During this interim, they heard the front door open and close heavily. Before anyone could make a move, a stoop-shouldered man came wild-eyed into the room. He was clad in hat and overcoat. Hembroke uttered a surprised ejaculation as he recognized the face of Timothy Baruch.
“What has happened here?” the old pawnbroker gasped. “I go away this evening. I think that all is well - ”
Baruch spread his hands and uttered a shriek as he saw the rifled safe. Perplexed looks passed among the policemen. Baruch had gone upstairs - now he was in from the outside!
It was Hembroke who supplied the solution. The detective gave it in the form of a shouted order.
“Get upstairs!” he cried. “Grab the old man that’s up there! He’s the one we want - a fake, playing the part of Baruch!”
TWO policemen galloped to the steps. Hembroke, after a moment’s hesitation, followed at their heels.
The officers reached the room where they had left Timothy Baruch. Their flashlights played upon an empty bed; then toward the open window.
That was the new goal. The flashlights flickered from the window to the alleyway beneath. They showed blankness.
In the space of a few minutes, the pretended Timothy Baruch had made a prompt departure. Some amazing master of disguise had not only evaded capture, but had actually been present to hear Morton Hembroke’s comments; for this elusive being had played the part of Timothy Baruch prior to the real pawnbroker’s arrival.
Nothing in the alleyway; yet to the ears of one policeman came a faint echo that seemed like a weird whisper in the night breeze. It was the strange tone of a mocking laugh - the triumphant cry of The Shadow.
The policeman did not recognize the strain, for it came from a considerable distance. Morton Hembroke, by the bed in the room, did not hear the eerie cry. The detective and his men knew only that they had been cleverly tricked by a stranger who had vanished into the night.
The Shadow!
No longer playing the part of Timothy Baruch, he had again become the creature of darkness. Garbed in the folds of his black cloak, he was wending his silent, unseen way from this locality.
A whispered laugh lingered in a deserted street. The Shadow had played a part tonight. Too late to forestall The Red Blot, who had acted at an early hour, The Shadow had found other men of crime and had stopped them from deeds of murder.
From sullen lips, he had gained an inkling of the scheme behind tonight’s odd episode. A bunched-up little fellow, one with the features of a dope addict - Tweezers Darley - before he died, had spoken of such a man. This was the person whom The Shadow now would seek; for that individual was, in all probability, a spy for the master mind who used the signature of a crimson spot.
Many denizens of the underworld might answer to the description given by Tweezers. The Shadow would eliminate them one by one, until he found the one he wanted. The Red Blot’s purpose? The Shadow had divined it.
Some secret spy had informed The Red Blot of the work which Hurley and Tweezers had planned. The Red Blot had ordered his minions to grab the swag. The police tip-off had been given later, so that Hurley and Tweezers would be grabbed at the empty safe, where the sign of The Red Blot already lay.
The Shadow’s laugh sounded vaguely in the darkness. When The Red Blot struck again, The Shadow would be there to meet his minions. The Shadow had trapped Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley before the police net had fallen.
He, The Shadow, held the clew he needed. It would not take him long to pick out the secret spy whom The Red Blot had planted in the underworld!
The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER V
PLOTTED CRIME
EARLY the next evening, a man emerged from a subway kiosk on the East Side, and strolled along until he reached a cross street. He turned into that thoroughfare and continued his progress through a neighborhood that became more and more disreputable.
Underneath the massive structure of an elevated line, into an ill-kempt street that was scarcely more than an alley, down a narrow space between two crumpling buildings, and into a dirty doorway, he went. These maneuvers brought the man to a flight of tumble-down stairs. At the head of the steps he knocked twice upon a door that needed painting.
The portal opened. The visitor entered a room that was lighted by a single gas jet. Another man drew back and grinned as he recognized the arrival. The visitor sat down upon a battered chair; his host took a seat upon a flimsy cot that had an inverted bucket propped under one corner in lieu of a leg.
There was a marked contrast between the two men who were holding this meeting in the squalid room. The visitor revealed a square, determined face that possessed a decided ugliness. Puffy lips, mean eyes, and coarse, rough-shaven cheeks, betrayed the identity of a man well known in the underworld - “Socks” Mallory, murderer long wanted by the police.
The owner of the room was a little man, in comparison with powerful Socks Mallory. Seated on the cot, he made a bunched-up figure, his pitiful frame rendered more pathetic by the weakness of his face.
Pasty, ratlike in expression, with all the characteristics of a drug addict, this skulking creature was one who furtively roamed the underworld, too unimportant to gain more than contempt from the average mobsman. In the bad lands, he was known as “Spider” Carew.
There was a significance about this meeting. Both men were wanted. The police had long been searching for Socks Mallory, one-time racketeer, who was now known to be a murderer. But Socks Mallory had not been found in Manhattan.
Spider Carew, in turn, was wanted; but not by the police. He was wanted by The Shadow. For, within twenty-four hours of eliminating effort, the master of darkness had come to the firm conclusion that The Red Blot’s spy could be only Spider Carew himself, and none other.
BOTH Socks and Spider seemed quite at ease in the obscure hideout where they were now located. In fact, Socks Mallory was gloating in expression, and Spider seemed to reflect the big man’s satisfied air.
“How about last night?” questioned Socks, in a gruff voice. “It worked out O.K., didn’t it, Spider?”
“Sure thing,” grunted the pasty-faced individual. “I gave you the lay, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. But that wasn’t all of it. When Hembroke and the bulls made the raid; they fixed everything jake, though they didn’t know it.”
“What was the idea, Socks? You didn’t tell me -“
“About the raid? Why should I? I’m working for The Red Blot - not for Spider Carew.”
“I know that, Socks - ain’t I workin’ for The Red Blot, too? But what I mean is - this is different -“
“I get you, Spider,” nodded Socks, leaning back in his chair. “It don’t pay to be curious, but since you’re that way, I’ll let you in on the idea.”
“You know the set-up. You know that I’m working for The Red Blot. You know that I’ve got a gang of real guys that beat any crowd of gorillas. Every man in my outfit” - Socks swelled proudly - “is wanted by the bulls. Wanted bad, too. Like myself. They think we’ve all scrammed. But you know where we are - right here in New York - but in a place they’ll never find us.”
Spider Carew nodded.
“All right,” continued Socks. “When we pull a job, it’s soft. We pick a lay - bust in - clean up and make a getaway.”
“How?” queried Spider Carew eagerly. “Where? That’s somethin’ I ain’t been able to figure out!”
“You’ll learn tonight, Spider,” interposed Socks. “Just keep quiet while I’m talking.
“As I was saying, we pull the jobs perfect, and we know how to duck out after we’re through. Every time we work, we leave the sign of The Red Blot.”
“Why?”
“Because this stuff we’ve been doing is nothing compared with the big jobs ahead. Nothing! Savvy that? We
