Lingo

CHAPTER III. THE DEATH WARRANT

PING GRADLEY had announced his plans at the Chinatown meeting. In so doing, he had let out information which he had hitherto confined to the members of his own mob. But since Ping was working under orders from Rook Hollister, he had deemed it wise to spill the news to the lieutenants who had accepted him as a fellow plotter.

Louie Caparani, of course, had known beforehand that Ping was scheduled to command a strongarm crew in his behalf. Louie as well as Ping were both in accord, so far as Rook Hollister was concerned.

They would as soon work for one big shot as another; so they had no reason to undercut Rook’s plan for tonight.

When Ping Gradley left the Chinatown meeting, he was already formulating his final plans. He intended to time his job at the Casino Rouge. He was looking forward to murder with a relish. The fact that his success would temporarily vindicate Rook Hollister in the eyes of his lieutenants was a matter to which Ping was comparatively indifferent.

The meeting had been held early. The proper time for a night club foray on the part of gangsters would be much later. Hence, every one at the meeting had understood that Ping would be in no hurry about putting Karl Durmsted on the spot.

Hawkeye, too, had recognized that fact. Hence The Shadow’s agent had completed his appointed task of following Trip Burley before reporting matters which concerned Ping Gradley.

But Hawkeye’s trail had been a short one. Within half an hour after he had left Chinatown, the little agent had reported to Burbank. The contact man, in turn, had communicated with The Shadow. He had done this by a call over the private wire to The Shadow’s sanctum, that hidden abode where the master fighter planned his campaigns against men of evil.

Burbank frequently encountered delay in reaching The Shadow, for his chief visited the sanctum only at intervals. Tonight The Shadow had had important business of his own, and it been taken Burbank more than fifteen minutes to reach him after receiving Hawkeye’s report.

But all this had meant less than an actual hour before The Shadow had learned the news that Hawkeye had sent him. With ample time ahead, he had given Burbank definite instructions for Hawkeye and other agents.

MIDNIGHT had brought a lessening in the drizzle that was falling on Manhattan. Ping Gradley, riding in a taxicab, wore a pleased smile as he approached the uptown night club known as the Casino Rouge. The clearing sky meant more customers at the night club.

As Ping had hoped, the Casino Rouge was crowded. A floor show was on and the patrons had chosen all the closest tables. The overflow extended almost to the walls; hence Ping, of necessity, was forced to take a table against the wall itself. This, too, was in keeping with his scheme.

Ping had passed the check room without leaving his hat and coat. He laid the garments on one chair of the two at the table and took the other for himself. Waiters were busy; it would be some minutes before any happened to notice the newcomer.

Ping was counting upon acting before a waiter showed up. Hunched at his table, he was watching the night club with shifty eyes; but his gaze kept focusing at one definite point — a doorway on the near side of a pillar some twenty feet away.

Five minutes passed. No waiter had appeared. Ping’s shifting eyes caught sight of a tall man in tuxedo, walking toward the doorway — an elderly face; a bald head fringed with gray hair. Ping recognized Karl Durmsted, the night club proprietor. He watched. Durmsted passed through the doorway. Rising immediately, Ping picked up his hat and coat and strolled in the same direction.

Ping had been wearing street clothes on his visit to Chinatown. Since then, he had changed to tuxedo. His present attire enabled him to pass muster as a regular patron of the Casino Rouge. A passing waiter gave him no more than a glance. Ping’s white shirt-front was an indication that he was a reputable guest.

Ping was at the doorway when the waiter passed. As soon as the man’s gaze had turned, Ping stepped through a little arch, descended four steps and rapped politely at the door itself.

The doorknob turned; the portal opened and Ping stepped into a little office to find himself face to face with Karl Durmsted.

First noticing Ping’s attire, the proprietor stepped back, thinking that he had admitted a friend.

Ping closed the door with his left hand. He thrust his right into the packet of his tuxedo coat. An ugly bulge indicated that he had gripped a revolver.

“Sit down,” growled Ping, indicating the chair by Durmsted’s desk. “Sit down and listen. I want to talk to you!”

DURMSTED complied. His face showed a look that betokened puzzlement rather than fear. Ping moved to the front of the desk and rested the right side of his coat upon it. He did not remove his hand from his pocket; but the bulge showed more plainly. Durmsted could hear something metallic thud through the cloth as it contacted the surface of the table.

“Listen, you,” began Ping. “I’ve got something I want to talk over. Just a little business deal that’s going to be good for your health.”

“Rather interesting,” returned Durmsted dryly. “If you want the combination of the safe” — he nodded toward the corner — “you are welcome to it. Unfortunately — for you at least — it contains only a few dollars. Enough, though, to pay you for the rent of that tuxedo.”

“Lay off the wisecracks,” snarled Ping. “I told you I’m here to talk business, and that’s what I’m going to do!”

“Very well,” nodded Durmsted; “suppose you introduce yourself. I presume you already know who I am.”

“And it won’t do you no good,” snorted Ping, “to know who I am. The proposition I’m goin’ to talk about is one you’ve heard already. From a guy named Louie Caparani who gave you a good chance to pick up some soft dough.”

“I recall Caparani,” admitted Durmsted. “I also remember the proposal that he made. I told him I was not interested in it. That was final.”

“Yeah?” returned Ping. “Well maybe you didn’t hear Louie straight and maybe he didn’t hear you straight. He told me you got the idea and that you liked it. Just wanted me to drop in and remind you.”

“Caparani’s proposition was this,” declared Durmsted. He leaned forward in his swivel chair and rested his hands upon the edge of the desk. “First of all he wanted the checking privileges in this night club. I told him that they were already contracted for. I added that I would not be interested even if he offered a higher bid. Then he told me that he did not intend to make a bid at all; that he expected me to pay him for the favor of taking the check rooms off my hands.”

Durmsted paused with a sour smile; he was staring straight at Ping. The mobleader, his eyes no longer shifty, was meeting the proprietor’s gaze.

“Go on,” ordered Ping. “I’ll hear you out, just to see if you’ve got it straight the way Louie told you.”

“CAPARANI felt” — Durmsted’s tone was dry and sarcastic — “that the check rooms needed what he termed ‘protection’; namely, that patrons of this night club might suffer loss and damage to their belongings if I continued to entrust the check-room privileges to the present holders.”

“All right,” growled Ping. “And what did you say to that?”

“I told Caparani that he was running a racket,” retorted Durmsted, leaning further forward and tightening his hands on the desk edge.

“That’s your idea,” snarled Ping, “but Louie thinks different! Listen to me, old bozo. I’m not here to listen to a stall. I’ve come to give you the works, and you’re going to get it, unless you change your mind in a hurry. It’s Louie that wants to be soft with you; but I don’t! What’s your answer? Are you in or out?” Durmsted’s right thumb was beneath the edge of the desk. It pressed, unseen by Ping. Meeting the vicious killer’s gaze, Durmsted made a final stall for time. He began to nod; then spoke slowly:

“I guess I’m in — since you put it that way. Maybe — well, maybe it would be best to take on this Caparani proposition. Yes, I’m in.”

So speaking, Durmsted rose from his chair. His tall form relaxed. He looked weak and helpless.

Ping shifted back from the desk and drew his hand from his pocket. He eyed Durmsted and saw a smile appear upon the proprietor’s lips.

“Take a look behind you,” suggested Durmsted.

Ping wheeled about. The door had opened. Into the small room had stepped two husky men in tuxedos.

They were trouncers whom Durmsted had summoned by pressure of the button on his desk.

“I provided for an occasion such as this,” remarked the proprietor to Ping. “I thought it best to hire two men who could deal with visitors of your type.” Then to the bouncers the proprietor ordered:

“Take this fellow’s gun away from him and eject him by my private exit.” Still smiling, Durmsted pointed to a door at the right of the room. “Don’t give him opportunity to make any trouble. That is why I want you to use the private exit. No need to disturb the customers if you have to be violent.”

“So you’ve ticketed me for a slugging, hey?” jeered Ping. “Well, you made a bum guess this trip. Didn’t have much trouble getting a pair of tough bimbos on your pay roll, did you? Well I didn’t have any trouble fixing them to work for me!”

AS he spoke, Ping stepped forward unmolested by the bouncers. Yanking a stub-nosed revolver from his pocket, Ping jabbed it against Durmsted’s ribs.

The truth dawned on the gaping proprietor. His newly hired bouncers were mobsters. Ping had signed them up to work against their employer. This time, the fear that Durmsted showed was real. Frightened, he began to stammer protests.

Ping silenced them with a jab of the gun.

“Snatch him,” ordered the mobleader. “We’re taking him out through that private exit of his. The mob’s waiting to give him the ride he’s going to get. He had his chance to come through and he didn’t take it.” As the bouncers seized Durmsted, Ping stepped over, placed his hand upon the knob of the private exit.

Turning it, he snarled new jeers as he looked back toward the night club owner. He began to draw the door open so his henchmen could lug Durmsted, helpless, through the passage that led to an outer street.

But as the door came ajar, the unexpected happened.

A terrific jolt came from the other side of the barrier. The door snapped inward; its sweeping edge cracked the side of Ping’s head and shoulder. The mobleader went sprawling to the floor.

As Ping uttered a surprised snarl, his two gorillas let go of Durmsted and yanked guns from their pockets.

Sensing an unexpected menace, they came up on the draw together.

They never had a chance to fire at the blackness that loomed in from the passage. As their startled eyes discerned a forming figure garbed in inky cloak and hat; as their forefingers sought to snap at gun triggers, two bursts of tonguing flame spat forward, accompanied by a roar that sounded thunderous in the passage.

The traitorous bouncers sprawled. As they toppled, their hands lost their useless guns. Durmsted stood petrified. His amazed eyes saw his would-be assassins fall. He had caught no more than a glimpse of the figure in the doorway.

Ping Gradley, in sprawling, had not lost his gun. Coming to hands and knees, the mobleader, close to the door, caught full view of the black-garbed avenger who had dropped the gorillas. In that swift instant, Ping recognized The Shadow.

Ominous in his guise of blackness, the grim avenger had acted with promptitude. He had timed his shots to the draw of the guns that the gorillas had produced, letting Durmsted back clear of them. Thus had he rescued the honest proprietor; but in that deed The Shadow had allowed a dangerous interval.

He had come to deal with one enemy. He had encountered three. His thrust of the door had been the necessary step to eliminate Ping Gradley, while he handled those who held Karl Durmsted. The bouncers disposed of, Ping was The Shadow’s quarry. Ping, in turn, was seeking to make the most of his opportunity to down The Shadow.

THE mobleader had the edge. His fall had come to a lucky ending; he was halfway to his feet as he saw The Shadow turn. Had Ping fired promptly, firmly, with his stub-nosed gun, he might have beaten his cloaked foe to the shot that counted.

But Ping, as he caught the glare of burning eyes; as he saw swinging automatics beneath those blazing optics, made a double move. He sprang for the shelter of the opened door as he pointed his revolver and pressed the trigger.

Like Ping, The Shadow performed a double move. He whirled backward into the doorway, sidewise against the door itself. Only his left hand swung into the room, coming from the very edge of the half-opened barrier.

Ping’s shot sizzled through the fold of The Shadow’s cloak. With the bark of the mobleader’s blunt revolver came the report of The Shadow’s left-hand automatic. A bullet winged Ping’s shoulder. The snarling crook rolled to the floor.

Durmsted, coming to life, had grabbed a bouncer’s gun. Hearing the new shots, the proprietor swung about to see Ping sprawling. Coming up on one knee, Ping saw Durmsted aiming. Forgetting The Shadow, he snapped his revolver upward toward this man whose death he had first sought.

An automatic roared! Ping wavered; his arm sagged. Then Durmsted loosed a volley of frantic shots.

Unrealizing that The Shadow had done the necessary job, the night club proprietor riddled Ping’s slipping frame with the entire contents of the gun that he had gained.

The Shadow had turned. He was sweeping out through the passage to the street. He knew that people would be coming from the night club itself. But he also knew that it was not that direction that had to be considered. Those in the club would bring aid. Outside were other foemen.

THE SHADOW was right. As he reached the street, he saw men leaping out of two parked cars. Ping’s waiting henchmen had heard tokens of the fray. They were coming to aid their dead leader. Like Ping, they encountered a surprise.

The Shadow’s guns swept into action. Withered by volleys from the exit, the mobsters scattered, expecting to attack from shelter. Then came new confusion. Automatics blazed strategic shots from across the street.

Hawkeye, Cliff Marsland, Harry Vincent — three agents of The Shadow — were posted there to serve their chief. Mobsters floundered and fled. The parked cars shot away, guided by frantic drivers mad with desire for escape.

As echoes died in the secluded street, a weird laugh sounded in muffled whisper. It reached no living ears save those of The Shadow himself. Killers close by were dead. Those who had scattered were too far away to hear.

A taxicab pulled out after the fleeing cars. The Shadow’s agents were departing. The Shadow, himself, needed no conveyance. Police whistles were shrilling; cries were coming from within the night club. The Shadow ignored these tokens of excitement about the Casino Rouge.

Swinging the folds of his cloak about his tall form, he glided forth with long, swift strides. His silent paces carried him along the vacated street, into darkness that gathered him into its own enshrouding folds.

Again the soft, taunting laugh that marked another victory against men of crime. The vague mirth faded.

From then on, The Shadow’s course was untraceable. Heading toward byways, the being of blackness was lost in blackness. The Shadow was master of the night.

Murder had been arranged, to put teeth in the racket run by Louie Caparani. Ping Gradley had come to the Casino Rouge to deliver death to Karl Durmsted. Ping had failed; death had boomeranged back to him.

Louie Caparani’s racket was broken. Ping Gradley’s failure and death would be cause for the rubout of the big shot, Rook Hollister. The Shadow had done more than conquer minions of crime. He had signed the death warrant for Rook Hollister!

Little men of crime came easy for the master fighter. It was the big shots The Shadow was after, those who attempted to rule the crime kingdom.