The Fifth Face s-204

by Maxwell Grant

  Later, the inspector will arrive in person, and he has promised to have a full squad on duty by the time the armored truck appears.

  "I am depending upon you, Kelson." Melbrun turned to the sallow secretary.

  "You have the combination to my safe. But do not open it until Inspector Cardona

  gives the word. Turn over the cash box to him, for delivery at the pier."

  As he concluded, Melbrun dangled a ring of keys, and Kelson nodded at sight of one he recognized. It was the key to the cash box in the safe, a special key that had no duplicate. The contents of the cash box would certainly

  be intact, when the box itself was delivered to Melbrun at the pier.

  Methodical to the last degree, Arnold Melbrun contacted the private detectives as he left the office, and told them of the amplified arrangements.

  As he entered his waiting car, Melbrun glanced at his watch and noted that the time was five twenty.

  His suitcase on the seat beside him, he glanced back at the office building as he rode away. Despite his new precautions, Melbrun's face looked troubled.

  The day was cloudy. Early dusk was already gathering about the building, where only a few lights remained, those of the exporting offices. Though the building was not large, it had taken on a vast appearance against the darkening

  sky, and other buildings looked like crouching creatures, ready to devour it.

  Melbrun could picture certain loopholes in his plans, and he wondered just

  how well he had provided against them. Nevertheless, his final expression was a

  smile, which he delivered as his car neared a hotel not far from his office building.

  The custody of one hundred thousand dollars was no longer weighing heavily

  on Arnold Melbrun, as he strolled into the hotel and left his suitcase at the check room.

  If crime should come, Melbrun was quite sure that crooks would be disappointed as a result of his precautions, plus those provided by the law.

  In fact, there seemed but little reason why anyone should be worried about

  crime in Manhattan. It had been spiked very effectively during recent months, and New York City, criminally speaking, was much like a millpond. Such calmness, however, necessarily had an answer.

  THE answer, at that moment, was riding in a large limousine that was coming across the New Jersey Skyway, en route to the Holland Tunnel entrance to

  New York City.

  His name was Lamont Cranston and he was a gentleman of leisurely manner, who seemed quite at home in his elegant surroundings.

  Cranston's face was hawkish, and had a masklike appearance. When he was alone, and therefore unobserved, Cranston's eyes often took on a burning glint;

  their gaze became a piercing sort that seemed capable of penetrating darkness.

  Had certain persons seen him at such moments, they would have realized that this person who posed as Lamont Cranston was actually The Shadow.

  His was the hand that banished crime. The Shadow was the reason why the law prevailed. He had weighed the balance in justice's favor, and was keeping it there. This present trip, at dusk, was another evidence of his foresight.

  The Shadow had learned of the cash that was in Melbrun's custody. He recognized its importance. Not only was it the very sort of loot that crooks would most prefer; the theft of that cash would mean something more. It would mark crime's comeback. A criminal thrust, involving sure, quick profit, would embolden hordes of skulking mobsters throughout Manhattan.

  Long had human rats been waiting, hoping for the call of some Pied Piper who would lead them anew along a route of crime. They would be willing, ready, to follow such a leader blindly, once he proved himself a master of crime.

  To start a new reign of crime, a supercrook would first have to score a success despite The Shadow. Melbrun's money would prove a great inducement for anyone who sought to be an overlord of crime.

  Leaning forward a bit, Cranston thumbed a dial. A voice came across the air, tuned in by short-wave radio. It was the quiet tone of Burbank, The Shadow's contact man, giving reports from various of The Shadow's secret agents. They had checked the news account in the afternoon paper and had not determined the source of the leak.

  There were many channels through which it could have come. It might have drifted from some shipping office, or been given out by someone with the steamship company. The banks which supplied the cash knew all about it, as did the trucking company which was to furnish the armored car.

  Any one of several dozen persons could have been responsible, but that did

  not explain why the facts had been released in the first place. Behind that point, The Shadow could see intended crime as a motive.

  More reports came by short wave. Agents had checked on Melbrun's building.

  The exporter's office was on the sixth floor. Next door was a building that had

  a roof on the same level, and also offered a view of a fire tower that showed a

  rear exit from Melbrun's building. The adjacent roof was the very sort of post that The Shadow wanted.

  The limousine was entering the Holland Tunnel. Turning off the radio, Cranston leaned forward and noted the clock on the dashboard in front of the chauffeur.

  Reaching lazily for the speaking tube, he instructed the chauffeur to take

  him to an address near Melbrun's building. The clock said quarter of six; ten minutes would bring the big car to its destination.

  Cranston's leisurely pose ended as the car sped from the tunnel. His hands

  slid open a drawer beneath the rear seat, whipped out a black cloak, which he whisked across his shoulders. Opening a flattened slouch hat, Cranston clamped it on his head. Drawing thin black gloves over his hands, this man of sudden action reached for a brace of .45-caliber automatics and slid them beneath his cloak.

  A whispered laugh stirred the darkened interior of the car. Darkness had settled over the city, too, and it furnished the very element that this black-cloaked master wanted. Should crime be scheduled for this evening, it would find trouble in the gloom.

  The Shadow, master of the night, was on his way to combat crime!

  CHAPTER III

  TWISTED BATTLE

  AS The Shadow's car was nearing the vicinity of Melbrun's building, a shambling figure sidled in from the darkness and paused before the lighted entrance. He was promptly recognized by men already on the ground: the private detectives stationed by Melbrun. The arrival was Jake Smarley, the bookie.

  One of the dicks acted as if he owned the building. Accosting Smarley, he asked him what he wanted. The stooped bookie whined that he was going up to Melbrun's office to see Mr. Kelson. He argued that Kelson would be there, because he always stayed until six o'clock.

  From across the street, two plainclothes men shifted into sight. They recognized Smarley, too, and gave the private dicks a nod. Smarley, the bookie,

  wasn't the type who could start trouble. It was better to pass him through and find out what he really wanted.

  Upstairs, Smarley encountered another pair of watchers, who gruffly demanded what he wanted. When they learned that he was going to the offices of the United Import Co., they pointed out the door to him. As soon as Smarley entered, the dicks moved to the door, opened it a trifle and looked in on what followed.

  The employees recognized Smarley and exchanged grins, with the exception of Kelson. The secretary was seated at his desk, wiping a pair of spectacles.

  He squinted as he saw Smarley; putting on his glasses, he recognized the bookie. A squeamish expression promptly decorated Kelson's sallow face.

  "Hello, Kelson," wheezed Smarley, in an almost fatherly fashion. "All through your work? We can have a little chat."

  "Not today, Smarley," pleaded Kelson. "I've got a lot of things to do for Mr. Melbrun."

  Smarley gave a sharp look toward the door of Melbrun's office, then inquired in a low voice:

  "Is Mr. Melbrun still in there?"

  Kelson
nodded. He figured that it would support his argument. On previous visits, Smarley had always called up first, to make sure that Melbrun wasn't in. Since his business with Kelson was a personal matter, involving unpaid racing bets, he had not wanted Melbrun to know about it. But on this occasion Smarley went against form.

  With an ugly, dryish grin, Smarley arose from the desk and turned toward Melbrun's door, saying, loud enough for the rest of the office force to hear:

  "This has gone far enough, Kelson. You haven't paid me what you owe me, so

  I'm going to take it up with your boss."

  "No, no!" Kelson rose, excited. "I forgot, Smarley. Mr. Melbrun went out

  -"

  By then, Smarley had opened the private door. He peered into Melbrun's office, saw that it was empty. His face showed reproval, as he turned to Kelson.

  "So you lied to me," whined Smarley. "Tried to trick a poor old man who trusted you. Look at me" - he tugged his pockets, turning them inside out; then

  extended his hands, palms upward, letting them tremble - "a poor old man who hasn't a cent of his own! Yet you owe me money and -"

  "I'll pay it, Smarley," inserted Kelson, anxiously. "I'll let you have some cash, right now. Here!"

  He pulled two ten-dollar bills from his pocket. Smarley eyed the cash as though he wanted to cry, much to the amusement of the other men in the office, who enjoyed Kelson's plight. In the hallway, the detectives closed the door and

  went back to the elevators, laughing at the situation.

  It was really funny, to learn that Kelson had played the races and lost to

  a bookie like Smarley. Kelson was the sort who tried to act like a human machine, as though he didn't have a single fault or weakness. Having found out what Smarley's business was, the private dicks were quite willing to let him thrash it out with Kelson.

  As for the office force, they were quite delighted. They disliked Kelson, and were finding out, to their great glee, why Smarley had come to the office other times when Melbrun was out, to hold conferences with the private secretary.

  To their enjoyment, Smarley shook his head at sight of Kelson's twenty dollars.

  "It won't do, Kelson," whined Smarley. "I want the full amount, two hundred and fifty dollars."

  "But I don't have it, Smarley -"

  "Then you can give me a note for it," inserted the bookie, loudly. "A promissory note, for thirty days. You ought to have some of those in your desk

  - the blanks, I mean."

  Kelson shook his head; then, deciding that a signed note would certainly end the frequency of Smarley's visits, the secretary changed his gesture to a nod.

  "I'll sign the note," he decided. "Wait here, Smarley, while I get a blank

  from Mr. Melbrun's desk."

  PUSHING past Smarley, Kelson entered the private office. Solemnly, Smarley

  eyed the other office workers, and received their approving grins. Reverting to

  his suspicious attitude, the bookie looked into Melbrun's office again; then, entering, he closed the door behind him.

  It was done neatly, so naturally that the men in the outer office did not link Smarley's action to anything more sinister than a desire to collect money that was really owing to him.

  Nor did Kelson guess Smarley's purpose. At Melbrun's desk, Kelson was writing out a promissory note; he scarcely noted Smarley, as the withery bookie

  stepped past him.

  There was a strong door in the rear corner of Melbrun's office; a barrier that was heavily bolted. Smoothly, Smarley pulled back the bolts. Despite his care, the last one grated, bringing Kelson around. Anxiously, Kelson gasped:

  "What are you doing, Smarley?"

  Whipping from his crouch, Smarley sprang for Kelson with a speed that left

  the sallow secretary breathless. As he came, the bookie pulled a revolver from his hip. Reaching the desk, he planted the gun muzzle squarely against Kelson's

  ribs.

  "Get busy on that safe!" hissed Smarley. "Open it up! Hand me over the Anitoga cash!"

  Kelson gulped loudly, then:

  "But I don't know the combination!" he panted. "Honest, Smarley, I don't.

  Mr. Melbrun was coming back."

  With all of Kelson's pretense at sincerity, Smarley was not deceived.

  "No stalling," he prompted. "Get busy, I tell you! If you don't, I'll shoot!"

  Quivering, Kelson approached the safe. He fumbled at the dial, as though trying to get the combination by guesswork. Smarley nudged harder with the gun.

  "Start over." The bookie's tone was low and harsh. "No fake stuff, Kelson.

  I want results in a hurry!"

  Light from a floor lamp showed the tenseness of both faces. Kelson's sallow features were twitching; Smarley's visage was hard. It looked like a devil's mask, that first face belonging to the man who boasted that he had five.

  The tense pair were between the floor lamp and the rear window of the private office. The window shade was drawn; Melbrun had lowered it earlier, when he turned on the office lights. But the shade, thanks to the position of the floor lamp, did not hide the scene in Melbrun's office.

  The Shadow had arrived upon the adjacent roof. He was viewing a drama silhouetted against the yellow shade. Enlarged, the shadows of Smarley and Kelson looked grotesque, but their actions were portrayed in excellent detail.

  Kelson's moving hands told what they were doing. At moments, The Shadow could see the shading from the safe dial, a lump of black against a smooth, upright block. Smarley's hand was plain, too, and as it shifted, the outline of

  his revolver was quite visible.

  A move at this moment would be fatal for Kelson. Awaiting the proper time,

  The Shadow gauged the distance from his roof to Melbrun's window. It wasn't far;

  a spring would carry The Shadow to the window ledge, which was fairly broad and

  below the level of the roof where The Shadow crouched.

  The problem was to remain on the ledge, and The Shadow had a simple plan.

  Drawing an automatic, he reversed it, clutching the barrel and raising the handle of the gun as though it were the head of a hammer.

  As The Shadow watched, a big shape of enlarging blackness blotted out the silhouettes of Smarley and Kelson. It was the safe door, swinging open.

  With a lunge, The Shadow left the roof. He swished through the darkness, at a downward angle toward the window ledge. His arm was swinging as he came; his gun struck glass an instant before his feet landed on the window ledge.

  That sledging blow shattered the glass in the upper window sash; the descending gun caught the woodwork like a grappling hook. The Shadow's cloaked form gave a backward sway, that would have pitched an ordinary jumper to the depths.

  But this strange venturer did not fall. He still gripped the gun barrel, and its handle served him as a brace, hooked to the stout woodwork where the window sections joined.

  The Shadow's recoil served merely to give him impetus for another lunge.

  His free hand whipping his cloak across his face, he drove in shoulder first.

  His new momentum carried him right through the window.

  Amid a terrific crash of woodwork and a clatter of glass, the shade rattled upward. Continuing his lunge, The Shadow struck the floor and made a rapid roll for the shelter of Melbrun's big desk.

  THINGS were happening as The Shadow wanted. In opening the safe door, Kelson had gained its partial shelter. Smarley's gun was no longer pressing the

  secretary's back, because the bookie was grabbing the metal cash box. Matters were just right for Kelson to make a break, if he had nerve to try it.

  By his sudden entry, his dive in the opposite direction, The Shadow added to the opportunity. Smarley saw the black-clad shape come crashing through the window and recognized The Shadow, even before he heard the cloaked fighter's defiant laugh from beyond the desk.

  Forgetting Kelson, Smarley began to shoot, wildly, as he shifted for the rear door that
he had opened.

  Another gun gave immediate answer. The Shadow was juggling his automatic as he rolled, catching it deftly with the muzzle frontward, his finger on the trigger. He stabbed a shot above the level of the desk; one that came surprisingly close to clipping Smarley, considering the guesswork behind The Shadow's aim.

  The Shadow wasn't counting on that first jab to stop the mobster. He simply wanted to get into rapid action, to keep things safer for Kelson.

  Unfortunately, the secretary grew surprisingly bold, when he saw the spurt

  from The Shadow's guns and its result on Smarley. The bookie went frantic, as he

  snatched at the knob of the rear door. His gun in one hand, the box under his other arm, Smarley was in a fumbling mood.

  Leaving the safe, Kelson drove across the path of The Shadow's fire, to grapple with Smarley.

  As the two locked, The Shadow vaulted the desk, to drive into the fray.

  Kelson had Smarley's gun wrist; the crook made a downward swing. Poking his own

  gun in between, The Shadow stopped the forceful blow; but Kelson, ducking in the

  wrong direction, received a glancing stroke.

  Madly depending upon luck instead of common sense, Smarley shouldered Kelson toward The Shadow and made for the front door of the office, instead of the rear exit. His reversal of direction gave him a temporary leeway, and during the interval Kelson became the crook's unwitting ally.

  Half groggy, Kelson grappled with the first person at hand, who happened to be The Shadow.

  There were shouts from the outer office that seemed to blend with The Shadow's mocking laughter. Smarley was heading straight for a trap. Men had heard the fray and were coming in to learn the trouble. Dragging Kelson with him, The Shadow made for Smarley as the bookie fumbled with the doorknob.

  It was then that Smarley made his smartest move, his one clever stroke amid the twisted battle. Almost under the muzzle of The Shadow's looming gun, the bookie yanked the door open and sprang away from it, still clutching his revolver with one hand and catching the slipping cash box with the other.

  With a mere shift, The Shadow had the thug covered, but his own move came too late. Smarley's tug at the door had released a flood of office workers, followed by a pair of detectives. They saw only Kelson and The Shadow, engaged in what seemed a grapple.