The Fifth Face s-204

by Maxwell Grant

  The Fifth Face

  ( Shadow - 204 )

  Maxwell Grant

  Was it the face of death? Only The Shadow knew!

  THE FIFTH FACE

  by Maxwell Grant

  As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 15, 1940.

  Was it the face of death? Only The Shadow knew!

  CHAPTER I

  THE FIRST FACE

  THREE men were gathered in a garish apartment that had an appearance of past glory. Gold-braided curtains were frayed at the edges; mahogany chairs were scratched and battered. Even the fancy wallpaper looked ready to peel itself.

  As for the men, they had a shabby touch. They were playing cards around a table, and each had a stack of bills along with his chips. But they were harboring their cash, and the sharp looks that they exchanged marked them as a trio of leeches, each intent to bleed the others.

  Three big-shots who hadn't made the grade. The term defined the trio to perfection. All were men of evil ambitions, but with balked careers. They had been in the money once, but never to the extent they wanted.

  The man at the left was Grease Rickel. His nickname, Grease, was a shortened term for Grease-ball. His fattish face was oily, ugly, and his slicked hair, black like his eyes, merely added to his unlovely appearance.

  In his palmy days, Grease had specialized in the hat-check racket, gaining

  "concessions" from restaurants. Smiling girls had coaxed sizable tips from patrons, and Grease, as owner of the concession, had collected ninety cents on the dollar. But the racket was all over. Restaurants weren't letting out concessions to Grease Rickel any longer.

  Opposite Grease was Banker Dreeb. He was long-faced, solemn, and looked something like a banker, which, in a sense, he had been. A few years ago, when certain people wanted money they borrowed it from Banker. The certain people were crooks who were in trouble, and Banker supplied them bail money, along with special services.

  In brief, Banker had operated as a professional "springer" who could get friends out of jail. But the law had become very suspicious of Banker's money and would no longer take it. The old-line politicians who had formerly smoothed

  Banker's path were no longer connected with civic affairs.

  Third in the group, the man who faced the door, was Clip Zelber. He was sharp-faced, shrewd of eye, but quite as seedy as his two companions. Clip had once been a very crafty fence who disposed of stolen goods, but had lately found such merchandise too hot to handle.

  The three were snarly as they talked. From their very manner, they recognized that their card game was futile. They wanted better prey than themselves, and when a cautious rap came at the door, the trio came to their feet, exchanging eager looks.

  "It's Jake Smarley," chuckled Grease. "You guys know Smarley, the bookie.

  I told him to come around."

  "So you said," nodded Banker. "Smarley is hitting it tough, too. He had to

  close his horse parlor. He's doing his own legwork, coming around to collect bets from guys like us."

  "Yeah," agreed Clip, in a short tone. "Let Smarley in. It makes me happy to see that old sourpuss. He'll probably put on a crying act before he leaves here."

  Grease went to the door and opened it. He was right; the visitor was Smarley. No one could mistake the decrepit bookie, who was living on the small bets that he collected on a flimsy percentage basis.

  Smarley was shambly and stoop-shouldered. His face was dryish, gaunt, with

  deep furrows stretching downward from his eyes, like waiting channels for the

  "crying act" that Clip had mentioned.

  From a pocket of his shabby overcoat, Smarley produced a newspaper and placed it on the table. His dryish lips were straight, as his beady eyes looked

  from man to man. Grease picked up the newspaper and started to thumb through the

  pages.

  "We'll take a look at the races, Smarley," Grease began, in an indulgent tone. "Maybe we can spare some dough for the ponies, if you give us the right break -"

  "Wait!" Smarley's tone was a cackle. "Take a look at the front page first,

  Grease. It's got something extra special."

  Flattening the paper, Grease scanned the front-page headlines. Banker and Dreeb peered over his shoulders, fascinated by what they saw there. It was Grease who voiced:

  "One hundred grand!"

  "Better read about it," crackled Smarley. "Maybe it will give you fellows an idea."

  ANYTHING involving a hundred thousand dollars could give ideas to the ugly

  three. Their faces showed elation as they read the preliminary details. The hundred thousand was the present property of Arnold Melbrun, head of the United

  Import Co., and the sum was entirely in cash.

  It had to deal with the steamship Anitoga, which, along with its valuable cargo, had run into war-zone troubles. For weeks, the ship had been tied up in a belligerent port, its fate a matter of doubt. Finally, it had been released, and the owners of the cargo had agreed to pay the crew members a substantial bonus as soon as the Anitoga docked in New York.

  They had turned the money over to Melbrun; he had put it into cash, which was guarded in his office. The Anitoga was due this evening, and the money was going to the pier by armored truck.

  There, police would be on hand while the crew members received their cash awards. The sum total came to approximately one hundred thousand dollars.

  "Say, Clip," began Grease, turning to Zelber, "if you could round up those

  rats who used to work for you, they'd make a slick mob. They could pile onto that ship and take the dough off the sailors -"

  "With the coppers on the job?" demanded Clip. "Not a chance! Banker, here"

  - he nudged toward Dreeb - "is the guy to handle it. Those smoothies that work for him could grab off the dough while it's going to the dock."

  As he finished, Clip gave Banker a sharp-eyed glance, which the solemn-faced man returned in a cold fashion.

  "My bunch couldn't knock off an armored truck," declared Banker. Swinging to Rickel, he continued: "I'm passing the buck to you, Grease. Send some of your strong-arm boys over to Melbrun's office and grab the dough before it even

  starts."

  Grease appeared to be considering the proposition; then his oily-lips formed a smile, as he shook his head. His smile, however, was not a pleased one. With Grease, a smile usually indicated the opposite of pleasure.

  "It would be a give-away," declared Grease. "It says here that the dough is being watched. Melbrun has some private dicks on the job. I'll agree that the office is the best place to stage the grab, but we can't get anybody who will do it. They'd be marked as soon as they stuck their noses in the place."

  There was a glum silence, which ended when Grease crumpled the newspaper and flung it on the floor.

  "This town has gone to pot!" snarled Grease. "There used to be a chance to

  get away with anything. Plenty of soft pickings, until one guy put the crimp in

  it. The Shadow!"

  Banker and Clip acknowledged the name with scowls; nevertheless, they gave

  reluctant nods.

  "It was The Shadow who swung things the wrong way," continued Grease. "He kept busting into everything, and that got the coppers on their toes. He's still in it, too, The Shadow is. That's why nobody will take chances, unless they've got a perfect set-up.

  "Suppose we three did the job ourselves. We couldn't go to Melbrun's office wearing masks, or we wouldn't get inside. So we go as ourselves, and then what? We get the dough and lam with it, before the bulls can nail us. But we're marked, and there's one guy that will never forget us."

  Pausing, Grease stared from Banker to Clip, then snarled the
name that both of his pals had in mind:

  "The Shadow!"

  IN the following silence, the three forgot Jake Smarley. They didn't remember the sad-faced bookie until he broke the spell with one of his crazy cackles.

  "Three big-shots!" jeered Smarley. "Three big guys, chopped down to midgets! Maybe you'd be useful, though" - his dryish lips took on a grin - "if a real big-shot let you work for him. Suppose a real brain came along. Would you play ball?"

  Puzzlement, then interest, showed on the faces of the three listeners. It was Grease who gruffed:

  "On what kind of terms?"

  "Forty percent for the big-shot," proposed Smarley. "You three divide the other sixty. The big guy walks in and gets the hundred grand, and you three have your outfits outside, to cover his getaway. And this" - Smarley was crouched forward on the table - "won't be the only job."

  No vote was needed. Grease, Banker, Clip, all voiced their instant agreement. They were willing to serve as lieutenants under such a chief, if Smarley could produce him. When they inquired who the bigshot was, Smarley gave

  them a dryish grin.

  "Call him Five-face," suggested the bookie. "Because he's got five faces

  -

  get it? He gets spotted when he grabs the mazuma, sure, but even The Shadow won't find him. Because Five-face will wipe off his map, like this" - Smarley started to spread his hands across his face - "and be another guy!"

  An instant later, the lieutenants were gawking in amazement. They weren't looking at Jake Smarley any longer. His face had changed; it was shrewd, rather

  than drab. As the three men squinted, Smarley's hands made another sweep.

  His face seemed to enlarge, to become fuller and more genial. Then, as his

  hands performed another swing, he turned his head and gave them a brief view of

  a set profile that wore an expression of disdain.

  One more quick change came, as the face turned toward them, but before the

  three lieutenants could gain more than a vague impression, a sweep of the swift-moving hands restored the drab features of Jake Smarley.

  "That's just the general idea," cackled Smarley. "From now on, you'd better call me Five-face. Because, after tonight, you won't see Jake Smarley again. I'll need some make-up, and a reasonable amount of time, to make each face look permanent."

  Thoroughly amazed, Banker and Clip finally turned to Grease, expecting him

  to be their spokesman. With a glance at his companions, Grease took the assignment.

  "Listen, Five-face," said Grease. "You mean you'll pull this job as Smarley, get the dough, and come back here as another guy?"

  The man who looked like Smarley was nodding as Grease spoke. With a half gulp, Grease continued:

  "And then you'll pull another job, in the open, and show up different.

  You'll keep on -"

  "Until I've done four jobs," inserted Five-face, in Smarley's wheezy style. "I'll get rid of four faces and show up with the fifth. That's when we'll make the final settlement. But, meanwhile, you three have got to cover for me. The kind of jobs I pick" - the crackly tone was sharp - "will mean some

  swift getaways. I'll need guns and plenty of them."

  Grease shoved his hand across the table. The man called Smarley received it with a scrawny grip that suited the bookie's style. Banker and Clip proffered their hands to seal the bargain. Each was conscious that Five-face was giving them a shake that went with his present role of Smarley.

  Then, with a final chortle, Five-face stepped to the door. He looked like Smarley, he acted like the bookie, but the lieutenants accepted him as a master

  hand of crime, a brain that they were ready to serve. Their new leader, the man

  of marvels, gave them a final admonition.

  "Get posted at six," ordered Five-face, "outside of Melbrun's building.

  I'll be Smarley when I go in, and Smarley when I come out. Tell your crews to cover for Smarley; nothing more. Let them think they're working for Smarley; they can spill that to the coppers, if any of them are ever asked."

  The door half opened, Five-face paused. Still wearing the withery look of Jake Smarley, he added:

  "Because it won't matter in the future. After tonight, no one will ever see Jake Smarley again - not even The Shadow!"

  CHAPTER II

  CRIME TO COME

  IT was midafternoon when the incredible Five-face changed the ambitions of

  three lesser crooks and made them glad to be lieutenants, instead of big-shots,

  on their own. The plan that Five-face proposed - that of crime at six o'clock

  -

  was quite in keeping with the situation, and therefore satisfactory to all.

  By six, darkness would arrive, offering suitable surroundings for the lieutenants and their followers. But there was also a chance that other things could happen prior to the hour that Five-face had set. Crime's new brain had not fully calculated the effect of the newspaper report that told of cash in the office of the United Import Co.

  Shortly before five o'clock, a car pulled up in front of the building where the importing company was located. Two private detectives, stationed near

  the building entrance, gave the car a wary eye, until they recognized its occupant. The man who alighted was Arnold Melbrun, head of the United Import Co.

  Melbrun was middle-aged, but he had the buoyancy of youth. Tall, broad-shouldered and erect, he displayed the true manner of a business executive. His face was broad and strong-chinned, marking him as a man of action. But his gray eyes, quick and restless, were those of a deep thinker and

  matched the tapering shape of his features.

  From the people thronging from the building, Melbrun promptly picked out the private detectives and drew them to one side. From beneath his arm, he brought a newspaper, showed them the headlines. The detectives began to understand Melbrun's worried air.

  "I don't like it," declared Melbrun, in a crisp tone. "The newspapers were

  not to know about this matter until the Anitoga docked. I'm going up to the office, to learn who let the news out. Meanwhile, I expect the utmost vigilance

  from both of you."

  The detectives assured Melbrun that they would be on their toes. Entering the building, Melbrun waited while an elevator disgorged a load of workers who were going home. Riding up, he reached his own suite of offices, to find another pair of detectives on guard. He showed them the newspaper account, and repeated the admonition that he had given to the men below.

  The employees of the United Import Co. were still at their desks. They often worked late, and Melbrun had insisted that they stay on the job this evening, without telling them why. As he glanced from desk to desk, the half dozen men busied themselves, as they always did when Melbrun was about.

  Near an office marked "Private" was a single desk, with a sallow man behind it. The fellow was Melbrun's secretary, Kelson. His eyes shifted when Melbrun's met them.

  Without a word Melbrun opened the door of the private office and beckoned for Kelson to follow. When Kelson entered, Melbrun spread the newspaper and ordered the secretary to read it.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Melbrun," pleaded Kelson, in a weak tone. "The newspapers called up this afternoon and asked me -"

  "About the money!" snapped Melbrun. "And like an idiot, you told them!"

  "But they knew about it," insisted Kelson. "They mentioned the armored truck that was coming here, and the fact that the Anitoga was due to dock."

  Melbrun stroked his chin, reflectively. Anger faded from his eyes; still, his tone was brusque.

  "I can't hold you to blame," he told Kelson. "Still, I wish that you had used better sense. It isn't wise to let a whole city know when you have a hundred thousand dollars in your custody."

  Turning to a large safe behind his massive desk, Melbrun turned the combination. Kelson watched, his face quite worried, while the importer opened a metal box that contained stacks of currency.

&
nbsp; Melbrun was thumbing through the cash, nodding because he found it quite intact, when he noticed Kelson watching him.

  "Don't stand there stupidly!" snapped Melbrun. "Go to the outside office, Kelson, and tell the rest of the employees about the money. Show them the newspaper, and admit that it was partly your mistake. Explain that I kept the matter secret so they would not worry. But since all New York knows that I have

  the money here, the office staff should be informed."

  BY the time Kelson had given the news to the interested office force, Melbrun appeared. He was carrying a suitcase that he always took on business trips. He laid it aside, while he assembled the employees and took up the story

  where Kelson had left off.

  "The truck will be here at eight," announced Melbrun. "It will take the money directly to the pier, because the Anitoga will be docked by then. I shall

  be at the pier, and afterward, I intend to leave on a business trip to Boston.

  "Meanwhile, I am depending upon all of you to be watchful. I have placed detectives on duty, and the job is really theirs; but, since you know the facts, I expect your cooperation. Remember to keep at your work, as usual; receive any visitors cordially and in the accustomed fashion.

  "But watch them! If you have any suspicions of anyone, report promptly to Kelson. This newspaper story means that we must adopt additional precautions.

  I

  shall tell the detectives that they can depend on all of you, if needed."

  Before leaving, Melbrun called police headquarters and talked to an inspector named Joe Cardona. From Melbrun's conversation, the office workers learned that Inspector Cardona was the official in charge of arrangements at the pier; that everything was satisfactory there.

  However, Cardona had seen the newspaper account and agreed with Melbrun that there might be an earlier danger.

  Over the phone, they concluded new arrangements, which were satisfactory to Melbrun. His call finished, the exporter sat at Kelson's desk, stroking his firm jaw and nodding in a musing fashion. Finally, Melbrun arose and picked up his suitcase.

  "Inspector Cardona is detailing two men to watch the building," he explained. "That will give us added protection outside, as well as in here.