The Fifth Face s-204

by Maxwell Grant

  THE suitcase was standing beside Weston's chair. With a cross between a grimace and a smile, the commissioner lifted it to the table. Opening the bag, he showed stacks of money, all in neat bundles.

  "Your guess was right, Cranston," conceded Weston, in a depreciating tone.

  "Melbrun took the cash before the robbery and checked his bag at a hotel. When he called my office, asking for an escort to take him to the pier, I told him of the robbery."

  "If I had only called sooner," groaned Melbrun. "But I dined first. I knew

  there might be trouble at the office, but not the serious sort that occurred there."

  "You left enough men to handle matters," insisted Weston, "and the dummy cash box was excellent bait. It made Smarley show his hand, and your whole office staff, as well as the private detectives, made an earnest effort to save

  the box, thinking it was really valuable."

  Weston's argument did not help Melbrun. He felt that his strategy had been

  a mistake; that it was the direct cause of Kelson's death. Naturally, Kelson's ardent pursuit of Smarley was based upon his lack of facts; but had the secretary used good judgment, he would still be alive. So Weston argued, and Melbrun finally began to believe him.

  "Take the money to the pier," ordered the commissioner, pushing the suitcase to Melbrun. "You will be quite safe in the armored truck, and the pier

  is thoroughly guarded. Proceed with the distribution of the bonus money to the crew of the Anitoga, and stop worrying about Kelson. The chap is dead, Melbrun,

  and it can't be helped."

  Soon after Melbrun's departure, Inspector Cardona arrived. Cardona had been quizzing wounded crooks, and doing a rapid job of it. Riddled with police bullets, in addition to the slugs that The Shadow delivered, the thugs had been

  dying off while Cardona questioned them.

  "All they could say was 'Smarley'," growled Cardona. "It was Smarley who hired them; Smarley, who was out to grab the dough; Smarley who made the getaway."

  "Quite correct," nodded Weston. "What else could the hoodlums say?"

  "They could have told me how Smarley got hold of them," snapped Cardona.

  "They never worked for him before. You can't build a mob up overnight, commissioner."

  "I never intend to do so."

  "Sorry, commissioner. I was referring to Smarley. We know what he was - a bookie, running a small-time horse parlor. All of a sudden, he sprouts out like

  a big-shot. Where did he get all of those mobbies?"

  The commissioner had an answer. Crime had been quiet over a long period.

  It would have been easy for Jake Smarley, or anyone else, to enlist a thuggish horde. The fact that the gunners were of varied types, merely supported Weston's theory. Apparently, Smarley had approached any who were on the loose.

  "They were men who placed bets through Smarley," analyzed Weston. "That is

  how he learned about them, inspector. If he paid them in advance, which is probable, he naturally would not have told them where he intended to go.

  "Your job is to find Smarley. Use every means to do so. Treat him as a public enemy, a lone wolf bent on murder. But from all descriptions of the fellow" - the commissioner's tone became contemptuous - "he is an amateur at crime. You will probably find him cowering in some hide-away that your stool pigeons will uncover."

  WESTON and his ace inspector were still discussing matters, and getting closer in accord, when The Shadow left the Cobalt Club. He was Cranston when he

  stepped into his limousine; but after a ride of a few blocks, he became a figure

  cloaked in black.

  The Shadow had not forgotten the armored truck, with its hundred-thousand-dollar load. Though the police commissioner had taken full precautions to insure its arrival at the pier, The Shadow did not regard the delivery of the cash as a certainty.

  In The Shadow's opinion, Jake Smarley was more than a small-fry criminal who had attempted a robbery through sheer bravado.

  Smarley's quick-witted work in Melbrun's office, his coolness under fire, and his disposal of Kelson showed how dangerous the man could be. His getaway, accompanied by at least a dozen followers, proved Smarley a skillful organizer.

  In short, The Shadow, while in the thick of battle, had recognized something that had entirely escaped the police.

  The Shadow knew that lesser crooks had been left to take the brunt; that the cream of Smarley's forces had gone with him. He sensed, too, that the repeated name of "Smarley!" that dying hoodlums had squawked in parrot fashion could be a cover-up for certain lieutenants who had provided Smarley with his mob.

  As the core of a compact criminal organization, Smarley could attempt new crime despite the law. He still had plenty of shock troops at command, and The Shadow could conceive of Smarley ordering another, and more daring, thrust to get Melbrun's funds this very night.

  Near the North River, The Shadow left the limousine. He became a gliding, fleeing shape that followed an untraceable course to a darkened pier, where a skeleton force of guards kept watch over a huge liner that had been interned because of war.

  Slipping through the thin cordon of guards, The Shadow boarded the great ship. Reaching the liner's superstructure, he had a perfect view of an adjoining pier.

  There, The Shadow saw the steamship Anitoga, dwarfed beside the great vessel which he used as his observation post. The decks of the Anitoga were brilliant with light. More than a hundred men were clustered there, like figures on a stage.

  Among one tiny batch, The Shadow spied Melbrun, together with the shippers

  who had provided the bonus money for the crew of the Anitoga. Sailors were stepping forward, one by one, while Melbrun, as spokesman for the shippers, gave them their awards.

  While the hundred thousand dollars was being pieced out to the men who deserved it, The Shadow's eyes roved the pier from the land end to the river.

  Police were on hand, a score of them, ready for any emergency. The pier, however, provided a long stretch to patrol. Should crooks choose some salient point and make a concerted attack, they would have a chance of driving upon the

  unarmed ship crew before the officers could halt them.

  Thus The Shadow held real command of the situation, from his shrouded lookout post. His laugh, and a few well-directed shots, could frustrate any invasion and bring the police to the vital spot before crooks might gain a foothold. The Shadow was ready, vigilant, awaiting such attack.

  The moment did not come. Nothing disturbed the scene upon the pier. The money was distributed; some crew members went to their quarters, while others came ashore, where police escorted them away from the treacherous waterfront.

  Arnold Melbrun and the shipping men drove away in their cars. Lights were extinguished on board the Anitoga. Deep quiet lay along the river.

  Guards about the interned liner were puzzled by a whispery laugh that came

  from the ship's bridge, like a ghostly echo. They made a search, but found no one. By then, The Shadow was gone. His parting laugh had a significance which the men who heard it did not understand.

  It was a tone of prophecy. The Shadow foresaw that crime would strike again. Melbrun's cash was a thing of the past, so far as crooks were concerned.

  Their next effort would involve larger game. Meanwhile, it would be The Shadow's

  business to locate the missing man who managed crime, Jake Smarley.

  The law had chosen the same quest, and regarded it a simple one. The Shadow felt that it might prove more complex than the police supposed, for he credited Smarley with foresight in choosing a suitable hideaway. Nevertheless, The Shadow's whispered laugh denoted confidence.

  As yet, The Shadow had not struck upon the crux of the whole case. He did not know that in searching for Jake Smarley, he would be hunting a man who no longer existed!

  CHAPTER VI

  THE SECOND FACE

  THREE glum men sat in their customary meeting place, glowering at one anothe
r. They were the lieutenants who had taken orders from the mysterious crook who called himself Five-face, and they were beginning to regret their new

  alliance. Their apartment looked shabbier than ever; they had less money in their card game.

  It was Grease Rickel who broke the monotony, by slapping a fistful of cards upon the table. Rising with a growl, the slimy-faced racketeer stalked the room, then began a verbal outburst.

  "Jake Smarley!" sneered Grease. "A flash in the pan! A guy who couldn't deliver. We were boobs to join up with him!"

  Banker Dreeb did not fully agree. His solemn face was thoughtful. At last,

  he spoke dryly:

  "Why blame Smarley? He worked the game as well as he could. It just happened that Melbrun outfoxed him."

  "Yeah?" Clip Zelber put the sharp query. "Smarley didn't know the cash box

  was a dummy, did he?"

  "No," admitted Banker, "I guess he didn't."

  "Then what did he drop it for?" snapped Clip. "I'll tell you why. Because he was yellow! He met up with The Shadow, and he couldn't stand the gaff.

  Smarley, the bigshot! We were lugs to waste a bunch of good trigger men helping

  that guy."

  Outvoted two to one, Banker became silent. Both Grease and Clip continued to gripe. Three days had passed since the raid at Melbrun's. The whole thing had been a fluke. The only luck lay in the fact that their own parts in the crime lay undiscovered. At least, they had managed to cover their tracks, but that was small comfort.

  They needed cash, and said so. The argument was one that Banker could not dispute. Plucking a newspaper from a table, Grease shoved it under Banker's nose and pointed out two photographs on the front page.

  "There's the guy that claimed he had brains," sneered Grease, pointing to Smarley's picture. "Look at that dried-up map of his. Five grand reward for Jake Smarley. Say - if he comes crawling in here, the best thing we could do would be grab him and collect the dough.

  "When it comes to brains, here's the fellow that really has them." Grease tapped the other picture. "Arnold Melbrun, who is putting up the reward. You know why he's offering it - because Smarley was dumb enough to put the blast on

  that secretary, Kelson. That was the biggest boner of all."

  Banker was seated at the table, shuffling the pack of cards. He invited Grease and Clip to join him, but they saw no reason for the game. As Clip put it, they were tired of passing money around the triangle and borrowing it back from each other. Banker smiled at Clip's remark.

  "We'll get some new money into the game," he said dryly. "I just heard that Flush Tygert is back in town."

  Mention of the name brought eager looks from Grease and Clip. They remembered their last game with Flush, a few months before. It had proven profitable to everyone except Flush Tygert.

  "A funny gazebo, Flush," chuckled Banker. "Card hustling is his racket.

  He

  used to trim the chumps every time he took a boat trip. But he never could make

  dough playing poker straight. It kind of annoyed him."

  "I remember," nodded Grease. "He said he liked to join a game with guys like us, just to see how it felt being on the losing end. There's one thing I never could figure out. If Flush was so smart, why couldn't he trim us?"

  "Because he didn't have a shill," explained Clip. "He always signed up a stooge when he rode the packets to Europe. I guess you weren't here, Grease, the day he showed us the flush trick. That's the one that gave Flush his moniker."

  Grease showed new interest.

  "I heard it different," he said. "I thought they called him Flush because he always looked flush. You know, with diamonds sticking all over him and wads of dough bulging from his pockets."

  "That's the story he tells the chumps," explained Banker. "Flush had to have some alibi for his moniker, after the other hustlers pinned it on him.

  When Flush gets here, Grease, we'll have him show you that pet trick of his, just to put him in the right mood."

  THE three lieutenants were deep in a new card game, when a knock at the door announced the arrival of Flush Tygert. They were due for a disappointment,

  as soon as the gambler entered.

  Flush looked the same as ever: tall, thin-haired, with a long, sallow face

  that wore a perpetual gold-toothed smile. But his blue serge suit was shiny; its

  glitter took the place of diamonds. As for his pockets, they hadn't the slightest sign of a bulge.

  It was quite plain that Flush Tygert had fallen on bad times. His roving eyes were actually greedy, as they studied the few hundred dollars of cash that

  lay on the card table.

  Grease Rickel gave a snarling welcome, which brought him a shin kick from Clip Zelber. Meanwhile, Banker Dreeb covered the incident by extending a glad hand to the visitor.

  In this instance, Banker and Clip were outvoting Grease. They considered it good policy to give Flush a welcome, even if he did look broke. Flush had quick ways of getting into the money. He might come back within a week quite as

  flush as ever.

  "Sit down and play a few hands, Flush," suggested Banker. "Your credit is good, if you need any. By the way, before we start, show Grease the flush trick. He was asking how you trimmed the chumps so easy."

  A pleased gleam showed on Flush's face, as apparent as the glitter of his gold teeth. He took a chair and invited Clip to sit opposite, to assist him in the stunt. Then, gesturing toward Clip, Flush stated in a smooth but drawly tone:

  "The stooge wins, see? But I do the dirty work. Here's how. In a poker game, a guy often gets a four flush but finds it hard to fill when he draws the

  extra card. I take care of that problem."

  He gave Clip four hearts and a spade, and took a five-card hand for himself. He tossed a few cards on the table, to represent a discard.

  "There's four signals," continued Flush. "Hold those cards square; that's it, Clip. Left thumb, right thumb, both thumbs, no thumbs. Those mean clubs, diamonds, hearts or spades."

  Clip promptly poked both thumbs above the top edge of his cards. Flush gave an approving nod.

  "That means you need a heart," he said, "and I've got one. I cop it, here in my right duke, the face of the card against the palm. Meanwhile, you've got to slide off that odd spade of yours and slip it face down with the discards."

  Clip managed the maneuver; as Flush explained, the process was easy, because people wouldn't be expecting a player to get rid of one card from a legitimate hand of five. As it now stood, Clip had an incomplete hand of four hearts.

  "Plank them face up on the board," ordered Flush. "Tell everybody you've got a flush. Say it like you meant it."

  When Clip gestured at the four cards that he laid on the table, the only objector was Flush himself. In his smooth drawl, the gambler said:

  "Spread 'em out, fella! Always spread 'em out, so everybody can see 'em.

  Maybe there's a wrong card in that mess."

  Before Clip could move, Flush spread the cards himself. His right hand snaked forward, gave the four hearts a wide sweep. With the movement, Flush added the extra heart from his own palm, so deftly that the onlookers blinked.

  He didn't simply drop it on the other cards; he sliced it right in among them, so that it formed the center of the five.

  "All hearts," admitted Flush, in a grieved tone. "The pot is yours, old man. Worse luck next time."

  Such skill won immediate approval for Flush Tygert. He had shown the stunt

  to Banker and Clip once before, and they agreed that he had repeated it in the same slick style. The compliment produced another gleaming grin from Flush.

  "You can't always win, you know," drawled the gambler, "even with the best

  of set-ups. I ought to be in the money right at present, but I'm not. I played what looked like a sure shot, but it didn't work out."

  The listeners looked interested.

  "I was out to get a hundred thousand bucks," added Flush. "But
the dough was gone before I could grab it. Besides -"

  Flush went no further. It wasn't necessary. He had changed his tone from a

  drawl to a half whine. The men who heard it recognized that voice.

  It was the voice of Jake Smarley!

  THE missing bookie had returned in the guise of the slick gambler. Jake Smarley and Flush Tygert were the same. But neither of those names sprang to the lips of the three amazed men who viewed the smiling visitor before them.

  In

  concert, they exclaimed a bigger, more important name:

  "Five-face!"

  "I told you I'd be back," drawled the master crook, in the style of Flush Tygert. "You can forget Jake Smarley. He's the same as dead and buried. I'm only sorry that he didn't grab off Melbrun's cash and split it with you fellows.

  "Anyway, he made his getaway. That's why I'm here. And remember" - the speaker raised his left hand and bent his forefinger inward - "the Melbrun job was only the first one. There are four more to come" - he was counting his fingers, one by one - "and I'll use a different face for each."

  Eagerly, the lieutenants gathered close. Lowering his drawl to an undertone, Five-face began the details of the crime next on the list. As they listened, Grease Rickel and Clip Zelber exchanged approving glances that pleased Banker Dreeb, the lieutenant who had been confident that Five-face could come through.

  New crime was in the making - crime that would require the mobbies that the lieutenants could supply. Crime without mercy toward anyone who might oppose it. Five-face, at present known as Flush Tygert, was including all factors in his plans.

  There would be a surprise for all foemen who crossed crime's coming path; even for The Shadow!

  CHAPTER VII

  CROOKS ON THE MOVE

  THE black-walled room was thick with darkness, except for a corner, where a bluish light gleamed upon the polished surface of a table.

  Deflected downward, the bluish rays made little impression on the deep gloom; in fact, the whole room seemed a mammoth shroud encroaching upon the spotted light. A figure stood beside the table; yet it was invisible against the darkness.