The Shadow - The Death Sleep Part 2

A grim laugh sounded in the sanctum. The Shadow was planning a counterstroke against impending events. He knew that the death sleep would be delivered to new victims. More than that, when it again appeared, crime would follow in its wake.

A tiny light appeared upon the wall beyond the table as The Shadow reached for a pair of earphones.

Burbank's voice came over the wire. The Shadow's whisper sounded. Through Burbank, the master who battled crime was giving orders to his agents. Those relayed messages would reach capable operatives.

The Shadow, too, would be active. Foreseeing unparalleled crime, The Shadow was launching his campaign. Evil would be due. It might strike, despite The Shadow. But the perpetrators of crime would meet opposition other than that of the baffled police. Before their schemes were completed, they would face the power of The Shadow.

Whispered orders ended. The tiny light went out. The earphones clattered to the wall. Then came a click; the sanctum was plunged in darkness. From the Stygian gloom came a sardonic laugh that cleaved the blackness. Shuddering echoes answered.

When the last sounds had died, the sanctum was empty. Deductions ended, orders given, The Shadow had fared forth from his secret abode.

CHAPTER IV. THE BIG SHOT.

NOON in Manhattan. A short, stocky, ugly-faced rowdy was seated by the window of an apartment living room, chuckling over a newspaper. He was attired in a garish dressing gown with bright green tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs that clashed with the dull maroon furnishings of the room.

The ugliness of the fellow's countenance was increased by the grin that he wore. Fanglike teeth showed between bloated lips. They gave the man an expression that an observer would easily remember. In theparlance of the underworld, no one could have failed to "spot that mug." The man by the window was "Wolf" Barlan, notorious racketeer.

Seated a short distance away was a well-dressed, crafty-faced fellow whose shrewd eyes watched the expression on Wolf's face. This individual was also known in the bad lands. He was "Spud" Claxter, suave, persuasive mouthpiece who had served a dozen masters. His presence here had double indication: first, that Spud was working for Wolf; second, that no one knew that the pair had teamed.

For Spud had that marked ability of appearing to be on his own. He knew how to keep underlings in line, to make them think that he was planning action of his own accord. That was why Spud had profited by shady business. Actual big shots who wanted dirty work accomplished could always depend upon Spud Claxter. Yet he, like Wolf Barlan, had been inactive recently. This fact was to come out during their conversation.

"DEATH sleep strikes four," chuckled Wolf Barlan. "Say, Spud, the news hounds have got something to think about. This is just the sort of hooey we want. Physicians puzzled by the mysterious malady. They got that specialist on the job - Doctor Seton Lagwood. That's the way I figured it would work."

"Yeah?" questioned Spud. "Well, that's the part I don't like. That croaker is a smart guy, Wolf. Knows all about sleeping sickness and paralysis. The newspapers have been talking about the cures he's worked on. I'd have fixed it so those stiffs were shipped to some different hospital, instead of the Talleyrand.

Then some dumb doc might have got hold of them - not this fellow Lagwood."

"Listen, Spud." Wolf's voice was a growl. "I'm running this racket - not you. It ain't your job to pa.s.s out advice. I'm leaving the strong-arm end to you."

"All right, Wolf."

"But I ain't saying you're not smart." Wolf paused cannily. "And it's not bad dope to get opinions from a guy like you. You take what I order; if there's any explanation coming, listen in and talk when I ask you.

Get that?"

Spud nodded.

"Let's look the lay over," resumed Wolf, as he plucked a cigarette from a box on a table beside him. "I've been mighty careful with my plans. I brought you in because I needed some smooth workers and I wanted you to get them."

"Which I did," reminded Spud.

"Yeah," agreed Wolf. "First there was Skeet Wurrick. He lamped the lay down at Valdan's. Made sure the old boy went out of town yesterday afternoon. That gave Zug Poley the chance to go in and grab the stuff we wanted. He got it to the hide-out like be was supposed to.

"Meanwhile, Skeet picks that apartment of Tanning's. A cinch from the warehouse across the way. Near the Talleyrand Hospital. Skeet tips off Zug to heave the bomb at midnight. Zug does it. He beats it while Skeet is watching the time and making phone calls to see if the stuff worked.

"All goes great. Too late for the morning papers. When Valdan gets back to New York, he won't be wise until he picks up one of these afternoon sheets" - Wolf rustled the newspaper that he was holding - "and the chances are he won't get a chance to read one."

"On account of Zug being ready," chuckled Spud. "That's it," agreed Wolf. "Skeet swiped Valdan's papers. Zug moved out the stuff. Even if Valdan does read an afternoon newspaper, he won't do nothing until he gets back to his joint. Then it's curtains."

Wolf leaned back and puffed his cigarette. He eyed Spud, who was nodding; but he caught a questioning glance in his henchman's eye. Wolf laughed.

"It's all clear to you," chuckled the big shot, "except the reason why I picked the Talleyrand Hospital.

You can't see no reason for it. Well, I'm going to put you wise. What happens at any hospital when they get some kind of a case that they can't figure out?"

"They call in a specialist - some croaker who knows more than the rest of them."

"Sure. But where do they get him?"

"They pick the best bird who's hooked up with the hospital, don't they?"

"You guessed it. But suppose he don't get anywhere with the job. What happens then?"

"Well" - Spud paused speculatively - "I guess the croaker goes out and talks things over with some other big boys. Looks for advice."

"That's it," nodded Wolf. "A consultation. All the smartest croakers come in on the case. Do you get the point now?"

"Not yet."

"Here's the answer. Sooner or later, this Doctor Lagwood would get called on. See the idea? He's a hot-shot on this sleeping sickness, like you said. Runs a sanitarium out on Long Island. Comes into the Talleyrand Hospital certain days every week. Now if there's any croaker who might figure out this gag of ours - the death sleep, they've begun to call it - the one guy is Doctor Lagwood."

"That's what I said in the beginning."

"All right," Wolf leered. "Suppose other croakers got the victims first. They'd be stumped; then Lagwood would horn in to help them out. Since they called him in, he'd have to tell them any ideas he got, wouldn't he?"

"Sure."

"Then suppose he doped out something that would make trouble for us. A lot of croakers would be wise right away, wouldn't they?"

"Yeah."

"All right." Wolf tossed his cigarette stump into an ash stand. "That's why I wanted those four people to go to the Talleyrand Hospital. This wise croaker, Doctor Lagwood, will handle the cases all by himself.

Without telling n.o.body, see?

"Then if he makes trouble, we'll have a cinch. Rub Lagwood out and the other croakers will have to start in at the beginning. By shoving this under Lagwood's nose right away, we've fixed it so we've only got one bird to deal with."

WOLF reached for another cigarette, grinning with satisfaction. Spud's crafty eyes had opened in understanding. When the underling spoke, it was with profound admiration. "Say, Wolf!" blurted Spud. "You've doped it out nifty. I get the whole idea now. That's why you've got Skeet hanging around, up there at the hospital. Watching to see how Lagwood makes out!"

"Sure," laughed Wolf. "But that ain't all. Look here; if the stuff works the way it's supposed to, those saps are going to wake up inside of forty-eight hours."

"Yeah."

"And who'll get the credit?"

"Lagwood."

"Sure. Then, when we put the death sleep on some new victims, what will the police do when they find the stiffs?"

"Take them to some hospital."

"Yeah; but what hospital?"

"I get it!" exclaimed Spud. "They'll ship them to the Talleyrand, on account of this croaker Lagwood.

He'll be the big noise - the one doc they'll leave in charge."

"That's it," affirmed Wolf. "We'll be playing the same alley all the way along. These croakers are smart boys, Spud. They don't tell each other all they know. They call in help when they're stuck; but when they're riding high, they keep mum and let the rest of the profession guess.

"So the more luck Lagwood has, the better. We've shoved the whole works his way. It'll be a cinch for Skeet to watch what's going on at the hospital. Maybe he can get one of those attendant jobs; he says some mugs were fired for hitting the booze last week. Well - if he manages that, he can keep mighty close to what Lagwood's doing."

"And if the croaker finds out too much," put in Spud, "we can have Zug rub him out."

"That's the ticket," a.s.sured Wolf, "but we're leaving Mr. Sawbones alone as long as we can. Skeet reports to you. From you, the word comes to me. Then I give the orders back to you."

Spud Claxter nodded as he arose. He knew his business. He was the go-between; and he was too wise to aspire to any higher office. Serving as leader of Wolf Barlan's minions was already a profitable job.

Spud knew that he had been chosen because Wolf knew of his previous services to big shots. Spud was smiling wisely when he left the apartment.

WOLF BARLAN remained smoking by the window after Spud had gone. The big shot showed his fanglike smile. It increased the ugliness of his yellow, unshaven face. Wolf Barlan was pleased. He felt that he had accomplished something by his talk with Spud Claxter.

The ring of the telephone interrupted the big shot's reverie. Wolf reached for the instrument - it was on the table beside him - and held a short, grunted conversation over the wire. Laying the telephone aside, he resumed his smile as he stared toward the sky-line of Manhattan.

Wolf Barlan was in the money. His rackets had been shot; he had retired to obscurity waiting for better times. Then had come opportunity. Wolf Barlan was a big shot who had contacts. He had learned of a new instrument that could serve in crime. He had called in Spud Claxter; through the services of this lieutenant, he had gained what he required. Last night had been the test. The death sleep had worked. The future lay open. New henchmen would be needed; Wolf could acquire them through Spud. Hidden, the big shot could launch a campaign of terror and profit that would be under constant control.

He could pick his victims. He would know where they were going for treatment. He could learn the results and act accordingly. Wolf had made money from his old rackets. So far as the law knew, he was extinct - retired from crooked games and living in luxury purely upon his previous profits.

Another ring of the telephone. Wolf answered it and held another abrupt conversation with the new speaker. His smile had increased when he hung up the receiver. Secret informants - men unknown to Spud Claxter - were giving Wolf the tips he needed.

Swift crime - effective strokes - these were the policies with which Wolf Barlan expected to defy the law.

The big shot felt confident of sure success. He could foresee nothing that might obstruct his path.

Wolf Barlan, however, had not as yet given thought to powers that lay beyond the law. Elated by the result of last night's experiment, he believed that the death sleep would remain a perfect weapon for the commission of crime. There was no one, in the big shot's opinion, who could challenge the methods that he planned to use.

Such confidence had caused Wolf Barlan to neglect consideration of one important factor. In all his careful planning, the big shot had studied the methods of the law, alone. He had not considered the power of The Shadow.

CHAPTER V. DEATH AT DUSK.

LATE that same afternoon, a taxicab pulled up in front of an old house that fronted on a quiet street of the upper East Side. A gray-haired man alighted and brought out a satchel. He paid the driver and ascended the brownstone steps of the old house.

Urchins, at play on the opposite side of the street, had stopped their frolic to gawk at the old gentleman from the taxi. It was an event when a cab delivered a pa.s.senger in this street. The only respectable-looking house in the entire block was the one that the man was entering. All the other buildings were either empty or tenanted by cl.u.s.tered families that lived in tenement fashion.

A solemn-faced servant answered the gray-haired man's ring. He reached for the satchel, then stood aside while the arrival entered. The servant followed in obsequious fashion. No words were uttered until the gray-haired man had reached the inner hall and the servant was ready to go upstairs with the satchel.

"Anything unusual, Crowder?" inquired the old man, speaking for the first time.

"Nothing, Mr. Valdan," replied the servant.

"Where is Benzig?" asked Valdan.

"Below, sir," replied Crowder. "In the laboratory."

"Very well. I shall go there at once."

The gray-haired man descended a flight of stairs. When he reached the bottom, he arrived in a large room that was fitted with work tables and other items of equipment. Large beakers, Bunsen burners, racks of test tubes and shelves stocked with bottles announced the place as a chemical laboratory.

A wan-faced man was at one of the tables. He was pounding with a pestle, grinding powder in a mortar.He stopped work as Valdan arrived. Removing a pair of rubber gloves, this a.s.sistant stood by, as though expecting orders.

"Good afternoon, Benzig," greeted Valdan, in a crackly tone. "What progress have you made during my absence?"

"Quite a bit, sir," responded Benzig. "I have completed the three compounds which you required. The quant.i.ty of the first seemed insufficient, so I am preparing more."

"Very good. Has all been well since yesterday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have there been any visitors?"

"Only the delivery men, sir."

"What delivery men?"

"They brought three boxes, sir," explained Benzig. "Large cases, they were, with laboratory equipment.

They were sure that the consignment was intended for you."

"I ordered no new equipment."

"That is what I told them. But they were argumentative. So I went upstairs and questioned Crowder to learn if he knew anything of the matter. I thought perhaps you had forgotten to tell me that a consignment was due. Crowder knew nothing about it, so I sent the delivery men away."

"With the boxes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm-m-m." Valdan looked perplexed. He stared across the laboratory, toward a bolted door. "You have been careful to keep the outer door locked?"