The Shadow Crook

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 571, 25 January 1929, Page 5

The Shadow Crook

By

Aidan de Brune

(Author of “Dr Night,” “The Carson Loin Mystery,” “The Dagger and the Cord,” etc.) (COPYRIGHT.) !

CHAPTER V.— (Continued.) From where he stood, on the edge f»f the pavement, he could glimpse the single window of the jeweller’s shop, once belonging to Stacey Carr—the jewel doctor. For a moment he hesitated, then slowly walked down the lane. Just before he came opposite the shop he looked up. Over the facade, in dirty, gold letters, were the words: “Stacey Carr, Jew r eller.” Five years before the old jeweller had been carried out of the shop to the ambulance, first to hospital and then to prison. Yet the shop was still in the occupation of a jeweller. From the appearance of the placs, the dingy, fly-marked windows, the dilapidated,

! tarnished stock, the place might have | stood during the years as Stacey Carr I had left it. Why? What influence | had operated to hold the hands of ! time over that one place in Sydney? The detective crossed the road and peered in at the dusty windows. The shop was small with a counter running lengthways down the centre. Behind the counter had been built shelves, now full of jewellers’ litter. There were a number of watches in various stages of decreptitude on the shelves and hanging on hooks in the shop and window. The main portion of the window space was littered with tarnished silver and spare clock parts. Toward the rear of the shop Mason

could see the open door of the workroom. At the far end was a long work-bench, and at it stood an old man working over some article held in a small vice. The detective looked down at his watch with quizzical affection. It was a good watch, and he had to sacrifice it to inordinate curiosity this place had engendered in him. He pushed open the door and entered the shop. “Something’s gone wrong with my watch—it won’t keep time,” he explained when the old man came leisurely from the bench to behind the ! counter. The jeweller fumbled a glass into ; his eye and opened the back of the watch. For a few seconds he poked at the works with a finely-pointed tool.. “Dirty. Wants cleaning.” The watch was placed gently on a padded soiled . velvet and the glass dropped carelessly from the old man’s eye to his hand. “Cost you ten bob?” The price was spoken in a diffident tone, as if the man was prepared to bargain. Mason nodded, with a sigh in his heart for his faithful watch. “Ail right, Mr. Stacey Carr, isn’t it?” "My name’s Warton.” The old man looked up suspiciously. “Syd. Warton. I’m in charge of the shop, Stacey Carr’s. ... “Yes?” The detective suggested, as the man paused. “Stacey Carr’s dead.” Warton chuckled almost gleefully. “Yes, Stacey Carr died yesterday.” “Then I suppose the shop will be given up and you’ll lose your job.” Mason spoke easily. “Hard lines!” “Why should I?” Warton screwed the glass into his eye and lifted the watch again. “I came here when he was took away affore.” “When he was first taken ill? Long ago?” “Nigh five years.” The man made a long pause. “I can get this done for you to-morrow about this time.” “Suit me. Hard lines to have to go after all that time, Mr. Warton.” "Who says I’m going?” The jeweller looked up quickly. "They ain't got rid of me in five years, so why should they now?” “They? Who?” “What's that to do with you?” The bleary eyes looked at the detective with sudden suspicion. “Who're you and what are you askin’ questions for? You came here to get your watch mended, didn't you?” "Only sympathising with you, Mr. Warton. They, whoever 'they’ are, will certainly not keep ;he shop on when there’s no chance of Stacey Carr coming back to it.” "Perhaps they will an’ perhaps they won't. Perhaps I'll buy out the place for m'selt, though there ain't anything in it if they don't pay the wages. But • what’s that got to do with you? You want your watch mended, an’ I'm i busy." Warton turned abruptly and walked ; into the work-room. Mason stood a j moment longer in the shop, looking j

about him, then went to the door. The shop was still in the possession of Stacey Carr, or his relations. Mason judged the place was in the same condition as when the convict had left. it. On the pavement in George Street he paused. What stupendous luck! Who had sufficient interest in Stacey Carr to retain his shop after the old man had been carried to prison? Mason’s thoughts went to the

mysterious Samuel Keene of five years ago. Had this man, after failing to discover where Stacey Carr had hidden the jewels planned to keep the place on in the condition the jeweller had left it. in the hope that when released he would come to it in search of the jewels? That theory had to be discarded.

Samuel Keene would have met insurmountable difficulties in such a task. It was more reasonable to surmise that Stacey Carr ha.d relations and that they were interested in the discovery of the jewels. That supposition would include their belief in the innocence of the old jeweller. Warton, in his almost senile temper, had spoken of wages. .That was evidence to show Stacey Carr’s relations

still held possession of the shop. Mason racked his brains to try and remember if, in the mass of evidence be had acquired that day be had come across mention of Carr's relations. He believed he hod not. it was late in the afternoon and Mason walked briskly up to Police Headquarters. There was no call for

him there and he wandered down to Pitt Street in search of dinner. He was not dissatisfied with his day’s work. Luck had favoured him. He was not tired, and determined to devote his evening to probing further into the problem. It was too late to go further on the trail of Stacey Carr, but he had another thread to follow. He had sworn to get the Shadow Crook. The evening hours and night were prowling times of the master criminal. If he could pick up the trail of that elusive person he might find some clues lead ing back to Stacey Carr. For some time after the meal he lingered in the vicinity of Police Head quarters, carefully watching for a man in a worn brown overcoat and darkgrey hat. He did not expect the man to repeat his performance of the pre vious night, but curiosity might bring him to the neighbourhood to discover what additional safeguards the authorities had established. At length the Inspector turned up toward Macquarie Street and through the Outer Domain to Woolloomooloo. In that maze of small, grim streets, lying in the deep depression between Darlinghurst, Oxford Street, and the slopes of the Domain, lived the lower strata of Sydney’s underworld. Here brazened the razor and gun-gangs, after nightfall, going about their fell work almost openly. In the narrow streets and alleys furtively slunk those the police were anxious to interview, diving from door to door, their ears keenly alert to the shrill signals that tokened the presence of the police. In the broader streets the inhabitants moved more freely. Many of the doors were open, and on the balconies, and even on the pavements, sat the “lost sisters” of Sydney, openly crying their wares. Passing along the front of Woolloomoolloo wharves. Mason felt for his automatic, finally shifting it into a side pocket of his jacket. Under his coat, and loosely fastened to his belt, hung a small black-jack, once the valued possession of & noted Newcastle crook. Armed and alert the inspector still felt he was taking a risk in venturing alone into this unsavoury quarter of the city after nightfall. Methodically he quartered the district, watching on all sides for some sign that might lead him to the

Shadow Crook. Riley, Crown and Palmer Streets, with their multitudinous cross-streets and alleyways, drew blank. In some manner the news of his presence had spread, and the numerous shelfs, dips and top-offs had slunk far into the shrouding darknesses. Again on the broad street fronting the line of wharves, Mason strode quickly to the rocks of Pott’s Point. Dodging around, irregularly, he came to the ill-lit, ill-smelling Amersham Street. He had hardly turned the corner when he drew back into the shadows. Half-way down the street, leaning against a lamp-post, stood a man he knew. It was not the Shadow Crook, and for the moment the inspector could not name him. His back was toward the detective and, directly under the light, the shadows blended confusingly. Very cautiously he stole forward. A few' yards from the man he altered his step, stepping forward heavily. “Wliat are you doing here, Branston?” He dropped a heavy hand on the newspaper man’s shoulder. “Good lor!” The words came in a startled whisper. “You, Mason. Jove, you gave me a start. Sh-h! I’m on the track of the Shadow Crook.” “And giving newspaper \vork a rest. I suppose?” “Off duty to-night Branston grinned cheerfully. “So you thought you'd do a bit of detective work? What’s this about being on the track of the Shadow Crook?” “I’ve been hunting round here since dark.” The journalist appeared reluctant to explain. “Walking down Crown Street, toward the wharves, I saw him coming out of a house. I followed him until he went in there.” The newspaper man pointed to a dark door on the opposite side of the street, almost at right angles to the lamp-post under which they were standing. Mason peered ovei. '"he interior of the house, a brick, i wo-j storey affair, was in darkness. 'lke windows were uncurtained and the place looked uninhabited. “So you took up a position where he could have a good look at you when he came out again?” “What does that maiter.’ Branston indicated his clothing with a slight gesture. “He would take motor one of his own kidney, in this rigout. Perhaps he might even offer

me a job—as assistant in a burglary.” The journalist chuckled at the suggestion that the Shadow Crook, a well-known lone worker, would pick up a casual partner on the streets. Mason did not laugh, the newspaper man was running into serious danger. "Look here, Branston,” he said. | “This isn’t all fun. Do you know j you’re in one of the worst iiuarters of Sydney, at the worst time of night? Why any of these cattle, if they knew who you were, would tear you limb from limb. I’m not joking.” "And what or inspector Mason?” Branston looked at the detective with j a wide grin. “I take it we newspaper men run as many risks as you police officers. Why, this isn’t the ; first time I’ve been down here, end | later than this. Orders of the 'tin- : gods’ who sit round a table and spoil j good copy. There’s such a thing in my work, Mason, as bringing home | the goods.” “I’ve heard that.” The inspector was silent for some seconds. "Bui, what’s your game? You can’t remain all night under this lamp-post. For all you know that’s the den of the Shadow Crook and he’s retired for the night. Taking what you reporters call ‘time-off.’ ” “In that case I propose to watch until 1m certain he won't come cut again. Then, me for home and bed. Now clear off, Mason, there’s a good fellow. if he came out while we’re together the game’s finished." “I'm not leaving you here.” The detective spoke emphatically'. He j looked around him. A few pacts up the street a narrow alley opened be- ; tween two houses, barely more than a couple of feet wide. He nodded | toward it. “I’ll be there. We’ll wait a quarter of an hour and then move I on. To-morrow. . . .” ‘ Watch that door.” Branston nodded agreement to the plan. “I believe he’s J alone in the house. There’s not been a sign since he entered a quarter of an hour ago.” Mason nodded and stepped silently |to his hiding place. The short street was deserted, although along the two streets bounding it passed a steady stream of people. The minutes passed j slowly. Once a scraggy youth, hollow-chested and big-eyed, passed down the alley to turn In at the door of a house close to where Mason was hidden. (To be Continued.)