In Breddle's opinion, a fight a block away was as remote as the European war zone. His bland smile widened as he heard the gunfire dwindle. The fray was
bearing off in another direction, probably toward the twisty streets of Chinatown, where rioters could find holes and scurry into them.
Breddle gave a wise nod that calmed the neighboring merchants. They passed
the word along the booths. No need to worry any longer; old Breddle had given the nod. Glancing in Breddle's direction, other diamond sellers saw that the old-timer was talking with a customer as ardently as if the noise outside had been nothing more than a few firecrackers.
It chanced that Breddle's customer was Flush Tygert. The gambler was interested in buying diamonds in a big way. Practically all of Breddle's best gems were on the counter, but Flush wasn't satisfied.
Glancing at the adjoining booths, Flush quietly asked if Breddle could make deals with his nearest neighbors, provided that they had what Flush wanted. Figuring that his own stock would stand up in comparison, Breddle nodded. Beckoning to the other two merchants, he invited them to show the best they had.
None of the diamond sellers observed the thing that Flush took in with a casual glance out toward the street. Only Flush knew the size of the arcade battle; he was looking to see if it had produced the required result.
It had. The fray had drawn all available police from their usual posts, plain-clothes men as well as bluecoats. For once, the street in front of the Diamond Mart was totally unprotected.
Trays of diamonds came across the sides of Breddle's booth, thrust there by the adjoining merchants. They wanted Flush to compare their wares with those
that Breddle offered. With a grin that lacked gleam because of the glittering diamonds, Flush drawled:
"Thank you, gentlemen. I think that I can take all your gems!"
Had Breddle and the other merchants stared Flush in the eye, they might have guessed a most important secret. His features were undergoing a series of changes. He was Five-face, rather than Flush Tygert, though the gambler's countenance predominated during his facial betrayals.
But none of the three merchants was meeting the gaze of Five-face. They were staring at a gun muzzle that poked from the edge of Flush's coat.
Snakelike, the revolver wangled back and forth under its owner's skillful hand.
The gun point carried the hypnotic threat of a cobra's eye.
"Bring out the old valise," Flush told Breddle. "The one you always keep handy. Open it and put it on the floor below the counter."
BREDDLE followed instructions without a murmur. As he glanced at his fellow merchants, his eyes warned them not to make an unwise move. No one could
get away with wholesale robbery, here at the Diamond Mart. Flush Tygert would be
stopped before he could leave the building. Placing the valise as Flush ordered,
Breddle politely awaited the crook's next order.
"Start to put your trays away," said Flush. "When you get them below the counter, dump them into the bag. Don't let any of the gems splash over. I might
miss out on one I particularly want. In that case, Breddle, I'd have to give you
a bullet as a reminder to be more careful."
Tray by tray, the old merchant poured diamonds into the waiting bag. Even at Breddle's prices, which were low, the gems he had displayed ran close to two
hundred thousand dollars in total value. When Breddle had finished with his trays, Flush told him to take those that the other merchants held handy.
More diamonds went into the bag, and Breddle left the empty trays beneath his own counter. With the natural smile of Flush Tygert, Five-face told the other merchants to relax and looked unconcerned while Breddle handed over the valise, which now contained a quarter of a million in loot, at rock-bottom prices.
Straightening up from the counter, where he had leaned as though inspecting diamonds, Flush let his gun slide from sight. His last words were a warning that he would hold Breddle responsible, should any alarm be given. The threat meant nothing by the time Flush had carried the bag halfway to the big doorway.
With a gesture, Breddle ducked beneath his counter, and his neighbors followed his example. Breddle pulled a switch that gave an automatic alarm.
Customers at the Diamond Mart were instantly treated to a demonstration of how rapidly things could happen in those preserves.
To the strident clang of alarm bells, merchants scooped up trays and loose
diamonds, to shove them into safety. Guards appeared as if from nowhere - a few
from behind counters, others among the customers, additional men through doors that bobbed open along the walls.
They almost blocked the outer door before Flush could reach it. Only by a rapid dash did the lone crook get there first.
By his spurt, Flush gave himself away as the thief they wanted; but he was
smart enough to yank out his revolver and brandish it with one hand, while he swung the jewel bag across his body, exactly as he had done with Melbrun's cash
box when passing as Jake Smarley.
Flush fired, aiming for counters, not for the guards. It was a cute trick,
for it threatened the lives of merchants and customers. On that account, the guards gave him leeway. They wanted him outside, where he could do no damage.
To a man, they thought that the foolhardy gem thief would run right into the arms of the police. But when they reached the door themselves, they saw Flush leaping into a taxicab parked a short way up the street.
The guards aimed; before they could fire, guns roared from two low-built sedans that wheeled in from a side street. Before they could drop back, the guards saw the muzzle of a machine gun thrust out from one car, ready to rake them.
Down the street, police were piling from the old arcade, too far away to give rescue. The aid that came was from a different quarter.
A CLOAKED figure sprang into sight from the gloom of an elevated pillar only a dozen yards away. A fierce laugh, taunting, defiant, made the machine-gunners swing their formidable weapon toward the attacker in black.
Automatics spurted, in tandem style, from the gloved hands of The Shadow.
The men at the machine gun were withered. Their car kept on, following the
cab that Flush Tygert had taken. The other sedan also sped along, to cover the getaway. A third automobile was cutting in from another street. Mobsters had literally whisked themselves away from The Shadow's range.
But they couldn't escape this master foe who had arrived to take up the duty that the police had dropped. With the law triumphant in the arcade, The Shadow had sensed what was due at the Diamond Mart. Not quite in time to prevent the actual robbery, he was prepared, nevertheless, for the chase.
A cab lurched into view, arriving in almost as surprising a fashion as The
Shadow. Moe Shrevnitz was at the wheel; he had been cruising, looking for his chief. The rear door slashed open; the cab seemed to swallow The Shadow as it passed him. Momentarily jabbing the brakes, Moe let the swinging door slam shut.
Again, a strange, weird laugh quivered the gloom beneath the elevated, as gloved hands poked from the cab window, gripping a brace of automatics that still showed wreaths of smoke coiling from their muzzles.
The Shadow was on the trail of Five-face, the crook of many parts, who had
staged crime as Flush Tygert. How long the man of crime could retain his quarter-million-dollar loot was a question soon to be decided!
CHAPTER IX
VANISHED BATTLERS
VEERING westward from the Bowery, the chase covered a few dozen blocks in uneventful style, while The Shadow kept close tabs on the speeding cars ahead.
Ironically enough, the pursuit passed very close to police headquarters, on Centre Street, without producing a ripple.
Five-face had planned well. The battle in the old arcade, staged by riffraff acquired through the master crook's lieutenants, had drawn patrol cars
in the wrong direction. If The Shadow hadn't come along to take up the pursuit,
the getaway would have been perfect.
News was just reaching police headquarters when the caravan went by. In the radio room, dispatches were going out to patrol cars to pick up a fleeing taxicab and three convoying sedans. Perhaps crooks realized it, for they were increasing their pace, to get as far away as possible.
Unquestionably, they hoped to find a hiding place before the law was in full cry. The Shadow was preventing it, by his policy of dogging their trail.
Thus crooks were caught between two problems: that of being spotted by their speed, as soon as the full alarm went out; and the alternative of letting The Shadow overtake them.
They feared the first proposition less. The Shadow's victory at the arcade
seemed a superhuman accomplishment. People who stopped to get The Shadow usually
stayed too long. The Shadow would certainly draw patrol cars with his gunfire; after that, the crooks would be trapped.
So the speeding cars kept right ahead, and while Moe clung to the chase, The Shadow leaned through the front window and inquired how his other agents had fared.
They were all right, Moe reported. He had contacted them, somewhat battered and bewildered, outside the arcade, but on their way to safety.
Rescued by The Shadow, the agents had survived the police onrush by the simple expedient of lying low at the sides of the arcade and letting the surge travel past them. So many thugs had been fighting the police hand to hand that the agents had easily escaped notice.
Sirens were wailing as Moe finished his report. Patrol cars were on the job, searching for the fleeing caravan. Leaning from his window, The Shadow tried long-range fire at the wheels of a crook-manned car.
The vehicle was too far ahead, but the shots counted. Sounding loud in the
narrow side street, they were sure to be reported to the police when they cut in
along this route.
Results came sooner than The Shadow hoped. As his cab passed a corner, patrol cars appeared. Fortunately, they recognized that The Shadow's cab held a
pursuer, not a fugitive. Soon, they were actually gaining on The Shadow, a fact
which was quite important.
It meant that the last car in the caravan must have slowed somewhat, since
Moe was guiding by its pace. Thus, when that car swerved a corner, The Shadow ordered Moe to keep ahead.
Crooks fired a volley as The Shadow's cab whizzed by, and he returned the fire. The lone car fled by the side street, its occupants unrecognized.
Grease Rickel was in command of that car. He had found it waiting for him near the Bowery elevated station. Grease snarled curses as he took to flight.
It had been his job to decoy The Shadow and the police cars, getting them away from Five-face and the swag. The Shadow had seen through the ruse.
Only a few blocks along the straight route, Moe was picking up the real trail again. He had spurted the cab, drawing away from the police cars, but they were again beginning to gain. The fact told The Shadow that another trick was coming. When he saw the last car of the caravan keep straight ahead at a street crossing, The Shadow ordered Moe to turn.
How The Shadow guessed the correct direction was a mystery, even to Moe; nevertheless, the black-cloaked observer picked it. This time, it happened to be Banker Dreeb who staged the dodge. Like Grease, Banker was angry because he managed to get clear so easily.
Only one car still clung to the cab that carried Flush Tygert. The man in charge was the third lieutenant, Clip Zelber, and he was in a dilemma. He didn't know whether to stay along with Five-face and protect him or to make another effort to divert the trail.
Clip hadn't expected the chase to reach its present state. While he was puzzling over the situation, The Shadow solved it for him.
Knowing that only one car lay between him and the fugitive cab, The Shadow
ordered Moe to overtake it. As Moe made a marked gain by a swift turn at a corner, The Shadow opened a bombardment.
Had Clip allowed it to continue, he and his companions would have found themselves in a wrecked car, for The Shadow had neat ways of puncturing tires and crippling drivers at the steering wheels.
Frantically, Clip ordered his driver to take the next corner. The sedan scudded for safety, leaving The Shadow a clear route to the cab ahead.
IN that cab, Five-face rode alone. The term suited him better than his recent identity of Flush Tygert, because Five-face no longer looked like Flush.
He had started to change his personality with the aid of materials from a make-up box.
He was using a fake chin and a molding substance that looked like putty.
He spoke in the tone of Flush, however, as he ordered his driver to start dodging corners.
Oddly, the driver of the fugitive cab was not a thug. He was simply a scared cabby, who had been drawn into this mess by chance. Choice of the cab was another tribute to the mastery of Five-face. The chameleon crook had foreseen that a threatened driver would show more speed than any other, and the
cabby was proving it under the present strain.
He took corners on two wheels, whizzed right through traffic lights, jounced the curb in order to escape blocking traffic. In the course of a dozen blocks, the fellow actually gained a few on Moe Shrevnitz, which was a very remarkable feat.
The numbers on the street corners were clicking past like those on a roulette wheel. Almost finished with his make-up, Five-face glanced from the window. He couldn't spot the street numbers, but he recognized the district.
He
was very close to the destination that he wanted.
With one hand, Five-face gripped the jewel bag beside him; then, in the tone of Flush Tygert, he ordered:
"Take it easy, jockey. We're getting too near Times Square to raise hob with the traffic. You know where Lody's Cafe is?"
The cabby gulped that he did. The fellow's tone brought one of Flush's typical laughs. Lody's was noted as a hangout for mobsters of a deluxe sort, but patronized only by those against whom the law had no definite complaints.
Despite its glitter, Lody's was a joint, and recognized as such.
"We're going to Lody's," came the assuring tone of Flush. "Nice and properlike, understand? Pull up in front and drop me like I was any ordinary customer."
The cabby began to stammer that they were east of Lody's, and that it happened to be on an eastbound street. It wouldn't do for an ordinary cab to be
bucking traffic. Flush's tone cut the driver short.
"Don't you think I know it?" drawled the big-shot. "Take the first westbound street before you get to Lody's, then swing around to the place."
As he finished, Five-face threw a glance to the rear. He could see The Shadow's cab and hear the sirens of the police cars behind it. Nevertheless, he
laughed and leaned forward to the front seat.
"Remember that gat I showed you?" he inquired. "Here it is again, where you'll remember it. Take it easy, jockey, in case I want to jump out in a hurry."
The cabby quivered as he felt the cold ring of steel that pressed against the back of his neck. The gun had worried him enough; the pressure of a muzzle completely cowed him. Still, he found strength enough to follow orders. He idled the cab the moment that he swung the corner, reducing it almost to a crawl.
By the time the cab had turned the next corner, The Shadow's taxi swung the first one. The next block was very short, along an avenue; the cab navigated it and took the turn that brought it in front of Lody's. By then, Moe
had overtaken it, and sirens could be heard from the avenue.
Hurling a door open, The Shadow reached the other cab just as it stopped.
He saw the driver sitting stiff, his hands upraised. Hearing his own door clatter open, the fellow pleaded:
"Don't start nothing! He's got me covered; he'll croak me! He's poking my neck with a gun -"
The Shadow's
laugh intervened; it came as a reassuring whisper. Glancing in the mirror, the cabby saw to his amazement that his recent passenger was gone. In place of Flush Tygert was a black-clad rescuer, who was calmly telling
the cabby to pull ahead.
As he spoke, The Shadow placed his gloved fingers against the back of the driver's neck and plucked away an object that was stuck there.
It was a dime that Five-face had pressed against the cabby's neck, instead
of a gun muzzle. Pushed slightly upward, it had adhered to the fellow's perspiring skin. The cabby felt it each time his neck tilted back against his collar.
By so placing the coin, Five-face had kept the driver on his way after the
master crook had found a chance drop off from the cab.
WHILE the cabby was staring at the dime that The Shadow dropped into his hand, the police cars swerved into the side street. Springing to the curb, The Shadow waved arms to flag them.
He didn't want them to open fire on the empty cab, which no longer contained the crook they wanted. The wanted man must be somewhere in the vicinity, the bag of diamonds with him. The next step was to block his escape from the neighborhood.
Five-face had foreseen that prospect.
As the white-topped police cars were halting at sight of The Shadow, a hard-faced waiter in Lody's was answering a telephone call. Hanging up, the fellow stepped to a table where three men were dining. Their Tuxedos did not disguise the fact that they were mobsters of the first water.
These three did not belong to Five-face nor any of his lieutenants. They were ex-racketeers, still living on ill-gotten cash, like most of the patrons in Lody's.
"Just got a tip-off, gents," informed the waiter. "The Shadow is outside.
Thought you'd like to know it."
They did like to know it. Nowhere was the name of The Shadow voiced more venomously than at Lody's. These has-beens of crime belonged to the same ilk as
Grease, Banker, and Clip. They happened to be dining at Lody's because they still were prosperous. With each day, they had been looking forward to the time
when someone would settle The Shadow once for all.
They didn't regard the waiter's tip-off as a hoax. It wasn't healthy to play practical jokes on the crowd that dined at Lody's. These crooks deluxe saw
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