THE HAND
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in 'The Shadow Magazine,' May 15, 1938.
CHAPTER I
CRIME FORETOLD
THE man on the corner looked like a Bowery bum. He was bent-shouldered, droopy-faced, with a bleary gaze that seemed to have two purposes. The first was to find prosperous-looking passersby who could be touched for a drink; the other, to avoid any patrolman who might come along.
The panhandler had chosen a place frequented by those of his ilk. He was beneath the high-built elevated structure at Chatham Square, near the outskirts
of New York's Chinatown. Many visitors who scorned the Chinatown busses came to
the Oriental quarter by the elevated. It was easy to halt them and make the old
plea for a cup of coffee.
The one trouble was that too many other bums had the same idea. There was a horde of them about - furtive, vulture-eyed, all hoping to gain their quota of small change.
A squatty hard-faced man came down the steps from the elevated. He gave a contemptuous glance that took in the array of panhandlers. Most of them shifted
away. This guy wasn't the sort who would fall for the old flimflam. But the bent-shouldered man thought differently.
He shambled toward the squatty arrival. Plucking a cigarette stump from the pocket of his ragged coat, he raised it toward his pasty lips, while he whined the query:
'Got a match, bud?'
'On your way, bum,' growled the squatty man. 'Here comes a harness bull.
Want me to turn you over?'
'All I asked for was a match!'
'Yeah! The old build-up! That stall don't work around here. I got you labeled; you're one of them mission stiffs that tries to find a few dimes before crawling in to beg for an overnight bunk!'
The squatty man turned away, only to twist angrily when he felt the panhandler's fingers pluck his sleeve. Again, the whine: 'Honest, bud - all I'm
lookin' for is some guy to give me a hand.'
There was a hard look in the squatty man's eyes. He saw a slow grin on the
pasty lips of that face above bent shoulders. In a lower tone, the panhandler reminded:
'And all I asked for was a match.'
From his vest pocket, the squatty man drew a pack of paper matches, thrust
them into the bum's fist.
'There's some matches,' he guffawed, 'You wanted 'em, so keep 'em!'
He strode away, while watching bums grinned at the sour look displayed by the stoopy panhandler. Evidently, that episode was enough to settle the unsuccessful fellow.
HUNCHING his bent shoulders, the droopy-faced man shambled toward Doyers Street, taking the route to the old Bowery Mission, where bunks awaited those of his breed.
Out of sight along the curving street, the shambling bum didn't stop at that logical destination. Instead, he shuffled onward, through Chinatown and out again, to the gloom of a street where many cars were parked. Some of those automobiles were pretentious, for they were owned by persons visiting Chinatown.
The bum picked the best car in the line - a huge, imported limousine, in which a uniformed chauffeur sat drowsing at the wheel. Opening the rear door softly, the stogy bum shifted inside. As soon as he had closed the door, he lifted a speaking tube. His voice awoke the chauffeur.
'Very well, Stanley.' An even tone had replaced the whine. 'Drive up-town.'
The big car started. Crouched in the rear seat, the ex-bum flicked a tiny flashlight. Its gleam showed the match pack that the squatty man had given him.
That pack was open; on the inside flap, keen eyes saw markings made with a rubber stamp.
One token was a clock dial, with an indicator pointing to the hour of nine. Beneath it was another stamped design that served as signature. It was crudely shaped, badly stamped, but easily recognized.
That emblem represented a human hand; fingers and thumb were close together, but extended.
A whispered laugh filled the confines of the soundproof limousine. That mirth, too, was a token.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
MASTER investigator who battled men of crime, The Shadow had gotten information that he wanted. One hour's pose as a Bowery bum had proven highly profitable. His next step was to link his findings with those of workers who served The Shadow and his agents. Earphones came from a hidden space in front of the limousine's folding seats. A buzzing announced short-wave contact. The Shadow heard a voice from the ether:
'Burbank speaking.'
'Report!'
The Shadow's whisper was all that Burbank needed. The contact man gave news from The Shadow's agents. When the reports were finished, The Shadow spoke
instructions.
Replacing the earphones, The Shadow gave Stanley a new destination, using the quiet, even tone that suited Lamont Cranston, the wealthy owner of this limousine and the man whose identity, at times, The Shadow adopted. As the big car wheeled into a side street, The Shadow drew a hidden drawer from beneath the rear seat.
In the next few minutes, the guise of the bum was obliterated. The Shadow didn't bother to alter his facial make-up; he merely smothered it. A black cloak slid over his shoulders, its upturned collar hiding The Shadow's disguised lips. Long hands clamped a slouch hat on the head above; the hat brim
obscured The Shadow's upper features.
When the limousine halted beside a darkened curb, a shrouded figure glided
from the door. Patiently, Stanley sat at the wheel, supposing that his master was still within the car.
The Shadow had chosen a hidden pathway through the night.
SOON, a bluish light flooded the corner of a black-walled room. The Shadow
was in his sanctum - secret abode in the heart of New York City. Long-fingered hands moved above the surface of a polished table. Into view came newspaper clippings, mostly from tabloid journals. All told the same story.
After months of comparative quiet, following the smashing of Manhattan's racket rings, crime had again reared itself. It was crime with a sensational touch, although it hadn't brought big monetary results. The main feature was the chief criminal involved. He, at least, was picturesque; although his ways were foolhardy.
The newspapers called him the 'Masked Playboy.'
Heading a small band of marauders, their faces covered like his own, the Masked Playboy entered night clubs and small hotels. In every case, he had forced someone to open the safe and hand over its contents.
Staring through a slitted bandanna handkerchief, holding a .38 revolver in
his fist, the Masked Playboy had meant business. When he dropped his Harvard accent to suggest that victims 'fork over,' they invariably forked.
The Playboy's constant mistake had been his picking of the wrong places.
True, he had chosen spots where the police were not around; but real money had been as absent as the law. In four of these surprise raids, the Masked Playboy had netted a total that scarcely exceeded a thousand dollars.
That made it seem a sure conclusion that he and his crew would soon be on the move again. The law wanted to know when and where. So did The Shadow. He, himself, had found out 'when' - from the message that he had picked up in Chatham Square.
Through reports from agents, The Shadow hoped to find out where the Masked
