The Shadow - The Key Part 10

"You'd better give me time to get there, Whitey. I've got to double around the block."

"All right, Steve. We'll wait."

Steve moved from the group. The waiting mobsmen heard his footsteps click upon the sidewalk. Steve was walking past the garage, toward the corner of an avenue. His figure, however, was not the only one that left the blackness of the garage wall.

A figure that moved as silently as night itself had taken the opposite direction. Detached from a darkened portion of the garage wall, this shade moved softly along the sidewalk. Six houses from the garage, the phantom form paused. Keen eyes spied a pa.s.sage that ended between buildings. The shape entered the opening and merged with the darkness of a bay window.

ON the avenue, a hard-faced mobster was moving toward Eighty-third Street. Steve Quigg, the gorilla who had practically appointed himself as guardian at the rear, was on the way to take his post. As he sauntered rapidly, Steve made a motion with his right hand.

A man stepped from an entry and followed him. At the next turn, this fellow moved up and joined Quigg.

The two talked in cautious tones as they headed toward the rear of the house that Calban had chosen.

"We've got to work quick, Ace," informed Steve. "Calban gave me five minutes to get posted."

"All right, Steve," came Feldon's response. "We'll jimmy that back door in no time. Which house is it?"

"The sixth. You made good time, Ace."

"Thanks to you, bo. That was smart stuff, calling me before you met the crew at Jake's."

The two men found an opening that suited their liking. Their talk ceased as they moved toward the rear of the house that Calban had picked for crime. It was only when they neared the door that they wanted that Ace Feldon put a whispered question: "Anything more about Dorrington?" "No," responded Steve. "But what's the difference? He spilled it once. The gorillas are all wise."

ON Eighty-fourth Street, a man had begun a steady pace from the direction of the garage. It was Whitey Calban. The mobleader had left his crew. He was strolling along in the manner of a regular pedestrian.

Reaching the sixth house, the killer mounted the brownstone steps. He rang the door bell.

A timid-faced servant answered. He peered suspiciously at the visitor. Whitey's face was a tough one.

"I want to see Mr. Keith," announced the mobleader. "I've got an appointment with him."

"Yes, sir," responded the servant. "You must be the gentleman whom he is expecting. Come in, sir. Mr.

Keith will see you."

The servant ushered Calban into a dim parlor. He went upstairs to announce the visitor. Whitey caught the tones of a wheezy voice; then the servant came down, followed by a middle-aged man who looked like a recluse.

"Good evening, sir," said the middle-aged man, as he peered through gold-rimmed spectacles. "You are the gentleman who called me this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Your name, please?"

"Calban."

"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Calban; I am Kingsley Keith, attorney-at-law. From your conversation this afternoon, I presume you were coming for legal advice?"

"That's right."

"Thaddeus"-Keith turned to the servant-"turn on the light in the office. I shall talk with Mr. Calban in there."

The servant went to a door just beyond the entrance to the parlor. He stepped into a darkened room. He pressed a light switch; then stepped aside while Keith and Calban entered. Thaddeus left the room, closing the door behind him. Kingsley Keith occupied a seat behind a ma.s.sive table. Calban took a chair at the other side.

This room was furnished in office style. Except far the bay window at one side, the walls were lined with bookcases that towered to the ceiling. Huge buckram-bound volumes loaded the heavy shelves. Calban looked about the room.

"Nice lot of books you've got here," remarked the gangleader. "Never saw so many in any other lawyer's joint."

"My work is almost entirely research," explained Keith. "That is why I have my office here in my home.

These volumes const.i.tute but a small portion of my law library. I have rooms filled with books throughout the house."

"You don't get many visitors, then?"

"No. Most of my clients are other attorneys. I was surprised to receive your call this afternoon, Mr.

Calban. What brings you here?" Calban had been stalling for time. He was studying the layout of the room. There were three doors: one from the hall, which Calban and Keith had entered; a second, to the left of the rear bookcase that Calban was facing; the third, to the right of the same shelves.

The door at the left, Calban decided, must lead either to a rear hallway or another room. The one at the right-this barrier was obscured by the shadow of the bulky bookcase-was probably the entrance to a closet. The shades were drawn at the windows. This was a factor that Calban relished.

"My business?" Calban's face wore a peculiar leer. "I can tell it to you in a hurry. Have you been reading the newspapers, Mr. Keith?"

"I have not," returned the lawyer. He stared in puzzled fashion at the blond-haired ruffian before him. "I must confess, Mr. Calban, that I seldom peruse the daily journals. My research work requires constant reading of law reports and briefs. I am not interested in current events."

"Well," declared Calban, "I'm here to tell you about a couple of guys who were b.u.mped off. They were lawyers, like yourself. Hugo Verbeck was one guy; Clark Durton was the other. Did you know them?"

"Hugo Verbeck"-Keith shook his head. "No. I have met Clark Durton; indeed, I believe that I did some research work for him, a few years back. Did I understand you to say that these men were dead?"

"You bet they're dead," responded Calban. "Plugged. Murdered. That's why I'm here."

"Regarding their murders?" Keith's eyes opened wide behind his spectacles. "Do you mean"-the lawyer paused as he studied Whitey's leering face-"that you know who killed them?"

"Sure," rejoined Whitey. "I'm the bimbo that croaked those birds."

Kingsley Keith pressed hands to table-top. He stared in amazement. He half rose from his chair; his face betrayed horror.

"I do not handle criminal cases," he announced. "You must go to some other lawyer, Mr. Calban. My advice, moreover, is that you be more cautious in your opening remarks when you discuss this matter with a criminal lawyer."

"Wait a minute." Calban snarled the order as he came to his feet. "I didn't come here to get advice. I've got business with you, Keith. I'm the guy that croaked Verbeck and Durton. I'm the guy that's going to croak you!"

With this insidious announcement, Calban yanked a .45 revolver from his pocket. He jammed the muzzle close to Kingsley Keith's ribs. He delivered an evil laugh as the lawyer sank back into his chair.

"You're getting a slug from this smoke wagon," jeered Calban. "You're the third guy that's on my list.

Verbeck-Durton-now it's your turn."

KEITH'S hands dropped to the arms of his chair. The bespectacled attorney was horror-struck. Leering at his immediate victim, Whitey Calban placed his forefinger upon the trigger of the .45.

"Curtains for you," he gibed, staring toward the lawyer. "Curtains - and then I'm on my way."

Calban backed as he spoke. Petrified, Keith made no move. Faced by death, the research lawyer expected the shot of doom. But as he stared, Keith was amazed to see a look of terror creeping over Whitey Calban's face. The mobleader's hand was trembling. His eyes were fixed on a spot beyond Keith's head. A slight sound had made the killer stare in that direction. His trigger finger had been stayed by the menace which now loomed before him.

Blackness had moved forward from the door on the right. Before Calban's bulging eyes, darkness had taken living shape. A being clad in black had materialized itself. Burning eyes were staring from beneath a hat-brim. A fist that protruded from an inky cloak was holding a huge automatic.

The muzzle of the gun was straight toward Whitey Calban. The would-be killer was at the mercy of the being who held the gun. Fear gripped the gangleader. He had been caught on the verge of brutal murder by a foeman who showed no mercy to men of evil.

Twitching lips, blinking eyes, shaking hands-these were proofs that Whitey Calban had recognized the relentless enemy who had him covered. Helpless, the killer was staring into the eyes of The Shadow!

CHAPTER XV. CROOKS UNITE.

TRANSFIXED by sight of that weird shape before him, Whitey Calban could make no utterance. In dulled fashion, the murderer realized that The Shadow must have learned his plans. The master of vengeance had entered this room by the bay window. He had chosen a darkened spot to lie in wait for the coming killer.

Curtains! Calban could see them for himself. Whether he tried to kill the lawyer or whether he made a futile effort to do battle with The Shadow, Calban knew that the result would be the same. Covered by The Shadow's automatic, Calban realized that he had no chance. The Shadow would surely beat him to the shot.

Kingsley Keith was still trembling. The lawyer was bewildered by the change that had come over his murderous visitor. He could grasp no explanation for Calban's sudden weakening.

There was another, too, who wondered at Calban's fright. The door at the left of the bookcase had opened. Ace Feldon, with Steve Quigg at his elbow, was peering into the lighted room. The gangleader who despised Whitey Calban had a gun in readiness.

"Plug him, Ace," Quigg was whispering. "Now's your chance."

"I'm lettin' him get the lawyer first," returned Ace, also in a whisper. "That's what he's here for. But I can't figure it, Steve. Look. He's standin' there like a dummy-"

Ace eased the door that Steve might see. The minion stared in wonderment. Neither Feldon nor Quigg could see The Shadow. Conversely, The Shadow could not observe the door through which the armed men were peering. Kingsley Keith was within Feldon's view, however. That was why the gangleader could not understand Calban's sudden terror.

Before Ace could make further comment, the startling situation was explained. A sound came from the book-lined office. Hollow tones made Whitey Calban quiver; they brought a grim look to Ace Feldon's face.

The Shadow, moving forward, had delivered his mocking laugh. Rising whispers rose to a shuddering, chill-provoking taunt. It was The Shadow's answer to the threat that Whitey Calban had handed Kingsley Keith. It was the token that presaged swift death to a murderer who deserved such fate.

Death! Calban saw it in the glint of The Shadow's eyes. The crook dropped his gun arm as he cowered away from the muzzle of The Shadow's automatic. The advancing form loomed like a mammoth ofvengeance as The Shadow closed the s.p.a.ce between himself and the table beyond which Whitey Calban stood.

FROM his hidden post, Ace Feldon saw The Shadow. In that brief instant of recognition, the watching mobleader was gripped with furious hatred. Ace, like Whitey, was of the underworld. The Shadow, common enemy of gangdom, was the one enemy whose presence could unite all crooks. Ace Feldon's feud with Whitey Calban was forgotten.

Tigerlike, Ace sprang into the office. As he flung the door inward before him, the fuming mobleader brandished his gat and aimed point-blank for The Shadow. With an oath upon his lips, Ace was set to kill the foe whom all sc.u.mland feared.

The Shadow whirled instinctively. As his eyes saw the gleaming muzzle of Feldon's revolver, the master fighter dropped as he twisted. This was the fadeaway that he had so artfully performed before the gun-barrels of other gangland foes. In Ace, however, The Shadow had met an adversary who was prepared for such an action.

Despite his frenzied eagerness, Ace had swung to a direct aim. His finger paused upon the hair-trigger of the revolver, while his hand swung the gun along with The Shadow's sidewise, downward shift. Ace was aiming low, confident that with his advantage he could surely beat The Shadow to the shot.

A factor intervened. The Shadow, instinctive in the face of danger, had chosen more than a mere change of position to aid him in this unexpected emergency. In his whirling fadeaway, he disappeared from Feldon's view, just beyond the seated form of Kingsley Keith.

In this action, The Shadow was seeking to save the lawyer's life, not to jeopardize Keith's safety. Well did he realize that this new intruder was out to get his own life, not Keith's. The Shadow knew that Feldon would not waste bullets on a helpless man while seeking to finish the menace of the underworld.

The Shadow was right. Feldon's finger stopped at the very point of firing. Keith was in the path of the turning gun muzzle just as Ace was about to loose his shot. With a swift spring, Ace headed for the table, to get his aim beyond the angle of Keith's seated body.

The act was his undoing. The Shadow, too, was moving, in the direction opposite to Feldon. But where the gangleader, a dozen feet from Keith, was following an arc that might have represented the rim of a wheel, The Shadow was using the lawyer's body as a hub. His gun-filled fist swung into view from the lawyer's right as Ace still aimed beyond Keith's left. The Shadow fired.

The shot winged Feldon. The gangleader's leap ended in a lurch against the table. Ace sprawled across the surface, poised upon the far corner and went crumpling to the floor. His gun, flying from his hand, skidded past the spot where Whitey Calban stood.

Whitey had been rigid. The Shadow's drop had caught his eye; then he had turned to see Ace Feldon's surge. The burst of The Shadow's automatic brought him to his senses. Whitey, much though he sought The Shadow's death, had all the stubbornness of a mechanical killer. He was anxious to get Kingsley Keith, the man whom he had come to slay.

DROPPING toward the floor, he planked his right arm on the table, to loose quick shots in the direction where both The Shadow and the lawyer were located. Where Ace had failed by seeking The Shadow only, Whitey was ready to reach the black-clad warrior by first mowing down the blockading human who sat between.

The Shadow had not forgotten Whitey. He was coming up as the gangleader dropped. The automaticthundered through the room. The Shadow had picked the quickest target-the gleam of Whitey's gun.

He did not hit the bull's eye, but his shot sufficed. The bullet clipped Whitey Calban's forearm.

Whitey fell backward, groaning. Instinctively, he clapped his left hand to his right wrist, leaving his revolver useless on the table. Beyond the heavy piece of furniture, the crippled gangleader was out of The Shadow's range. The black-garbed victor did not attempt to follow up his shot. There was another man with whom he had to deal.

Steve Quigg had not seen the reason for Ace Feldon's inward surge. Steve, playing a two-way game, had purposely kept out of sight to avoid Whitey Calban, who did not know Steve was Feldon's spy.

When Ace fell and Steve saw Whitey aim, the situation changed. Jumping in from the door, Steve turned toward the bookcase in back of Kingsley Keith just in time to see the flash of The Shadow's .45.

Steve leaped for The Shadow, swinging his gun as he sprang. Rising upward and forward, The Shadow swung his right arm like a mallet, in swift, backhand fashion. It was his quickest method of dealing with Steve's coming aim. Just as the mobster was pressing the trigger of his gun, the automatic smashed against the revolver. Steve's shot whistled past The Shadow's shoulder and bored deep into a buckram-bound book upon the nearest shelf. An instant later, the revolver dropped from the gangster's numbed fingers.

The force of The Shadow's blow had carried his hand past Steve's body. Wildly, the mobster grabbed for The Shadow's arm. Powerful, quick as a tiger, Steve Quigg locked in a forceful struggle with the enemy who had deserted his shot. The mobster's body swayed back and forth in the grip of The Shadow's binding arms.

Kingsley Keith was on his feet, howling for Thaddeus. The lawyer's cries ended with a gasp. Whitey Calban had come up in front of the table. Grimly, the wounded mobleader was gripping his revolver with his left hand. Elbow flopped upon the table, Whitey took unsteady aim for the struggling forms of The Shadow and Steve Quigg.

The Shadow, swinging Steve against a book shelf, caught a glimpse of the mobleader's action. But The Shadow observed more than the mere deed. He saw Whitey's good wrist sagging. He knew that the gangleader, weakened, could never steady for the aim he needed. Nevertheless, the situation called for prompt finish to the struggle with Steve Quigg.

With a mighty surge, The Shadow caught Steve in a jujutsu grip. The mobster's heavy body rose upward like an effigy of straw. As Steve struggled helpless, The Shadow bent for a mighty heave. The leverage that he employed was calculated to hurl Steve clear across the table, squarely upon Whitey Calban's wavering form.

Steve made a frantic clutch toward the wall. Just as The Shadow began a springlike snap, the helpless gangster clutched the end of a bookcase. As The Shadow delivered his terrific twist, an entire section of the bookcase came ripping from the wall with a resounding crash. Buckrammed books poured downward in an avalanche as Steve's form shot head forward to the floor. The Shadow, like the gangleader, was buried in the deluge that came from the laden shelves.

A lucky break had given Whitey Calban a chance; the gangleader was still too weak to take it. He could no longer see The Shadow; his loose hand was wavering. It was Kingsley Keith who provided the very opportunity that Whitey required.

THE lawyer was terrorized by the sight of the wabbling gun. Showing action for the first time, Keith came up from his chair and shot his arms across the table. Had he performed the simple action of wresting the weapon from Whitey's shaky hand, all would have been well. But the frightened lawyer behaved in amost stupid fashion.

He grabbed Whitey's wrist with both hands. He sought to beat the killer's forearm on the table. In so doing, he turned the muzzle of the gun directly toward himself. Whitey pressed the trigger.

A report. Keith's hold relaxed. The lawyer staggered back from the table, rammed his shoulder into the bookcase behind him, sidled to the right and sprawled among the pile of books from which The Shadow was emerging. Whitey Calban, a gla.s.sy glitter in his eye, leered as he saw the lawyer's fall. With a frenzied return of strength, the killer managed to steady his hand for another shot.

This time, Whitey's target was to be The Shadow. He tried to turn the muzzle of his gun, for direct aim toward the form in black. The Shadow ended his opportunity. Half crouching among the scattered piles of books, The Shadow aimed his automatic and fired a single shot. This bullet was dispatched with vengeance. Whitey slumped from the table, carrying his gun along. The gangleader rolled over on the floor, a bullet through his heart.

Rising, The Shadow cleared the heaps of law books and headed expectantly toward the door to the hall.

He was none too soon. Continued gunfire had alarmed Whitey's henchmen. A police whistle from down the street had added to their apprehensions. One gunner had fired warning shots toward an advancing bluecoat; then the entire crew had smashed through the front door.

As The Shadow reached the hall, he saw two men advancing. He gave no quarter to these rats. An automatic in each hand, he opened fire. One man sprawled; another dove for the parlor. A third ruffian, covering Thaddeus, ran back into the vestibule.

Whistles sounded from the front. The Shadow's laugh resounded. The gorilla in the vestibule was firing toward the street. The police had arrived. Whirling as Thaddeus scurried to the safety of the stairway, The Shadow moved across the office. He gained the bay window. Shade and sash came up together.

The Shadow's tall form swung out into the dark.