Lingo

CHAPTER V. CARDONA TAKES ORDERS

“OUR troubles have ended, inspector.”

“And we’re due for new ones, commissioner.”

Both speakers were emphatic as they faced each other across a polished desk top. Challenge and rebuke were apparent in their tones; and their use of titles was an evidence of mutually veiled sarcasm.

Deputy Commissioner Wainwright Barth was in conference with Detective Joe Cardona. This was the third day following The Shadow’s battle at the Casino Rouge. Cardona had come to Barth’s office to discuss methods of new crime prevention.

The actual police commissioner, Ralph Weston, was at present absent from New York. Wainwright Barth, once commissioner and now a deputy, was acting in Weston’s place. Barth had addressed Joe Cardona as “inspector” because Joe had been made acting inspector by Weston. Barth’s emphasis on the word “inspector” indicated that Joe’s acting capacity might soon be ended.

So Cardona had given his dig in return. Addressing Barth as “commissioner,” Joe had given intimation that be hoped Ralph Weston’s absence would not be a prolonged one. Cardona liked to work with Weston; he was counting on the real commissioner’s return.

“Why speak folderol, inspector?” queried Barth, in testy fashion. “You are presenting a hypothesis that has no ground for assumption. Why should the cessation of crime indicate a new beginning of it? I can see no facts that warrant a resumption.”

“It’s simply this, commissioner,” argued Joe. “One lucky break don’t mean we’re going to get another. Instead, the chances are we won’t land another. Look at it that way and you’ll see where I’m right.

“Ever since Commissioner Weston started on that long vacation of his, the racketeers have been trying to start up again. I’ve wanted to step in and smear them every time they’ve begun. When mouthpieces showed up at the docks; when they tried to sew up the milk business, I recommended grabbing them. But you said hands off.”

“Agreed,” chuckled Barth. “But in each of the cases that you have mentioned, the rackets have broken because of jealousy among the criminals themselves. The same was true of the attempt to begin a laundry racket. To top it off, three nights ago crooks themselves ruined their own chances of dominating the night clubs.

“Hands off should be our policy, Cardona. Let the criminals continue to wage war among themselves. Should they fail to spoil their own games, the law can then take action. But I shall always be reluctant to intervene until we have positive proof that a specific racket is in the making.”

CARDONA shook his head. The detective was annoyed. Time and again he had tried to press this point with Barth. Always, the deputy commissioner had been adamant.

“Take the laundry racket,” suggested Cardona, suddenly. “A bird named Blitz Schumbert was in back of it. He had it greased. A dozen laundry owners had put in a complaint. A blowoff was due. The only question was who was going to take it.

“An actual crew of pineapple men went out on a job, commissioner. They were headed to wreck a laundry, to destroy property and maybe lives. They got stopped by what looked like a gang fight. Blitz Schumbert’s racket went sour. But it wasn’t thanks to us.”

“Why be perturbed?” smiled Barth. “The laundry racket died, did it not?”

“It did,” snorted Joe, “but it died hard! Then the night club racket showed up. Louie Caparani was promoting it. Three nights ago, a strongarm mobleader named Ping Gradley went around to murder Karl Durmsted, proprietor of the Casino Rouge—”

“And again,” interposed Barth, “a mob war prevented the act. Gradley was slain. The teeth were extracted from Caparnai’s game. The night club racket died at birth.”

“But there will be others,” assured Cardona. “What’s more, some of those that failed to start will bob up again.”

“Let them materialize. Then we shall offset them.”

“Yes — after they have begun. With property destruction. With murder. I tell you, commissioner, each new one is coming closer. All the underworld is organized. So well that although we know who’s back of it, we can’t pin it on him. Rook Hollister holds the underworld like that.” Cardona made a gesture with his fist.

“An odd theory, Cardona,” rebuked Barth. “If Hollister is actually a big shot, controlling an invisible empire, how do you account for these numerous mob battles? It is obvious that no one man controls the underworld. Otherwise this fierce factionalism would not be existent.”

“It’s not rival mobs, commissioner” — Cardona leaned forward with the air of a card player delivering a trump — “because what I’ve told you goes. Rook Hollister runs the works. Crooks aren’t fighting him — but The Shadow is.”

BARTH almost glared as he heard Cardona’s comment. The commissioner leaned back in his chair and removed his pince-nez. Tilting his head forward, he peered upward, rebukingly, as he began to polish the lenses of his spectacles.

“Your statement is an absurdity,” declared Barth. “Coming from one of your reputed ability, Cardona, it is almost unbelievable. This matter of The Shadow has always been your pet mania.”

“But you yourself have evidence of The Shadow’s work—”

“I know that an unidentified person has occasionally appeared masked in black, to participate in action against crime. But his appearances have been few, not legion. Furthermore, they have been lone ventures. The Shadow, in my opinion, acts but seldom. And invariably on his own.”

“That’s just it commissioner,” blurted Cardona. “Don’t you see what The Shadow’s doing? He’s crossing the dope. Making it look like mobs are smearing mobs. Damaging Rook Hollister’s rep. It’s time we stepped into it, commissioner. The Shadow can’t be everywhere. He’s put crooks on the run; it’s our job to follow it up!”

“Your trouble, inspector” — Barth’s tone assumed a kindliness — “is that you are overzealous. You chafe at inactivity, and are apt to act unwisely when idleness is forced upon you. So to keep you occupied” — Barth reached into a desk drawer and produced a file of papers — “I shall ask you to conduct a different sort of investigation. These documents have been presented to me by certain motion picture exhibitors. They have raised an objection to the conduct of a contest which is being operated by a man named Fergus Waylock.

“You will find the address of Waylock’s office in this file. Go there and investigate his business. If the man is a swindler we must certainly apprehend him. Bring me a prompt report upon this case.”

CARDONA took the file. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the commissioner’s office.

He was fuming, muttering to himself as he passed through a corridor and descended a flight of stairs.

When he had reached the street Joe’s mumbles had become a growl. They ended suddenly as someone clapped him on the shoulder.

Cardona swung about angrily; then delivered a reluctant grin as he recognized Clyde Burke, a reporter from the New York Classic.

“Hello, Joe!” greeted Clyde cheerily. “Looks like you’ve been up to see his nibs. Well, what’s his verdict this time? Handing out more lollipops?”

“That’s about the size of it,” grumbled Joe. “You know what I’ve been after, Burke. I want to take a slam at these racketeers. I know they’ll welsh if we put the screws on them.”

“But Barth says ‘Tut Tut’?”

“That’s it. Says to lay back except when I find a chance to smear a mob that’s on the move. You know what that means. I’ll need tipoffs — and good ones. Well, I haven’t been getting them and it don’t look like I will be.”

Clyde grinned sympathetically; then he noted the file that Cardona was carrying. Joe saw that the reporter had observed the documents that were protruding from the edges of the folder.

“This is something else,” stated the detective. “Barth’s put me on a good old gumshoe job. Cracking down a phony movie contest. Come along with me if you want and you’ll find out Barth’s idea of big-time crime.”

“Going to make a pinch?” queried Clyde.

“I might,” vouchsafed Cardona. “In fact I guess I will just to make Barth feel good. Sometimes you can get somewhere with that bird by playing in with his crack-pot notions.”

Clyde Burke decided to come along. He had every reason to accompany Joe Cardona. Clyde was more than a reporter; he was a secret agent of The Shadow. While The Shadow worked elsewhere, Burke had been assigned to the duty of finding out just what moves the law might be planning.

Detective and reporter started on their way. Both thought that they were following a trail far distant from any which might concern Rook Hollister and his regime of crime. Neither had the slightest inkling that they were bound toward a goal that had much to do with the big shot’s coming schemes.