Lingo

CHAPTER XXIII. THE RECKONING

HAWKEYE had sounded the alarm. From his obscure station, the little spotter had been watching Prexy Storlick. He had seen the cafe proprietor stop at the center of the corridor to answer the telephone upon the table.

A harsh curl had come to Prexy’s lips. Banging down the receiver, the tall man had stepped hastily into the passage. Key yanked from pocket, he had started to unlock the door that led to Rook Hollister’s hideout.

This was the emergency for which Hawkeye had been prepared. At all costs, The Shadow’s agents were to prevent Prexy from passing any news upstairs. Rising, Hawkeye had signaled to Cliff. Confident that Cliff and Harry would be behind him, the little agent sprang forward into the corridor.

A simple game; but a sure one. A wild brawl that would bring trouble; but that did not matter. For all of The Shadow’s agents were prepared to complete one task. That was to deliver a decisive knockout to Prexy Storlick.

They could answer for the consequences afterward. But with Prexy eliminated, their cause would be safe. He was the one go-between from the roof cafe to the hideout. Prexy must be downed.

Hawkeye, barging inward, was the first to reach the passage. As the little man plunged into view, Prexy heard him coming. Furiously, the proprietor whirled from the door that he had unlocked. Hawkeye, in the corridor itself, was starting a flying dive to cover the last dozen feet.

Then came the bad break. A waiter, jogging along with a tray above his head, came blundering squarely into Hawkeye’s path. Hawkeye’s head bulleted the menial’s shoulder. Both went sprawling into the passage. Loaded dishes and filled glasses crashed in deluge.

As Harry and Cliff came bounding through the corridor, two husky waiters dashed up from the opposite direction. They saw Hawkeye and the first waiter rolling on the floor. They heard Rook Hollister’s cry; they saw their boss point toward the corridor.

“Stop them!” roared Prexy. “Those two — coming in from the roof!”

PREXY had recognized Harry. It would have been too late for the proprietor if the waiters had not been dashing in. The Shadow’s agents had already gained the passage. Prexy could not have made the stairs.

But the husky menials caught Prexy’s order in time. As Harry and Cliff surged by, the two men dived for The Shadow’s agents and began to grapple. Fists swung as both Harry and Cliff drove back their opponents. Then came a surge of reserves.

Big bouncers from the roof had followed the dashing agents. As Harry and Cliff downed the waiters, these new huskies piled upon them. Only Hawkeye was clear. He came to his feet, took a punch at the fallen waiter who was rising to stop him, and made a frantic dive for Prexy.

On the stairway, Prexy grabbed the door frame and shot a long leg outward. His height, his higher position, gave him the break. Prexy’s kicking foot reached Hawkeye’s chest. The drive sent the little man spilling back against the wall on the other side of the passage.

Cliff Marsland was a battler. Harry Vincent was inspired by wild hope of rescuing Clyde Burke. Both agents were swinging fists that struck like bludgeons. They were clipping the chins of Prexy’s huskies, sprawling waiters on the floor as fast as they arrived.

Driving back these cohorts, Harry and Cliff were leaving Prexy to Hawkeye. But before the little agent could recover from his second spill; before he could yank a gun in a wild attempt to stop the proprietor’s flight, Prexy dashed up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

The barrier had latched automatically. Hawkeye clawed at it in vain. Harry and Cliff came staggering back, temporarily outnumbered. Pursuit of Prexy was hopeless; Hawkeye surged into the brawl.

Rallying, The Shadow’s agents drove half a dozen waiters out into the corridor.

More of the white-coated huskies were piling in; but the unequal fight was soon to end. Patrons of the Roof Cafe were all for the three guests who had apparently done nothing to warrant the attack of so many waiters.

Men in tuxedos sprang forward to ward off the hired help. Bartenders dropped bottles and dashed in to aid the waiters. Glasses were hurled; tables overturned. More guests saw red; while elevator men, bell hops and house detectives joined ranks with waiters and barkeeps.

Corridor, lobby and roof became one seething battleground, where fists and furnishings were the only weapons. In the fray, The Shadow’s agents were swept away from the passage that they sought. That vital point lay clear of fighters. Shattered plates and glasses alone marked the fact that the fray had begun in this path to the entrance of the service elevator.

UP in the big living room of the penthouse hideout, Rook Hollister and Bart Koplin had caught muffled sounds that told the outbreak of the fray. Hearing pounding steps upon the stairs, Bart leaped to the door and opened it.

Prexy arrived, excited.

“The jig’s up, Rook!” exclaimed the proprietor. “Just got a phone call, a tip to what’s happened! The Shadow slipped that trap they had for him! Took that stoolie of his with him!”

“What!” roared Rook. “You mean that guy that said his name was Loman? He got clear — with The Shadow?”

“Yes! What’s more, he’s here at the Roof Cafe. He and some other mugs started a brawl. Tried to stop me on my way up. You’ve got to scram, Rook!”

Prexy paused for breath. Then he spoke again.

“We’ve all got to travel,” he asserted. “The cops got a tip-off. They barged down into Chinatown, headed by Joe Cardona. Buzz Dongarth took the bump, along with Blitz Schumbert in the chink joint — and Lingo Queed took it on the lam.”

“What’s that got to do with here?” demanded Rook. “If Buzz is dead, all we’ve got to do is snatch those mugs downstairs.”

“Joe Cardona’s heading here, though,” insisted Prexy. “Some of his dicks nabbed Bugs Glook, that guy I had deliver the crate to the chink this afternoon. Bugs turned yellow and squealed. Cardona got word of it when he put in a call to headquarters from the Hotel Santiago, down near the Bowery.

“A friend of mine runs the place. He overheard Cardona’s call. Bugs must have mentioned the service elevator, even though he don’t know you sent the box. What’s more, there was something about a new tip-off for Cardona, at headquarters.”

Rook Hollister wheeled to Bart Koplin.

“Get Burke,” ordered the big shot. “We’ve got to get rid of him before we beat it.” Bart sprang to the door of an inner room. He came back, dragging Clyde, who looked weary. His hands were tied behind him. Rook produced a knife and cut the rope. He shoved Clyde into the arms of Bart and Prexy.

“That brawl’s working right for us,” snarled the big shot, with an evil grin. “Anything that looks funny will be laid to the fight, after the bulls got here. Bring Burke along” — Rook paused to stride to the bolted doors at the south end of the room — “and we’ll pitch him over the rail. It will look like he went over from the Roof Cafe, during the fight.”

As Clyde struggled against the rogues who shoved him forward, Rook uttered a fierce snort and pulled back the heavy bolt of the door. He swung one half of the barrier inward, to show the dull surface of the outer promenade.

“It’s curtains for you, Burke,” gloated the big shot. “One wise guy too many. Well, there’ll be one less when—”

Rook stopped abruptly. Bart and Prexy had released their victim. Trembling, the henchmen were raising hands above their shoulders as they stared toward the door. Rook saw terror in their bulging eyes. He wheeled, then became rigid also.

Weird against the glow reflected from the white walls of the hotel across the street stood a blackened shape that the big shot recognized. Mammoth automatics projected from gloved fists. Burning eyes surveyed the villains from beneath the brim of a slouch hat.

“The Shadow!” blurted Rook.

A HOARSE cry from Prexy. Insanely the cafe proprietor made a maddened leap upon the avenging figure. The Shadow swished sidewise; as Prexy’s hands clutched for his throat, he brought his left fist upward.

The rising muzzle of an automatic cupped Prexy’s jaw. The tall man slumped to the floor, his fingers slipping as they scratched the cloth of the black cloak.

The Shadow’s laugh came in a weird ripple. One foe had subsided; the muzzle of his automatics had kept where they belonged: one toward Rook; the other toward Bart.

In the side tilt of his head, The Shadow had almost lost his slouch hat. Instead of trying to regain it, he gave a shake that sent the head-piece dropping to the floor.

Clyde Burke gulped with astonishment as he saw the features that were revealed by the light. So did Bart Koplin.

Neither the agent nor the crooked private dick had expected to see a face that looked like this one. The Shadow’s countenance — even though it must be a made-up one — was an odd choice for disguise. An ugly visage, with overlarge nose flattened like a mushroom. Sour lips above an out-thrust lower jaw.

“Lingo Queed!”

Rook Hollister gasped the name. He had met Lingo in the past. As Clyde Burke heard Rook’s cry of astonishment — a weird truth dawned upon him. A truth that confounded Rook and Bart as well.

The secret of The Shadow’s amazing campaign was revealed. How big shot after big shot had vainly endeavored to build up the empire which Rook Hollister had tried to rule.

As Lingo Queed, a gangster who had served as fixer, go-between and interpreter for powerful lieutenants, The Shadow had learned when crimes were brewing and rackets were about to ripen. As The Shadow, with agents aiding him, he had staged attack upon crime workers. His crafty drives had passed as the work of rival mobland factions.

Rook Hollister had sensed The Shadow’s hand. He had faked his death deputing Trip Burley to assassinate Donald Manthell in his place. But The Shadow, making use of his guise as Lingo Queed, had been in with the plotters who had planned to rub out Rook.

Koy Dow was a friend of The Shadow’s. That was why he was Lingo Queed’s friend also. For Lingo Queed — a faked personality — had been The Shadow all along. The Shadow had planted Hawkeye to listen in on the plots because The Shadow himself, having to play the part of Lingo, could not have trailed Trip Burley, whom he suspected as a spy of Rook Hollister’s.

Of all The Shadow’s agents, Burbank alone had known the double role that The Shadow was playing.

That was why Burbank had chuckled when giving a report from Hawkeye. The Shadow, through Burbank, had ordered Hawkeye to make the very suggestions that he wanted. Then, as Lingo Queed, The Shadow had reluctantly accepted the suggestions in the presence of lieutenants.

All for effect upon those who had acknowledged Lingo as the lord of the underworld. Because of his position, The Shadow had been unable to wage war after he became big shot. But he himself had sent tips to Detective Joe Cardona.

THROUGH Hawkeye, The Shadow had started the faked circumstances that had made Jericho private bodyguard for Lingo Queed. While holding the dangerous throne of big shot, The Shadow had an agent by him. No spies present to mooch in on The Shadow’s calls over his private telephone; no chance for would-be assassins to sneak in — for Jericho had been instructed to do all that Lingo told him.

The trap at Koy Dow’s had been framed by The Shadow to ensnare The Shadow. A clever arrangement with the Chinaman whereby The Shadow could mysteriously rescue Harry Vincent when the agent was placed there as bait. Koy Dow had told The Shadow of that exit below.

After the supposed trapping, Koy Dow had waited for The Shadow to return as Lingo Queed, knowing that there would be trouble when the trap was found empty.

As Lingo, The Shadow had beaten Buzz Dongarth to the shot. Then Koy Dow and his Chinese henchmen had taken up the battle, that The Shadow might depart.

Originally, The Shadow had planned to maintain his role of Lingo Queed; to square things for Koy Dow, if possible — at least to preserve his own position. Such, until he could get at Rook Hollister.

With his rescue of Harry Vincent, The Shadow had learned where Rook was hiding out. He had also gained news that Clyde Burke was a prisoner. The Shadow had promptly made new plans.

But Rook, as his lips mouthed a defiant snarl, was thinking of something else. He realized that his deductions had been but half right. The Shadow had slain Trip Burley, as Rook had guessed. Lingo Queed had profited by taking credit. The entire sequence, however, had been The Shadow’s lone craft.

After planting his .45 on Manthell’s body, The Shadow had seen opportunity for himself as Lingo Queed.

He needed another gun to stage his bluff with the lieutenants. As The Shadow, he had departed, taking Rook’s initialed gun, which would not do in the frame-up. As Lingo, he had returned with a .38. He had exchanged it for Trip’s .32 and had replaced it afterward.

As Rook stood glaring at The Shadow, he realized the cloaked victor’s purpose. The Shadow had eliminated the actual murderer of Donald Manthell: namely, Trip Burley. Since then, he had given the law its innings.

To cap that campaign, he was willing that the police should gain the big shot who was actually responsible for Manthell’s death. Rook Hollister had feigned death; ironically, The Shadow intended to let him live. The thought griped Rook.

Bart Koplin was tense and glowering. In Bart, Rook saw an ally who could serve as dupe as well.

Furiously, Rook spat an order for a vain attack.

Thinking that Rook was with him, Bart leaped viciously upon The Shadow.

As the foolhardy private dick came squarely into the path of the gun muzzle, Rook sprang behind him.

The Shadow had no alternative. He had to clear Bart in order to get at Rook. One automatic barked.

The slug found Bart’s body; but the heavy-jowled private dick kept on coming.

Bart fought like a wounded bull as he clutched at The Shadow’s weapons. He grabbed one automatic as it aimed at Rook. The Shadow’s shot boomed wide as Rook dived headlong toward the door that led to the stairway.

Bart sagged suddenly. The Shadow whirled clear of him.

Leaving Clyde Burke in charge of Prexy, who was still groggy, The Shadow swept in pursuit. Rook was halfway down the staircase when The Shadow reached the top. There was no chance for a shot at present.

The Shadow hastened downward; he gained ground while Rook was opening the lower door. As the big shot sprang into the vacated passage, The Shadow reached the bottom of the stairs.

Brawlers were subsiding. Shouts still came from portions of the Roof Cafe; but the tide had moved elsewhere. Momentarily clear, Rook yanked a revolver from his pocket and faced about to aim at the stairs. The big shot wanted to get The Shadow; but the cloaked avenger had expected him to turn.

Holding to the darkness of the stairway, The Shadow was taking aim, his cloaked form deep in the gloom of the steps. Rook was backing toward the door of the service elevator. The Shadow was prepared to spring out upon him.

Then came an interruption. The door of the service elevator banged open. Joe Cardona, a revolver in hand, sprang into view as Rook turned at the noise. Astonishment showed on the face of the ace detective as Joe saw the big shot whom he believed was dead.

Rook Hollister snarled as he aimed for Joe Cardona. The detective swung his gun muzzle toward Rook.

Fingers reached triggers simultaneously. It was a situation such as Cardona had falsely pictured at Rook Hollister’s apartment; where two fighters stood well prepared to wipe out each other.

In the split-second before the instant of the coming duel, a flash tongued from the stairway. The spurt of flame was accompanied by the roar of an automatic. Hard upon The Shadow’s shot came the bark of a revolver as Joe Cardona fired point-blank at Rook Hollister.

The big shot never delivered the bullet that he had intended for Joe Cardona. Winged by The Shadow, Rook had faltered. The Shadow’s slug had clipped Rook’s aiming arm; Cardona’s leaden pellet had found the big shot’s evil heart.

TURNING, The Shadow had headed up the stairs before Joe Cardona could reach the open door. The detective suspected trouble up above; followed by a squad, he was starting to investigate.

Up in the living room of the high apartment, Clyde Burke saw The Shadow enter. The reporter heard pounding footsteps from below; he nodded as he listened to hissed instructions that sounded incongruous from the faked lips of Lingo Queed.

Clyde was to tell his story. Bart Koplin, wounded; Prexy Storlick, stunned, would be prey for the law.

Clyde could tell Joe Cardona the odd circumstances that had brought him here. With Harry Vincent out of the picture, there would be no need for mention of The Shadow’s part.

Regaining his slouch hat, The Shadow affixed it to his head. Clyde Burke heard a whispered taunt of triumph. Staring, the agent saw his chief sweep out through the open door to the broad promenade. By the griffon pillar, The Shadow attached the wheeled carrier. Then Clyde quickly closed the door and turned to greet the incoming detectives.

DOWN through the night, a cloaked figure was speeding along a slender track of stout steel wire. The Shadow reached the end of his swift journey. His shape blended with the blackness that shaded the twentieth floor of the Hotel Framton.

Deft fingers wrenched the end of the wire from the stone block and let it swing out into the street. The Shadow again scaled the steplike bulwarks until he reached the spot four floors above. There he released the upper end of the tracklike wire.

Gloved hands coiled the wire inward. The Shadow was bringing in the evidence of his two swift flights through space. Blended with blackness, he could view the forms of men on the open front of the Roof Cafe.

Cliff Marsland, Harry Vincent, Hawkeye — all three were there. With others who had participated in the mad brawl, they were explaining things to the hotel employees. All seemed satisfied now that the fray was over.

Soon The Shadow’s agents would learn that Clyde Burke was safe. They had played their part to aid their chief. Men of the law had gained the hideout where Rook Hollister had dwelt.

Victory belonged to that shrouded master who clung aloft against the huge bulk of the towering skyscraper. From the blackness of his vantage place, The Shadow viewed the aftermath of triumph.

A passing breeze caught the echoes of a whispered laugh. Rising, that mirth broke clear, into a strange uncanny crescendo that sounded like a voice from the Beyond.

The Shadow’s agents heard a ghostly taunt which they recognized. As other persons started, wondering, those agents knew that their cause had been won.

Joe Cardona, too, caught the echoes of that chilling mirth as he swung open the door and stepped out to the penthouse promenade. But as he approached the rail and stared into the night, the ace detective could not discern the spot from which the triumph tone had come.

Invisible in his chosen spot of blackness, The Shadow was the conqueror who had ended crime’s regime.

With the ending of Lingo Queed’s rule, the underworld empire was shattered. Yet none, not even Joe Cardona, would learn what had become of the last overlord in gangland’s short-lived dynasty.

The identity of Lingo Queed had passed forever. Vengeful mobsters would look in vain for the monarch who had carried them into calamity. For the exploits of Lingo Queed had been the exploits of The Shadow.