Lingo

CHAPTER IV. THE BIG SHOT PLANS

TO The Shadow, the victory at the Casino Rouge had become a past event. To Rook Hollister, the big shot, news of the affray would be a future occurrence. For while The Shadow was departing from the field of battle, Rook was anxiously awaiting a report from Ping Gradley, the lieutenant whom he had delegated to take Karl Durmsted for “a ride.”

In his apartment at the Hotel Thurmont, Rook Hollister stood alone amid sumptuous surroundings. His quarters took up the entire rear portion of the third floor. Through a thick-paned window, bolted and equipped with bulletproof glass, Rook could look out over the roof of the back-street garage.

This was a corner room of the large apartment. One window opened toward the nearest avenue. The shade was drawn on that window; it cut off view of an elevated structure, a dozen feet below and thirty yards away. As Rook paced his living room, he wore the expression of an anxious candidate awaiting news of an election. As he paused at intervals, he could hear the grinding, clattering rumble of passing elevated trains.

In facial appearance, Rook Hollister was the superior of his crude-visaged lieutenants. Save for a certain coarseness of features, the big shot was a handsome man. His countenance was square and well-molded.

Straight lips, prominent cheek bones and well-shaped nose showed beneath his broad, prominent forehead. His hair was dark, with slightly curly trend.

Attired in a tuxedo, Rook had the definite appearance of a well-groomed man about town.

The big shot was alone in his apartment. That did not mean that he was unprotected. Rook had bodyguards posted outside of his apartment. Any one trying to crash the gate of his apartment in the Hotel Thurmont would have run into immediate trouble.

Off from Rook’s living room was a small compartment of the dressing room type. It was in that direction that Rook gazed as he heard a faint sound that he recognized. Stepping to the dressing room, Rook reached into an opened table drawer and brought out a revolver. He listened to the faint noise of the rising elevator in the wall beyond. When it ceased, Rook was ready with the gun.

The rumble stopped. A paneled wall slid open and a light clicked automatically within the elevator shaft.

The occupant of the car was in plain view. Rook smiled suavely as he surveyed the visitor, a big, broad-shouldered fellow with heavy-jowled face.

“Hello, Bart,” greeted Rook. “I thought it was you coming up. Let’s go in the living room.” The broad-shouldered man closed the paneled entrance of the shaft. He accompanied the big shot into the living room. There the two sat down.

THEY formed an odd contrast as they faced each other. The difference between this pair was not limited to their facial expressions. In their occupations, Rook and Bart were two of different ilks. Rook Hollister’s career was one in which he ordered crime. Bart Koplin, his visitor, was one whose reputed work was crime prevention.

For Bart’s ostensible vocation was that of a private detective. Specializing in jobs of investigation, the heavy-jowled man had gained a high reputation for his ability. Among his clients were several well-known corporations.

No one had ever connected Bart Koplin with crime. That was not surprising, for Bart stayed away from crooks — with one exception. Bart’s only contact with the underworld lay through Rook Hollister. The private dick was a secret lieutenant of the big shot.

An elevated train rumbled heavily while Rook and Bart were lighting their cigars. The room vibrated slightly; then, as the roar of the train diminished, Rook eased back in his easy-chair and began to talk.

“Trip Burley was here tonight, Bart,” informed the big shot.

“Bringing bad news?” queried the dick.

“Sort of,” replied Rook. “The boys have slated me for the spot. Schumbert — Caparani — Gradley — you know the rest of them. They think Trip is their pal. That’s how he mooched in on the meeting.”

“Who sprang it? Blitz Schumbert?”

“Sure. He’s sore because my pineapple squad went sour.”

“Where did he bring the crowd together?”

“At a joint in Chinatown. So nobody would spot them and bring the news back to me.”

“I didn’t know Blitz stood in with the chinks, Rook.”

“He doesn’t. But he got hold of a guy that did. Lingo Queed, the bloke they’ve been using as an interpreter. Lingo fixed the meeting place with a chink named Koy Dow.”

BART nodded. He remembered that Rook, working through a lieutenant, had recently used Lingo to conduct some negotiations in Little Italy. Inasmuch as Lingo’s contact lay with lieutenants and not with the big shot, it was not surprising that he had gone over to the plotters.

“How soon do they figure on rubbing you out, Rook?” queried Bart, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Did Trip give you the data?”

“They may pass it up,” chuckled Rook, dryly. “Louie Caparani was all for bumping me; but he said it would be good business to wait and see if his racket went over.”

“And if it does?”

“There’ll be no rubout. Not until something else goes flooie.”

“Whew!” Bart shook his head. “It’s like I told you, Rook. You’re sitting on top of a volcano. The lid’s going to blow off some day.”

“Not for a while yet, Bart. Ping Gradley is taking Karl Durmsted for a ride tonight. That means Caparani’s racket will be O.K.”

“Ping Gradley! Say — he’s one of the guys that’s trying to put the skids under you! Say — you aren’t counting on him—”

“Sure I am, Bart.” Rook smiled as he paused to puff his cigar. “Listen. You’ve got to get this layout straight. None of these mugs have anything against me personally. I don’t blame them for talking things over.

“First off, Bart, this big shot business is a tough one. King Sickler tried it. They rubbed him out when he flivved. Then Al Loshter stepped in. I was one of Al’s lieutenants. When he muffed, I met with a bunch that put the finger on him. We bumped Al. That’s how I stepped in.” Bart nodded in recollection.

“We were all for Al,” reminded Rook. “All for him, while he was good. All against him when he was lousy. Well, I’m in the same spot Al was. You can’t blame the boys for wanting me out. But they’ll work for me — like Ping is doing tonight — right up until the last minute.”

“Then things look all right.”

“Yes — if Ping puts through his job tonight. But if he doesn’t — well, it means I’m through. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Bart.”

Sudden interest showed on Bart’s bluff face.

“You mean you’ll take my proposition?” queried the private dick eagerly. “The one I’ve been holding back for you? In case you wanted to duck from under?”

“That’s right, Bart — if the proposition is still good.”

“It’s good, all right. A cinch, too. Give me two days — maybe three — and I can spring it. All I’ve got to do is have Waylock scud out those telegrams he’s been holding. And hand him the five grand.”

“You’ll get the dough pronto, Bart. That is, if I have to go through with the deal.” Bart smiled bluffly. He seemed pleased at Rook’s decision. Then a look of puzzlement came upon the private dick’s thick face.

“Only one thing, Rook,” recalled Bart. “Last time I talked with you, you didn’t like the idea of ducking from under and hiding out. You said —”

“I’ve changed my mind,” snapped Rook. “And I’ve got a good reason for it, Bart. I told you. I didn’t worry about these birds like Schumbert and Caparani. I don’t worry about them and I never will. But it’s not them I’m thinking about.

“What’s biting me is the way every job has gone sour. It’s not a bunch of musclers that’s queered things. It’s somebody that’s worth worrying about.”

“Who?” queried Bart, puzzled.

“The Shadow!” resumed Rook, promptly.

BART’S hand stopped short as the dick was about to place a cigar between his lips. For an instant Bart’s heavy jaw quivered. His hand trembled. Then he steadied and tried to puff his cigar in casual fashion.

“The Shadow!” repeated Rook. He hissed the name venomously. “Nobody but him could have muscled in on my mobs. I’m tellin’ you this, Bart. Every racket will be blooey until we’ve got The Shadow. That’s why I’m ducking under if tonight’s job don’t come off.”

“I get it.” Bart nodded wisely. “If you slide out you can start from scratch. Somebody else will take your place — some dummy who will get lopped off — and you’ll be sitting where you can carve in on The Shadow himself.”

“That’s just it, Bart,” agreed Rook. “But I can’t turn yellow or take it on the lam. That would do so far as the mugs are concerned; but it would leave The Shadow still watching for me to stage a comeback. I’ve got to fool The Shadow, Bart.”

“My stunt will do it,” chuckled the dick, “and it will bluff the mugs at the same time.”

“I know it, Bart,” agreed Rook. “That’s why I’m ready for it. I’m only waiting till I hear from Ping. If he sent Durmsted on that ride tonight the night club racket will be sweet. Inside of a week all the proprietors will be listening to Louie Caparani. Business will be running so big that even The Shadow won’t have a chance to gum it. If Ping—”

An interruption came. It was a telephone bell, ringing in the dressing room. Bart watched Rook rise and go to answer the call.

Three seconds later, the big shot was back in the living room.

“Ping got his!” informed Rook, tensely. “Up at Durmsted’s. He took the bump along with a couple of gorillas who were working as bouncers at the Casino Rouge.”

“Who got him?” questioned Bart.

“They don’t know,” returned Rook. “The guy that just called me up was one of the torpedoes that Ping had waiting outside. He says some mob queered Ping’s game. The trouble started in Durmsted’s office; then a bunch of musclers started shooting things up outside.”

“Do you think it was The Shadow?” demanded Bart anxiously.

“That’s just what I do think,” snapped Rook. “That settles it, Bart. This means the finger is on me and it’s pointing straight. Get busy with the gag of yours and do it quick. Meanwhile, I’m going to call up some of the guys that have it in for me and stall them off long enough. I can bluff them for a few days anyway.” Rook came to his feet. Bart did likewise. The big shot ushered the private dick to the secret elevator.

Bart entered the car; the light went out as soon as he closed the door. Descending, the dick reached the garage and made his exit to the street.

FIVE minutes after Bart’s departure, strange blackness showed on the concrete floor behind the row of stored cars. An uncanny shape came into the light of the air chamber. The Shadow, spectral in the glow, began an examination of the tin-sheathed wall.

Gloved fingers found a catch. The sheathed barrier slid upward. The Shadow saw the darkened car in the elevator shaft. He laughed soft-toned mirth as he lowered the barrier. A gliding form, The Shadow departed to the street.

The master sleuth had come here to check on Hawkeye’s findings. He had found the secret entrance to Rook Hollister’s apartment but he had not chosen to use it for the present. The Shadow knew that the big shot had learned that the finger was pointing in his direction. It would be Rook’s cue — thanks to Trip Burley’s information — to keep secluded in his bulletproof apartment.

A soft laugh sounded from the darkness beneath the elevated structure as The Shadow glided across the nearest avenue. The mirth arose with sudden loudness as a roaring train sped above and drowned its tones. The Shadow’s present campaign had reached its conclusion.

But The Shadow, though he could foresee a future trend in crime, had missed one point that was to hold a most important bearing in events to come. He had gained no inkling of the alliance between Rook Hollister and Bart Koplin.

Unbeknown to The Shadow, big shot and private dick had produced a coming scheme that was destined to tax the master fighter to the limit. The Shadow was on the verge of new adventure that would force him into strategies that even he had never used before.