'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.
Living things came into the light: a pair of hands that moved like detached creatures. They were slender hands, yet sinewy, showing power beneath the velvety surface of the long, tapering fingers. Upon the third finger of the
left hand shone a strange gem, with ever-changing hues that ran the gamut of the
spectrum.
The stone was a girasol, a magnificent fire opal, unmatched in all the world. The iridescent gem proclaimed the identity of its owner, but only to the
privileged few, who knew the significance of the gleaming token. The girasol was
The Shadow's token.
This room was The Shadow's sanctum, a hidden headquarters where darkness always persisted. Buried in the heart of Manhattan, its very location a deep-guarded secret, the sanctum was the place wherein the master avenger formed his plans to frustrate men of crime.
Newspaper clippings moved about under the touch of The Shadow's fingers.
He was arranging them along with report sheets from his agents: stacks of data,
that often proved important.
Tonight, they meant nothing.
The quest for Jake Smarley had been fruitless. The missing bookie had completely vanished. The Shadow's competent agents had scoured hide-out after hide-out ahead of the police, and had found no trace of crime's new overlord.
Nevertheless, a whispered laugh stirred the sanctum's blackness. The Shadow had probed crime's depths, and understood. He was no longer thinking in terms of Jake Smarley; he was considering the possible moves of a supercrook who had discarded the bookie's guise.
Negative results had told The Shadow that he was seeking a criminal who had more faces than one. He had therewith instructed his agents to drop the search for Smarley. Instead, they were watching for massed moves on the part of
lesser crooks, as sure proof that crime's master hand would again be conniving evil.
A tiny light twinkled on the sanctum's wall. Lifting a pair of earphones, The Shadow clamped them to his head. As the light extinguished itself, a methodical voice came over the wire:
'Burbank speaking -'
'Report!'
At The Shadow's command, Burbank, the contact man, gave long-awaited news.
Crooks were on the move; their destination had been discovered. The Shadow's agents were covering the scene, awaiting the arrival of their chief.
