Lingo

CHAPTER XV. STALEMATE

TWO weeks had passed. A new evening found Rook Hollister still secure in his hidden abode atop the Hotel Moselle. Attired in garish dressing gown, Rook was awaiting the arrival of Bart Koplin.

A rap at the door. Rook answered it. Bart entered the shuttered living room gloating as he flourished an extra that he had just purchased on the street. Rook chortled as he saw the headline. Police, that afternoon, had smashed a mob attack on an armored bank car. Armed thugs had been captured.

“Looks tough for Lingo Queed,” announced Bart. “He’s let these lieutenants of his cut loose. They’ve been getting theirs — they and their mobs.”

“Lingo can’t last,” agreed Rook. “He stalled off too long before he started. Now he’s making the mistake of letting his pals run things the way they want. They’re jamming themselves.”

“Which means,” asserted Bart, “that Lingo will be rubbed out. Like we counted on — but not by The Shadow. His pals will get him on their own. Then Buzz Dongarth can step in.” Bart was chuckling as he spoke; but when he had finished, the private dick noted that Rook did not share his new elation. Bart waited, wondering. Rook’s explanation came.

“That’s the tough part of it, Bart,” declared the big shot. “The Shadow business. Looks to me like he’s crossing the dope again. First of all, he used to play a lone game; then he began this fake mob business.

“Right now he’s doing neither. He’s sitting back, out of sight, with all the guys that work for him. He’s picked a new way of queering jobs and rackets.”

“A new way?” queried Bart. “Say, Rook — I hadn’t figured The Shadow being in on anything.”

“No? Who do you suppose is passing these tipoffs to the bulls? They’ve been showing up everywhere, just when they weren’t wanted.”

“You mean The Shadow’s in on it? Getting the inside on everything that Lingo and his pals are planning?”

“That’s it. There’s a leak somewhere.”

Bart pondered. Then he nodded.

“That fits with the reports I’ve been getting from Buzz,” admitted the private dick. “He’s told me it was the police, not The Shadow, crimping Lingo’s setup. They’ve been piling in before the stoolies have had a chance to grab off any info from the grapevine.”

FISHING in his pocket, Bart brought out a folded sheet of paper which he passed to Rook. It was a list of lieutenant and bodyguards who stood in with Lingo Queed. Rook checked the list.

Most of the names upon it were those of crooks who had formerly been with Rook himself. The big shot knew that none of them would sell out to the law. Rook noted Hawkeye’s name on the line-up. He passed it by.

Hawkeye had too good a rep in the bad lands. The little spotter had once served time in the penitentiary.

Since his return from the “big house,” he had shown himself cautious in his actions.

It was not surprising that Hawkeye had at last sought to blossom out. As an aid of Lingo Queed, he had a chance to build up new status for himself. To Rook, the very fact that Hawkeye had once been “in stir” was proof that he was all right.

Among those listed as Lingo’s own guards, Rook noted the name of Jericho. Through Buzz, the big shot had learned of the circumstances which had led Lingo to hire the big bodyguard. Jericho, to Rook’s way of putting it, was “out of the know” and therefore of no consequence.

“This doesn’t give us anything,” argued Rook, passing the list back to Bart. “It’s good, in a way, that things are going like they are. Because Lingo will soon be on the spot as bad as I was.

“Maybe The Shadow is keeping hands off him on that account. Figuring Lingo will go the voyage without a push to help. But the bad point is that Buzz is getting nowhere. Those spotters he’s got working haven’t found a phony gazebo in any outfit.”

“I know it,” admitted Bart, ruefully.

“If we could land some goof that’s working for The Shadow,” added Rook, “we’d be sitting pretty. Mighty pretty! We’d have a lead, maybe, straight to The Shadow himself. But this new gag of turning loose the bulls is too smart a move for us to smear.”

“Maybe Buzz has got some new dope tonight,” suggested Bart. “Suppose I go down and wigwag him. He ought to be in his hotel room right now.”

“All right,” nodded Rook. “Tell him I’m sitting tight, waiting. Say, Bart” — the big shot paused to smile — “it’s a hot one, isn’t it — me hiding out right over your signal post. It’s a sure bet that even Buzz is bluffed.”

Bart chuckled in acknowledgment as he left the shuttered apartment. He carried neither hat nor coat, for his destination was a close one. Bart was going to that table by the parapet of the Moselle Roof Cafe.

ACROSS the street on the south side of the Hotel Moselle, was a newer hostelry that rose ten stories higher. This was the Hotel Framton, a modern, pyramiding skyscraper that showed a mass of set-in steps on its higher floors.

There, in a room that fronted on the avenue, a young man was stationed by a table, earphones clamped to his head. Twenty-two floors above the roar of thoroughfares, he was listening over the line of a dictaphone.

This was Harry Vincent. Days ago, this agent of The Shadow had taken up his abode at the Hotel Framton. His room was next to one which was situated on a northern corner. That room next door was the present residence of Buzz Dongarth.

Hawkeye had learned where the hard-faced lieutenant was living. Word relayed to The Shadow, through Burbank, had been followed by Harry Vincent’s registration at the Framton. On his second day of residence, Harry had found opportunity to enter Buzz’s room while it was being cleaned.

There, The Shadow’s agent had installed a microphone behind a radiator. He had run the wire out through the window. After dark, he had completed the hookup by fishing from his own room. Since then, he had been keeping complete tabs on Buzz Dongarth.

There was nothing unusual in Buzz Dongarth’s choice of the Hotel Framton. When mobleaders of his type were “in the money” they invariably picked some better-class establishment as a residence. It was merely a task of getting past the management.

Evidently Buzz had not been recognized for what he was. That was not surprising, because he had not cut much figure in mobland during recent periods. Louie Caparani had lined Buzz up with Lingo Queed; and Buzz, seeing a profitable future, had become swanky for a start.

That, at least, was Harry Vincent’s analysis; and circumstances backed Harry’s belief. For not once, during all his stretches of vigil, had Harry heard anything suspicious from Buzz Dongarth’s room.

Occasionally, the mobleader had made telephone calls or had answered them; but always his conversation had been innocuous.

Harry knew also, that Hawkeye was still trailing Buzz to and from this hotel. It was Hawkeye’s job to find out if the mobleader made contact elsewhere. So far, Hawkeye had gained nothing on Buzz.

THE mobleader was in his room at present. He was alone; and the only sounds that Harry could hear through the dictaphone were those of Buzz moving about. So intent was Harry in his listening that he did not hear the door of his own room open and close.

Harry’s first inkling that he had a visitor arrived when a long hand glided upon the lighted writing desk in front of him. Harry stared; then checked himself as he recognized a purplish, translucent gem that glowed from the hand’s third finger. A girasol.

That jewel was The Shadow’s emblem. The chief had entered.

Mechanically, Harry removed his earphones and raised them above his shoulder. He heard a soft whisper in the gloom. Without turning, Harry waited while The Shadow, himself, began to listen over the wire.

Five slow minutes passed. The earphones came back to Harry. Donning them, the agent could hear a few faint sounds that indicated Buzz might be about to leave. Harry knew that The Shadow had heard nothing else. He realized that his chief intended to trail Buzz in person.

IN the adjoining room, Buzz was donning hat and coat. The Shadow had divined correctly. He intended to start somewhere. But before departing, Buzz made a final stroll across the room. He stopped by an opened window.

The night was mild; it was only the threat of rain that had caused Buzz to don his light topcoat. Standing by the window, Rook’s spy could see patrons gathered at the open-air tables on the Moselle Roof.

Bart Koplin was close by the parapet. He was looking sidewise, upward. The private dick could see Buzz outlined against the framed light of the window. Buzz moved one hand in wig-wag fashion.

Sheltered by a potted cedar, Bart responded with motions of a menu. Brief signals passed. Buzz was flashing that he had no news. Bart responded; then signed off. Buzz strolled from his hotel room.

Thus did Bart and Buzz form contact; the private dick keeping in direct touch with Rook while the mobleader had no idea that the big shot was hiding out only two stories above Bart’s signal post. Straight across from his room in the Framton, Buzz could see the dark shuttered windows of what appeared to be a deserted penthouse atop the Hotel Moselle.

Not once had Buzz supposed that those shutters hid Rook’s hideout. Similarly, Buzz, as he strolled from the Hotel Framton, had no idea that he was being followed by a dark-garbed personage who took up his eastward trail.

The Shadow had chosen this night to check on Harry Vincent’s work. He was performing Hawkeye’s task also. His purpose was to find out what his agents had failed to gain — some clue to the contact that he believed Buzz was making with Rook Hollister.

That clue had been in The Shadow’s grasp. Yet he had not yet clutched it. The dictaphone, usually so reliable, was this time useless. It gave no record of Buzz Dongarth’s unspoken activities.

The Shadow’s trail proved barren. Small wonder, for Buzz had already completed his duty to Rook Hollister.

Twenty minutes was all that The Shadow required to trail Buzz to the old apartment house where Lingo Queed lived. Nearing that place, The Shadow dropped the trail and faded into darkness.

GOING up to the fourth floor, Buzz rapped at the door and was admitted by Jericho. He found Hawkeye lounging in a chair. Lingo was not about. Buzz made query:

“Where’s Lingo?”

“Went out just before I got here,” returned Hawkeye. “An hour ago, I guess. He was with Louie and Blitz. Jericho says he ought to be back pretty soon.”

“You’re waiting for him?”

Hawkeye nodded.

Buzz sat down and lighted a cigarette. He had just finished smoking it when a knock sounded at the door. Jericho recognized it and sprang over to open the barrier. Lingo entered, followed by the gorilla elevator operator.

“All right, Gumbo,” said Lingo to the mobster, “get back on the elevator. Jericho’s here. And say — tell Jerry, at the door, to get my laundry from the chink place down the street. I forgot to tell him.” Gumbo nodded and departed. As soon as the door was closed, Lingo looked toward Buzz and Jericho.

“Maybe you can guess why I didn’t wait for the laundry myself,” he growled. “I went into the chink’s and he handed me some good old Shanghai chatter. That’s why I headed here; why I didn’t wait to talk to Jerry, the guy on the lower door.”

“Someone tailing you?” inquired Buzz.

“No,” returned Lingo. “Nobody gets my trail. I was out with Louie and Blitz; when I left them a half hour ago. I slid away in a hurry. Up at Brindle’s. Nobody tailed me.

“But the chink at the laundry says he’s seen guys around here. Fellows that looked like they were bumming; but that didn’t sound likely to me. I’ve got a hunch somebody’s figuring to rub me out.”

“I don’t think so,” remarked Buzz. “You’re still in right, Lingo.”

“Says you,” snorted Lingo. “Well, let’s get Hawkeye’s slant on it.”

“It don’t look good,” asserted Hawkeye. “If they’re gunning for you, Lingo, it wouldn’t have me surprised. I’ve been hearing plenty of squawks.”

“Anything along the grapevine?”

“Not yet. But liable to be. The bulls have knocked off three mobs in the last week. It don’t look good.”

“Anybody figured out why the bulls are so tough?”

“Sure. They say the commish told Cardona he could take a stab any time he knew he was busting up a job. Well, Cardona’s doing it.”

“Through tipoffs, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

LINGO paced the room, muttering. A knock at the door; the big shot gave a nervous jump. Then he ordered Jericho to answer.

It was only Gumbo with the laundry. Lingo ordered Jericho to leave it in the inner room.

“I’ve been letting these mugs work their own way,” growled Lingo, finally. “That’s why there’s been the leaks. Take tonight — here’s Louie Caparani; figures he’ll pull a swell job himself. Raiding that swell gambling joint they call the Cue Club.

“Going to do some mob leading on his own, Louie is. He knows the joint; he’s going to lay back while the crew sticks up that bunch of society swells at the Cue Club. I had to say go ahead. But I don’t know how much Louie’s been talking, see? So he may hit trouble, and if he does, it’ll be mighty bad.” Lingo resumed his pacing. Then, with an impatient gesture, he swung his arm toward the door, indicating that he wanted his visitors to leave.

Jericho opened the door; Lingo turned on his heel and went to his private quarters, while Buzz strolled out and Hawkeye shuffled after.

Buzz was smiling as he took a taxi to the Hotel Framton. There would still be time to wigwag to Bart Koplin. News of Lingo’s worriment would please Rook Hollister when it reached him.

Hawkeye, too, was grinning, as he headed off to report to Burbank. Another tip would reach the police tonight. The skids were under Lingo Queed. Already, Hawkeye could see another change forthcoming in the dynasty of mobland.

Though The Shadow was bearing hard upon the hunt for Rook Hollister, even to the point of engaging in it himself, he still was active in the crimping of crime. For while he followed pursuits of his own, he was invoking the law to concentrated action in behalf of right.