Lingo

CHAPTER XI. THE NEW CAMPAIGN

“UXTRY! Uxtry! Big shot murdered!”

Clyde Burke heard the newsboy’s call as he issued from the kiosk of a downtown subway station. It was late in the afternoon. Bodies had been discovered that morning. A scoop for the evening newspapers which had, therefore, not concerned Clyde Burke. The Classic was a morning sheet.

Nevertheless, the reporter was at present seeking new facts for the Classic. Every mob killing had its follow-up; its supposed “inside story” which readers would devour with enthusiasm. Clyde Burke was on his way to interview Joe Cardona.

When he reached detective headquarters, Clyde found the acting inspector, Joe Cardona, in his office, surrounded by a group of reporters. They had come for a statement; Joe was ready to give one. Clyde had shown up just in time to get in on the proceeding.

“It was Trip Burley who bumped Rook Hollister,” stated Cardona. “We found both of them, lying dead, up in Rook’s apartment. Nobody else could have been in there. We’ve grilled the mobsmen who were around the Hotel Thurmont.

“Just to clinch matters, we extracted the bullets and checked them with the guns. Want to see the tools? Here they are.”

Joe opened a desk drawer and the reporters crowded forward. “The big automatic belonged to Rook Hollister. The little revolver was Trip Burley’s gat.”

“They bumped each other?” queried a reporter.

“Plain as day,” assured Cardona.

“Who got which first?” demanded another newshawk.

“Who’s going to guess that?” returned Cardona. “We can’t figure it to a dot. All we can do is reconstruct the case the way it looked to us. First off, Rook Hollister had the finger pointing at him. He knew some of his old pals were out to get him.”

“Pals like Trip Burley?”

“Yeah. And somehow, Trip got into Rook’s place. How, we haven’t figured, unless one of Rook’s bodyguards sneaked him into the apartment. We haven’t picked up all of the mugs who worked for Rook. Like as not, the one guy beat it.

“Anyway, Trip found his way in there early last night. He had this revolver — it’s a .32 — and he must have let Rook know what was coming, because the big shot had this iron in his mitt. Both must have cut loose pretty quick.

“We figure Rook got Trip while he was coming in. Because the bullet from the big automatic wasn’t fired at such close range. Trip must have kept on coming, springing a pot-shot. He plugged Rook square with his little .32.

“Rook was lying by a window of his living room. Trip must have staggered about twenty feet, because he was laid out in a little dressing room that leads off from the big room. Nobody heard the shots.”

JOE CARDONA paused. He saw a newcomer stroll into the room and stare over the shoulders of the reporters. Joe recognized the heavy-jowled face of Bart Koplin. He waved a greeting to the private dick.

“Bodies found this morning,” concluded Cardona, briskly. “A lawyer named Scalwall came around to see Rook Hollister. On some case involving an auto smashup. One of Rook’s men hammered at the apartment door. No reply, so Scalwall got suspicious and notified us.

“But that part of it was in the evening newspapers. I’ve given you all the new data. Don’t ask me any more; you know as much about Rook’s rep as I do.”

Reporters began to shuffle out. Photographers wanted pictures of the death guns. Clyde Burke idled in a corner while his fellow reporters departed. He strolled up when they were gone. The only other person who had remained was Bart Koplin.

“That’s all you’ve got, Joe?” queried Clyde. “Nothing else? No fooling?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it?” growled Joe. “Police surgeon’s report; bodies at the morgue; bullet tests — what else is there? Say — you’ll be wondering next if we took fingerprints from the stiffs.”

“Did you?” asked Clyde, casually.

“Of course not!” snorted Cardona. “We knew who the guys were. Trip’s mug was in the rogues’ gallery; there wasn’t any mistaking Rook. He was a fellow you didn’t see often, I’ll admit. He liked to be alone. But nobody would forget that face of his.

“We had plenty of persons to identify both of those stiffs. So that’s that. You’ve got your story, Burke. Underworld vengeance. Mobland needs a new big shot.”

“And who’ll he be?” demanded Clyde.

“We don’t know yet,” returned Joe, “but there’s some talk about Rook’s lieutenants picking a bird called Lingo Queed. Why? — I don’t know. Gang rivalry, maybe; or it’s likely nobody else was dumb enough to take a hot spot like that one.”

Clyde was making a notation. Bart Koplin, standing by, had allowed his lips to form a wise smile. It faded as Joe Cardona turned in his direction.

“Well, Koplin,” queried the ace, “what’s on your mind? Something about that phony movie contest?”

“That’s it,” returned the private dick. “Enterprise Exhibitors want anything new if you’ve got it. Have you located Waylock?”

“No. He must have taken it on the lam. We found some of the hicks he kidded. They said he was around as late as yesterday noon. But that’s all. Waylock didn’t come back to his office.”

“I’ll make a report on that.”

“It you want lists of names, files, all that sort of stuff, you’ll find them up at Waylock’s office. Take them over to Enterprise if they want them. Only give a receipt for anything you take. We might need them; but they’re not important.”

“Thanks, Joe. Maybe I will. Who’s up there at the office? Anybody I know?”

“Sergeant Markham. Know him?”

Bart nodded. He strolled from Cardona’s office. Clyde Burke followed a few minutes afterward. He was heading out to report these new details to Burbank.

NOT for one moment had Clyde considered following Bart Koplin. The reporter saw no connection whatever between Bart and the double death at Rook Hollister’s apartment. Thus Clyde missed an excellent bet, for Bart’s course after leaving Cardona’s office proved to be a most unusual one.

Traveling from headquarters, the private dick made toward the East Side. He reached a street free from traffic, where clusters of grimy gamins were playing noisily from curb to curb. Here Bart found the house he wanted.

Stepping up, he rang a doorbell with three short pushes; then a long one.

The door opened. A stocky, hard-faced man was standing in his shirtsleeves. This ruffian eyed Bart suspiciously. The private dick produced a calling card and handed it to him. Noting writing on the card, the man nodded. He admitted Bart and led him to a dingy rear room.

“Rook gave you this before they bumped him?” queried Bart’s host. “How long ago?”

“Just this afternoon,” replied Bart.

“This afternoon!” ejaculated the interrogator. “Say — whatta you mean by that crack? Rook was rubbed out last night—”

“So they think.” Bart’s tone was steady. “But I’m telling you different. Don’t worry about Rook. He’s still with us. And he’s counting on you for what’s coming. That’s what he told me. He said: ‘Listen, Bart, the one guy that’s one hundred percent is Buzz Dongarth.’ That’s why I came here to see you.”

“Buzz” Dongarth’s tough face showed double pleasure. First, because of the news that Rook was still alive; second on account of the big shot’s expression of confidence. Bart followed up his opening.

“Here’s the dope,” he informed, producing an envelope from his pocket, “straight from Rook. Read it over. Tell me what you think about it.”

Buzz opened the envelope. He took out the letter and read its contents, nodding as he did so. Then he looked at Bart, as though to learn if his visitor knew what Rook had written. Bart nodded.

“I’m in,” declared Buzz. “I’ll line up the ginks we want and I’ll take care of them. I’ve got it straight how we’re to work. This code business will be easy. You’re the guy I’ll be seeing?”

“Sure,” replied Bart, “but nobody’s going to know about it. That’s part of the gag. The big part. But listen, Buzz: we figured on having Trip Burley in as the big shot. That went blooey. What about this guy Lingo Queed? Who is he?”

“Where’d you hear about him?”

“Down at headquarters. I was listening when Joe Cardona was talking to some reporters.”

“What’d you hear about him?”

“Nothing, except that he was in. Cardona didn’t know why.”

“I’ll tell you why.” Buzz leaned forward in his chair. “And listen, Bart, what I’m giving you is so tight it ain’t even going along the grapevine. Which means no stoolie’s even beginning to hear about it.

“But remember — we can’t do nothing about it. I’m in with Louie Caparani. Mighty close, but not close enough for Louie to ring me in on the meetings that he and some other guys were holding. I want to keep in with Louie; that’s why we’ve got to hold tight to what he told me. About Lingo Queed.

“LAST night a deal was made. The guy that rubbed out Rook was to be the big shot, see? Well, Louie got a call later from Lingo Queed. Louie and some others went up to Rook’s place by a private elevator — one I didn’t even know about. Lingo was there.”

“You mean he knew about the elevator?”

“You bet! And he was the guy that bumped Rook. So that’s why he’s the big shot.

“I mean” — Buzz grinned — “Lingo was the bird that bumped the guy they thought was Rook.”

“What about Trip?”

“He was dead already. This guy that looked like Rook had smeared him. So Lingo planted things to make it look like Rook and Trip had plugged each other. The boys are keeping it quiet so the bulls won’t bother Lingo.”

“And Cardona fell for it.” Bart shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it looked right enough. Say, Buzz — if you’re in with Louie Caparani, you ought to be able to get close to Lingo.”

“Sure thing! That’s just what Louie told me. Figures I can build up a mob to work for Lingo. To take the place of Ping Gradley’s outfit.”

“Good!” Bart arose and clapped a heavy paw to Buzz Dongarth’s shoulder. “Say — Rook’s going to feel swell when he hears this dope. You line up the right guys, like you said. Then get in with Lingo, so’s to be ready when we need you. It’ll work out just about as good as if we still had Trip. Better, maybe, as I see it.”

“Because if you don’t like Lingo—”

“We can chop him down. That would have been tough with Trip. He would have been ready to squawk if he felt it coming.”

This concluded the conference. Bart Koplin made his departure from the dingy house. Buzz Dongarth remained and read over the letter that had come from Rook Hollister. The longer he digested its contents, the more pleased his grin became.

Buzz moved his lips, as if memorizing something. Then, with pencil, he began notations on the back of the letter. At times, he referred to the letter itself to see if his memory was correct. This process continued for a full half hour. Finally Buzz was satisfied.

He tore the letter to shreds and lighted the pieces with a match. He dropped the burning paper in a battered metal wastebasket and watched until Rook’s message was entirely destroyed.

LUCK had come to Buzz Dongarth. He was a mobleader whose crew had run into trouble at the docks.

At that time, criticism had been heavy toward Rook Hollister. The big shot, to save his face, had passed the buck to Buzz. But in so doing, Rook had removed the sting by promising future service.

Louie Caparani had known of the situation. He had classed Buzz as luke-warm, so far as a plot against Rook might be concerned; because Buzz had some future chance so long as Rook remained big shot.

But since last night, Louie — as well as Blitz and other lieutenants — had been busy mollifying just such persons as Buzz Dongarth.

“Sure. Rook was a pal,” Louie had said. Buzz’s hard mouth showed a fanglike grin at recollection of it.

“A pal of yours Buzz, and a pal of mine. But he put you in the discard, didn’t he, when you flivved a job? Well, the boys had to rub out Rook, and Lingo Queed’s the big shot because he did it. Are you with us?”

Buzz had said yes. A logical reply, with Rook dead. But this news that Rook was still alive gave him a different impetus. The proposal that had come from the ex-big shot was one that promised huge return. It meant that for the present Buzz would be the visible head of an invisible chain working in behalf of a hidden campaign.

It meant the end of this squalor; this pretended disgrace that Buzz had borne in behalf of Rook. A chance to blow some of the dough that Rook had passed him, by pretending that new connections were proving profitable.

Buzz Dongarth began to pack a bag. He was leaving here to take up a new and more pretentious abode.

Like Bart Koplin, he was sold on the idea of Rook Hollister’s new campaign.

ELSEWHERE, Clyde had put in his report to Burbank. The contact man, in turn, had given it to The Shadow. In the seclusion of a strange black-walled room, the master fighter was reviewing the facts that Clyde had given.

The Shadow was in his hidden sanctum. Bluish light glowed upon the surface of a polished table. Long, white hands were fingering papers; then the right hand began to inscribe brief comments:

These words appeared in bluish ink. Then the inscription faded as was the way with The Shadow’s written thoughts. A soft laugh sounded from outside the sphere of lamplight. The Shadow was referring to the fact that Joe Cardona had seen no necessity of taking fingerprints from the bodies found at Rook Hollister’s.

A photostatic sheet came into view. This was from The Shadow’s files. Records more extensive — so far as utility was concerned — than those of the police. This sheet showed full face and profile of Rook Hollister. Beneath the pictures were reproductions of Rook’s thumb and finger impressions.

A waxed sheet slid on the table. This had undergone a change since The Shadow had folded it at Rook’s.

Donald Manthell’s fingerprints had been brushed with a black powder. The Shadow compared them with the photostat of Rook’s impressions.

Bluish light gave the answer. The prints were totally different! The Shadow knew that the man whom Trip Burley had slain was not the big shot. Rook Hollister, king of the underworld, still lived. Freed from the foment of the underworld, Rook would be trebly dangerous.

Papers rustled from the table. White hands plucked earphones from the wall. A tiny bulb glittered; Burbank’s voice spoke over the wire. In return, The Shadow uttered whispered commands that were weird and sinister in tone.

Instructions to all agents. Full information that Rook Hollister was alive. New orders changing entirely the work that aids had been performing.

The Shadow, cognizant of the truth, had mapped a new campaign.