THE FIFTH FACE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in 'The Shadow Magazine,' August 15, 1940.
Was it the face of death? Only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER I
THE FIRST FACE
THREE men were gathered in a garish apartment that had an appearance of past glory. Gold-braided curtains were frayed at the edges; mahogany chairs were scratched and battered. Even the fancy wallpaper looked ready to peel itself.
As for the men, they had a shabby touch. They were playing cards around a table, and each had a stack of bills along with his chips. But they were harboring their cash, and the sharp looks that they exchanged marked them as a trio of leeches, each intent to bleed the others.
Three big-shots who hadn't made the grade. The term defined the trio to perfection. All were men of evil ambitions, but with balked careers. They had been in the money once, but never to the extent they wanted.
The man at the left was Grease Rickel. His nickname, Grease, was a shortened term for Grease-ball. His fattish face was oily, ugly, and his slicked hair, black like his eyes, merely added to his unlovely appearance.
In his palmy days, Grease had specialized in the hat-check racket, gaining
'concessions' from restaurants. Smiling girls had coaxed sizable tips from patrons, and Grease, as owner of the concession, had collected ninety cents on the dollar. But the racket was all over. Restaurants weren't letting out concessions to Grease Rickel any longer.
Opposite Grease was Banker Dreeb. He was long-faced, solemn, and looked something like a banker, which, in a sense, he had been. A few years ago, when certain people wanted money they borrowed it from Banker. The certain people were crooks who were in trouble, and Banker supplied them bail money, along with special services.
In brief, Banker had operated as a professional 'springer' who could get friends out of jail. But the law had become very suspicious of Banker's money and would no longer take it. The old-line politicians who had formerly smoothed
Banker's path were no longer connected with civic affairs.
Third in the group, the man who faced the door, was Clip Zelber. He was sharp-faced, shrewd of eye, but quite as seedy as his two companions. Clip had once been a very crafty fence who disposed of stolen goods, but had lately found such merchandise too hot to handle.
The three were snarly as they talked. From their very manner, they recognized that their card game was futile. They wanted better prey than themselves, and when a cautious rap came at the door, the trio came to their feet, exchanging eager looks.
'It's Jake Smarley,' chuckled Grease. 'You guys know Smarley, the bookie.
I told him to come around.'
'So you said,' nodded Banker. 'Smarley is hitting it tough, too. He had to
close his horse parlor. He's doing his own legwork, coming around to collect bets from guys like us.'
'Yeah,' agreed Clip, in a short tone. 'Let Smarley in. It makes me happy to see that old sourpuss. He'll probably put on a crying act before he leaves here.'
Grease went to the door and opened it. He was right; the visitor was Smarley. No one could mistake the decrepit bookie, who was living on the small bets that he collected on a flimsy percentage basis.
Smarley was shambly and stoop-shouldered. His face was dryish, gaunt, with
deep furrows stretching downward from his eyes, like waiting channels for the
'crying act' that Clip had mentioned.
From a pocket of his shabby overcoat, Smarley produced a newspaper and placed it on the table. His dryish lips were straight, as his beady eyes looked
from man to man. Grease picked up the newspaper and started to thumb through the
pages.
'We'll take a look at the races, Smarley,' Grease began, in an indulgent tone. 'Maybe we can spare some dough for the ponies, if you give us the right break -'
'Wait!' Smarley's tone was a cackle. 'Take a look at the front page first,
Grease. It's got something extra special.'
Flattening the paper, Grease scanned the front-page headlines. Banker and Dreeb peered over his shoulders, fascinated by what they saw there. It was Grease who voiced:
'One hundred grand!'
'Better read about it,' crackled Smarley. 'Maybe it will give you fellows an idea.'
ANYTHING involving a hundred thousand dollars could give ideas to the ugly
three. Their faces showed elation as they read the preliminary details. The hundred thousand was the present property of Arnold Melbrun, head of the United
Import Co., and the sum was entirely in cash.
It had to deal with the steamship Anitoga, which, along with its valuable cargo, had run into war-zone troubles. For weeks, the ship had been tied up in a belligerent port, its fate a matter of doubt. Finally, it had been released, and the owners of the cargo had agreed to pay the crew members a substantial bonus as soon as the Anitoga docked in New York.
They had turned the money over to Melbrun; he had put it into cash, which was guarded in his office. The Anitoga was due this evening, and the money was going to the pier by armored truck.
There, police would be on hand while the crew members received their cash awards. The sum total came to approximately one hundred thousand dollars.
'Say, Clip,' began Grease, turning to Zelber, 'if you could round up those
rats who used to work for you, they'd make a slick mob. They could pile onto that ship and take the dough off the sailors -'
'With the coppers on the job?' demanded Clip. 'Not a chance! Banker, here'
- he nudged toward Dreeb - 'is the guy to handle it. Those smoothies that work for him could grab off the dough while it's going to the dock.'
As he finished, Clip gave Banker a sharp-eyed glance, which the solemn-faced man returned in a cold fashion.
'My bunch couldn't knock off an armored truck,' declared Banker. Swinging to Rickel, he continued: 'I'm passing the buck to you, Grease. Send some of your strong-arm boys over to Melbrun's office and grab the dough before it even
starts.'
Grease appeared to be considering the proposition; then his oily-lips formed a smile, as he shook his head. His smile, however, was not a pleased one. With Grease, a smile usually indicated the opposite of pleasure.
'It would be a give-away,' declared Grease. 'It says here that the dough is being watched. Melbrun has some private dicks on the job. I'll agree that the office is the best place to stage the grab, but we can't get anybody who will do it. They'd be marked as soon as they stuck their noses in the place.'
There was a glum silence, which ended when Grease crumpled the newspaper and flung it on the floor.
'This town has gone to pot!' snarled Grease. 'There used to be a chance to
get away with anything. Plenty of soft pickings, until one guy put the crimp in
it. The Shadow!'
Banker and Clip acknowledged the name with scowls; nevertheless, they gave
reluctant nods.
'It was The Shadow who swung things the wrong way,' continued Grease. 'He kept busting into everything, and that got the coppers on their toes. He's still in it, too, The Shadow is. That's why nobody will take chances, unless they've got a perfect set-up.
