The Living Shadow s-1

by Maxwell Grant

  Vincent slipped off his shoes and removed his coat, vest and collar. He lay on the bed a few moments, wondering what should be his next move. As he pondered on this question he fancied he heard a dull sound from the room next door. What was it - a table overturning - a falling body?

  He peered through the crack of his own door, then crept into the corridor and listened. He looked at the door of the other room and his eyes were riveted there for an instant. The knob of the door was slowly turning!

  Three steps carried Vincent back into his own room. As he peered through the crack of the door, he saw Steve Cronin tiptoe into the hallway. With furtive glances in both directions, the mustached man stole along the corridor and disappeared through the exit to the fire tower.

  With tingling nerves, Vincent placed his hand upon the knob of the door to Scanlon’s room. It yielded to his touch. Cronin had closed the door silently and the latch could not have caught. It was Vincent’s turn to glance up and down the hall; seeing no one, he entered the room that was Scanlon’s.

  Dim light, the reflection of Manhattan’s glare, enabled him to find his way to the open window. As he looked to his right, he shuddered. A form lay sprawled on the floor, one hand stretched upward against the side of the telephone table.

  It was the body of Scanlon. Vincent was sure that the man was dead. Something white was near him; without touching the object, Vincent recognized it as a pillowcase.

  Instinctively he knew what had transpired. The dull sound had either been a shot or the fall of Scanlon’s body. Steve Cronin had forced the man into the closet - Vincent could see the opened door behind the body - and had shot the shoe salesman, using the pillowcase to muffle the revolver’s report.

  It was murder - cold, brutal murder - and Vincent was alone in the room with the murdered man. He felt that he should leave at once, but the tragedy held a lure that kept him there.

  He stepped toward the closet and something pressed into the sole of his stockinged foot. It was a dull, upright edge, and Vincent reached down mechanically to inspect it.

  His fingers touched a flat, round object wedged in a crack at the entrance to the closet door. He had no idea what it might be - his nerves were too strained to take notice, for his thoughts were concerned with the body that lay near him.

  Scarcely knowing what he did, he pulled the object from the crack and dropped it into his vest pocket.

  It might be a clew. A clew he thought - but what better clew could anyone find than a man in the room with a murdered body? Terror came over Vincent as he thought of his precarious position, and what it might mean if some one were to come upon him at that moment.

  He must get back to his own room at all cost - yet he must, prodded by his sense of duty as an American citizen, give some signal of Scanlon’s murder.

  An idea came to him. He reached out and pushed the telephone from the table. It clattered on the floor, and Vincent, now thoroughly alarmed, hurried from the room and slipped through his own door.

  There was no one in the hallway to see him. He was safe!

  How long would it be before anyone would come to investigate Scanlon’s room? The telephone receiver, fallen from its hook, would give the alarm; the lack of an answering voice would surely arouse the suspicions of the girl down at the switchboard.

  Vincent went to bed and lay there through endless moments. At last there was a noise in the hall. He could hear some one opening Scanlon’s door. Some one was talking in the hallway; more voices joined in, and finally there came a thumping upon Vincent’s door.

  Feigning sleepiness, Vincent opened his door, appearing in his pajamas. He could see that the door of Scanlon’s room was open, and that the lights were on.

  The man who stood before Vincent was evidently the house detective.

  “What’s going on?” inquired Vincent drowsily.

  “Man killed in there,” said the house detective. “Did you hear a revolver shot a while ago?”

  Vincent shook his head.

  “All I’ve heard was you banging on my door a minute ago. Been asleep,” he said.

  The house detective nodded.

  “It must have been muffled,” the house officer said musingly. “Fellow in 1415 didn’t hear it, either. Well, we’ll look into that part of it later. Want to change your room? There’ll be a lot going on around here to disturb you.”

  “All right,” said Vincent.

  “Call a bell boy to move you then,” said the detective.

  Detectives had arrived from headquarters when Vincent went down the corridor to his new room, with the bell boy carrying his belongings. Vincent still appeared to be sleepy, but when he was alone in his new quarters, he suddenly looked very wide awake.

  He was somewhat worried that he might be linked with the murder; but a more important thought had suddenly occurred to him. He went to his clothes that lay draped on a chair and fumbled in the pocket of his vest. He found the object that he wanted and brought the little article to view.

  An exclamation came to his lips as he held his hand beneath the light. In his palm lay a disk of grayish metal, smaller and thinner than a half dollar, and its center was a dull red character of the Chinese alphabet.

  CHAPTER V

  THE SHADOW ON THE WALL

  A few hours after the murder of Scanlon, a man was walking hurriedly along a side street west of Broadway. There was something about his gait and actions that indicated his anxiety.

  The collar of his brown overcoat was turned up about his ears, despite the fact that the night air was no more than cool. His purpose was evidently to avoid observation without exciting suspicion. In this he was successful, for he passed an officer at a corner without gaining a single glance from the man in uniform.

  In the middle of a block, the man slowed his pace and came almost to a stop in the doorway of a darkened cigar store. His head turned quickly as he glanced in both directions; then he moved quickly across the street and into the shadowy entrance of an old-fashioned apartment. He pushed a key into the lock of the main door, gave a hurried glance behind him, and entered.

  Hardly had the door closed before a slight motion occurred in the dark doorway of the cigar store across the street. The gloomy blackness seemed to spread and project itself into the street.

  Something flitted across the street and was absorbed by the entrance way of the old apartment house. It was as though a shadow had detached itself from one building and had passed over to the other.

  All was silent in the entrance to the apartment. Then came a slight, almost imperceptible clicking in the lock. The door opened inward and cast a long, moving shadow down the dimly lighted hall.

  The door swung shut, noiselessly; but its shadow remained, and then extended itself along the hall, to be lost in the darkness of the unlighted stairway. A man came down the steps, whistling; but he noticed nothing.

  The strange, movable shadow reappeared in the hallway of the third floor, and formed an oddly shaped blot outside a doorway. It remained there, motionless, part of the many shadows that were there.

  The door of the apartment swung suddenly open, and its shadow spread over the queer blotch of darkness, completely obscuring it.

  Two men peered down the hallway. One was short and stocky, with a black mustache, and a tense, grim countenance. The other was somewhat taller - a slender man with a long, pointed nose, and shrewd, shifty eyes. The muscles of his face twitched nervously. He stepped into the hall, his thin lips forming a mirthless grin.

  “There’s no one here, Steve,” growled the slender man, in an undertone.

  “I just wanted to make certain sure, Croaker,” replied the other, in a smooth, low voice.

  “Don’t worry, Steve,” was the answer. “You’re safe. The entry gives us two doors between us and the hall. You know me well enough, Steve. I’m no sap. There’s no listeners-in on anything that goes on here.”

  “All right, Croaker. Let’s get back inside. I’ve got a lot to spill.”

 
The door closed and the shadowy blot reappeared on the floor. It remained there a full minute; then it twisted fantastically and moved back toward the stairs.

  Within the room, the man called Croaker was reassuring his visitor.

  “Look out that window, Steve,” he said, “three stories down into the courtyard. Not a window below us. This floor is an extension, over a storehouse. You’d need a fire ladder to come up here. Shall I shut the window?”

  “Leave it open,” said Steve nervously. “We’re safe right here, and we can hear any loud noise in the street like police whistles, for instance.”

  He thrust his head from the window and satisfied himself of what his companion had said.

  The lower floors were solid brick masonry, dark almost to a point of blackness. He could see the white pavement of the courtyard below.

  On the other side of the court was a low one-story building; evidently an old garage. Croaker was right; only a fire ladder could scale this height.

  Steve slipped into a chair in the corner of the room, just away from the window, from which he could face the door. It was at the foot of the bed, and Croaker sat on that article of furniture while he looked at his visitor.

  “Well, Steve, what’s up?”

  The stocky man pressed his knuckles against his mustache; then lowered his hand and spread it on his knee.

  “I can trust you, Croaker?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll stick by me; even if you have to forget the rest of the gang?”

  This time it was Croaker who appeared nervous.

  “You aren’t figuring a double-cross, are you, Steve?”

  “What if I am?”

  “I won’t go in on it.”

  “You won’t? Why not?”

  “Because I don’t play that kind of a game.”

  “You don’t, eh? Well, I know different.”

  The man on the bed leaned angrily toward his visitor. For several seconds the two men glared steadily at each other. Then Croaker’s face began to twitch, and his eyes shifted from the stare of the other man.

  Steve laughed.

  “Why do you think I had you watch the hotels?” he asked. “Do you think that was for the crowd? I told you it was important, but I didn’t say who wanted it done. I’ll tell you why I picked you for it, Croaker. I picked you because I’m the only man who knows what you did when the gang pulled that job in Hoboken.”

  Croaker’s face began to twitch again. His eyes showed their nervous fright as he looked toward Steve.

  “You ain’t saying nothing about it?” he pleaded.

  “Not a word, Croaker - if you work with me now.”

  A long, distorted shadow appeared on the wall at the far side of the room. It might have come from something swinging in from the window, for the light was in the corner, close by Steve’s chair. But neither of the men observed it. Both were intent in their conversation. The shadow remained motionless.

  “Listen, Croaker,” said Steve. “When we slipped you that cash and those stock certificates over in Hoboken, you thought that we hadn’t had time to count them. But we had. I was the guy that did the counting. It was short when we got together to split.”

  “You ain’t told anybody?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You ain’t going to tell?”

  “Not if you stick with me this trip. I know why you keep in this room so much. You’ve still got some of those certificates here. Maybe you’ve got some other swag you pinched from other jobs. But I don’t tell people all I know.”

  The shadow on the wall swung away suddenly and disappeared completely. A moment later, Croaker rose from the bed and walked to the window, where he peered anxiously into the dark night. Then he returned and sat down.

  “You’ve got the goods on me, Steve.”

  “Maybe I have, Croaker. You’ll have the goods on me, before I’m through.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m going to tell you what I’ve done, and what I’m going to pull. I want you to go in on it.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Plenty. We can both light out when we finish this. I started it; it’s up to you to put it through. It’s soft, too.”

  Croaker regained his composure.

  “Spill it, boy,” he said.

  “Well,” said Steve, “you remember I had you keep watch on a couple of hotels for any guy that might be in from California? We talked about that when we were outside of Mickey’s place.”

  “Yeah, and I was afraid some guy was listening in on us, too.”

  “I remember that. It was all bunk. You saw a big shadow on the sidewalk and got scared. When we looked around, it was only some drunk leaning against a house.”

  “Maybe he heard us.”

  “What if he did? He would have watched you not me. And you didn’t get any dope on guys from California, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did. I found the guy I wanted.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Fellow named Scanlon. I bumped him off tonight, over at the Metrolite Hotel.”

  Croaker whistled.

  “That’s why I’ve got to scram,” resumed Steve. “I made the mistake of telling him my name. But I don’t think he spilled it, or had the chance to.”

  “You were a fool to do that, Steve.”

  “I didn’t expect to have trouble with him. I offered him five grand for what I wanted, up in the hotel room. He wouldn’t take it. I had to get it tonight. I shoved him into the closet and pulled the rod on him.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Luck. Down the fire tower. But the dicks may be after me now. I’m going West; I’ve got plenty of dough to get away.”

  “That’s why I’ve got to finish the job, eh?”

  Steve Cronin leaned forward in his chair.

  “You’ll finish it, Croaker, and you’ll split fifty-fifty with me.”

  “That’s right. Give me the dope.”

  “You know who old Wang Foo is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, the chink.”

  “You know what he is? He’s a fence.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that. He gets rid of plenty of stolen stuff, they say, but nobody knows how he does it.”

  “That’s what I’ve found out,” said Steve triumphantly. “I picked up the news in Frisco; not from one guy - just little pieces of it from different people, until I had the whole thing doped out, just as it is.”

  Croaker’s face began to twitch excitedly. He leaned forward to listen more closely.

  “Every six months,” continued Steve, “a guy comes East from Frisco. Never the same guy - always a different one. Nobody knows who it’s going to be. This guy comes to New York under the orders of an old chink named Wu Sun, who is the big noise of a tong in Frisco. All the guy does is go to Wang Foo and get a sealed box that he takes back to Frisco. That box carries more than just stolen goods. It has thousands in bank notes - tribute from Wang Foo to the big noise out West. Tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock is the time the messenger is to appear.”

  “But how does he get the box?” asked Croaker doubtfully.

  “Easy,” answered Steve. “The messenger says nothing. He doesn’t even know what it’s all about. He walks in on Wang Foo, and shows the old chink a disk. It’s sort of a Chinese coin. That’s the sign. He gets the box and leaves.”

  “Where is the disk, Steve?”

  “That’s the trouble, Croaker. I’m sure Scanlon had it. I could see him reach in his pocket when he got nervous. We were over by the door, and he switched the light out. Then he began to sneak over toward the window. I was near the bed, and I whisked off a pillowcase and shoved it over my gun. When I came after him, he moved toward the closet. The door was open; and before he knew what was up I shoved him in, and pulled the door. Then I let him have it. Sounded loud in the closet; but I don’t think they heard it outside.”

  “Why didn’t you get the disk?”

  “Co
uldn’t find it. It wasn’t on him. I let him drop when I opened the closet door, and I went through his clothes, but it wasn’t there. It must have fallen somewhere. I didn’t have time to stay all night.”

  “Then we’re out of luck.”

  “Maybe not, Croaker. That’s why I’m putting you wise. You’re smart enough to figure some way on getting in there to look for it.”

  “Dangerous business, Steve.”

  “Well, it’s the only chance. The disk must be in the room. If you can’t get it before tomorrow, try later. I don’t know that the messenger always gets to Wang Foo’s on time.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Steve.”

  “All right, Croaker. I’d do it myself, only they may be looking for me. I saw the house detective when I went in the hotel. I think he knows me, and he may have spotted me. I’ve got to get out of town.”

  “Why didn’t you let Scanlon get the box, Steve, and then take it from him?”

  “I was afraid the chinks might be watching him after he got it. They’re a crazy bunch.”

  “Maybe they’re watching him now. Maybe I’ll get nabbed.”

  “Not a chance, Croaker. Your big job is to get into Room 1417 at the Metrolite, and find that disk. Wang Foo isn’t supposed to know who the messenger is until he shows up. Even if he’s a few days late, the disk will fix matters. So get on the job, and be sure to make a quick get-away after the old chink gives you the box.”

  Croaker did not reply. Instead he seized Steve Cronin’s wrist and pointed excitedly toward the wall, his face twitching in sudden terror.

  “Look, Steve! That Shadow!”

  A black outline vanished suddenly as Cronin gazed in the direction indicated.

  “What shadow?” asked Steve. “You’re seeing things, Croaker.”

  Croaker went to the window and peered into the darkness, his eyes trying to penetrate the surrounding gloom.

  “I’ve got to scram, Croaker,” said Steve.

  The other man turned from the window and shrugged his shoulders. He was worried about the shadow he had seen on the wall. He was thinking that perhaps Cronin’s story was a bluff. He was anxious now to get rid of this visitor, who knew too much about him.