to intervene from the doorway, The Shadow suddenly whipped back into


  the hall as a gun muzzle came pushing over Bron's shoulder. With a final burst of strength, Parrington pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled through the space where The Shadow had been. There was a thump; a groan; the dull clank of a gun against the carpet. Peering into the apartment, The Shadow saw Lewis Bron

  rising slowly from beside the body of Roy Parrington.

  It took Bron a few minutes to recuperate from his daze. Once his wits were

  gathered, he was horror-struck.

  He saw a broad bloodstain upon Parrington's shirt front. The fellow was dead; and Bron thought himself responsible, supposing that the gunshot had occurred while the muzzle was pressed toward Parrington.

  The Shadow waited for Bron to recover his nerve; meanwhile he looked for signs of the man who actually shot Parrington.

  The Shadow saw the door to the inner bedroom. It had evidently been slammed, for a key was out of the lock and lying near the middle of the living room floor. However, the murderer, if actually in the other room, seemed to have no intention of showing himself.

  That was why The Shadow continued his policy of letting Bron recuperate.

  Given a few minutes more, he would be in a mood to remember accurately what had

  actually happened. Those needed minutes were to be denied, however.

  The Shadow became conscious of a sound that Bron did not hear. Creaky footsteps were coming up the stairs.

  The hall was dark just past the apartment doorway. Suspecting the nature of the visitors, The Shadow stepped into that front darkness to let the arrivals pass. Once in the apartment, they would be in the light, where he could easily cover them. It would mean no danger for Bron, under such circumstances.

  Two men arrived; they made a quick movement for the open doorway. The light from the apartment showed their faces: Pinkey Findlen and Slick Thurley.

  That cleared The Shadow's last doubts regarding the identity of Parrington's murderer. With Pinkey and Slick accounted for, Bugs Hopton was obviously the killer.

  Bron heard the two men enter the apartment. He gave a hoarse cry when he faced them; made a move as if to pick up the revolver.

  Slick, snapping into his accustomed style, was prompt to wrench Bron's arm