Lingo

CHAPTER VII. THE PLANT

EVENING had arrived. Rook Hollister was seated in the living room of his apartment. The big shot had a caller. His visitor was Trip Burley. The two were engaged in an important discussion.

“The word goes out tonight, Rook,” Trip was saying. “There can’t be no argument about it. The only guy that stood up for you was Louie Caparani. And Louie—”

“I know all about Louie,” interposed Rook. “He was for rubbing me out if the job went sour at the Casino Rouge. We know how the meeting’s coming out. We’ve talked that part of it.

“Your job, Trip, is to pull the gag I told you. Spring this business about who’s to be the big shot when I’m through.”

Trip nodded. Then he raised an objection.

“Only one trouble, Rook,” he said. “Suppose Blitz and Louie agree on a guy between them. If they do, they’ll turn down my proposition.”

“There’s no bird big enough to suit the rest of the bunch, Trip. Suppose Blitz and Louie do pick the guy. Every other gazebo will be peeved, even though he won’t show it. But if you spring your gag and stick to it, the majority will be with you.”

Trip grinned. This satisfied him.

“You’ll be sitting pretty, Trip,” declared Rook. “They’ll give you credit for the idea. And they won’t be sore when it turns out to your favor afterward. Because when you’ve come up here and staged the next act, they’re going to figure you are a big shot.”

Trip’s grin increased. Rook motioned to the door of the dressing room. It was time for Trip to be on his way. The mobleader obeyed the big shot’s injunction.

“You’ll know how to reach me afterward,” reminded Rook, as he accompanied Trip to the elevator.

“See Prexy Storlick, up on the Hotel Moselle Roof. But use your bean about it.

“Forget this place. Pick your own headquarters. Act like you were a big shot. Any tips you need, you’ll get from me. All right, Trip. Good luck.”

Trip descended in the elevator. He came out into the garage and sidled to the street. He looked up and down as he made his exit. Seeing no one, he headed for a corner.

TRIP had gone scarcely more than a dozen yards before a figure moved out upon his trail. Hawkeye had followed Trip here. The crafty spotter had waited until Trip’s sojourn at Rook’s was ended. Hawkeye had resumed his trail.

Shortly after Hawkeye had started on Trip’s trail, a block of blackness detached itself from a wall on the opposite side of the street. The dark stripe became a cloaked form. It glided away in the opposite direction.

The Shadow, too, had been on watch to make sure that Hawkeye took up Trip’s path. Satisfied that his agent would not lose the trail, The Shadow was departing to manage business of his own.

More minutes passed in the secluded street. Then from the direction of the avenue two men put in an appearance. The light near the obscure entrance to the garage showed their faces.

One was Bart Koplin, the other Donald Manthell. As they reached the garage entrance, Bart motioned his companion through the opening. A bit puzzled, Manthell followed as Bart led the way to the secret elevator.

UP in his apartment, Rook Hollister had completed the packing of a large suitcase. He was standing in the lighted dressing room when he heard the slight buzz of the elevator. Instinctively Rook sprang toward the table where he kept the revolver. He stopped short grinning.

No need for that tonight. He knew who these visitors would be. But they were coming earlier than Rook had expected, and there was every reason why he should be out of sight when they arrived. Grabbing the suitcase Rook ducked into a closet in the corner of the dressing room.

The slight rumble stopped. The paneled door of the elevator came open. Bart and Manthell stepped out.

The latter was looking curiously at the light which had appeared at the top of the shaft. Then Bart closed the door and led the way into the living room.

Manthell gazed about at the sumptuous surroundings. Bart waved him to a chair and offered a box of cigars. Manthell smiled as he lighted a perfecto.

“Swell place you’ve got here,” remarked the man who looked like Rook Hollister. “But what’s the idea of the tricky entrance and the funny elevator?”

“It used to be a service elevator,” returned Bart. “The fellow who built the hotel lived in this apartment. He wanted a private way to his garage too. He rigged the elevator the way you saw it.

“I figured I might as well use it. It’s a shortcut to the back street and that makes it quicker to the subway. That’s why we came in this way instead of through the lobby.”

“You’ve treated me like a prince,” commented Manthell. “Giving me the lowdown on this fake contest stuff. Handing me that swell dinner and bringing me here so I could meet Mr. Sargon, of Enterprise Exhibitors—”

“Forget it, Manthell,” broke in Bart. “I’m trying to give you a break that’s all. When you told me you were no rookie at the movie business I figured Sargon ought to meet you.”

“I only worked in a few shorts when I was out on the coast. That was more than a year ago. Minor parts too. Then I had to go back to Ohio—”

“And when you heard of the movie contest you thought you’d take a stab at it. Well, we’ll tell all that to Sargon. Say” — Bart paused to eye his companion — “I’ve got an idea that you ought to like.” Bart arose and conducted Manthell into another room. He opened the drawer of a bureau to display a collection of stiff shirts. Swinging the door of a closet he brought out an expensive tuxedo on its hanger.

“Tog yourself in some of these glad rags,” suggested Bart. “There’s some dress shoes here in the closet. They’ll go well with the layout.”

“None of this is my size,” objected Manthell, looking dubiously at the detective’s bulk. “You’re a lot bigger than I am, Mr. Koplin.”

“These duds belong to a friend of mine,” explained Bart. “He’s about your build. Try them on, anyway.” Manthell complied. The clothes fitted him almost exactly. The shoes were a trifle tight; but he managed to squeeze his feet into them remarking that he would not be doing any walking while here.

They strolled out into the living room. Bart nodded approvingly as he noted the new sartorial effect. His face showed pleasure but Manthell did not guess the reason. Bart was observing an added resemblance between Donald Manthell and Rook Hollister.

“Help yourself to a drink,” suggested Bart indicating bottles and glasses on a sideboard. “Then make yourself at home. I’m going out to meet Mr. Sargon. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

WHILE Manthell was pouring out a glass, Bart went back into the room that they had just left. Out of Manthell’s view the private detective pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed and piled Manthell’s clothes in it.

When he returned into the living room, Bart was carrying the bag. He made no comment regarding it. He merely waved good-by to his guest and walked into the dressing room to take the elevator.

As he opened the door of the lift, Bart dropped back. A man was standing there in the light. Bart’s startlement ended as he recognized Rook Hollister. Stepping in with the big shot, Bart closed the door.

Rook pressed the lever. The car descended.

“I was still here when you came in,” remarked Rook as they descended in the darkness, “so I thought I’d better wait for you. Everything working right?”

“Great!” chuckled Bart. “Say — the guy’s a dead ringer for you Rook! When I shoved him into that tux you left in the bedroom closet, you’d have thought he was your own reflection, if you’d seen him.”

“All the better,” growled Rook as the car arrived at the ground level. “You’ve got his outfit in the bag all right?”

“Sure. And he’s waiting for me to come back with Sargon, the big guy with Enterprise. He fell for the stall. All the better, because he’d worked in some shorts out in Hollywood. He thinks he’d have been a star if he’d stayed there.”

“Tough for him; he didn’t stay,” Rook answered. “All right Bart. Take it easy when we move into the garage. I don’t want anybody to spot me. We’ll grab a cab over on the avenue.”

The two men moved out in silence. They reached the street unobserved and traced their course toward the avenue. Rook Hollister was making a secret getaway.

No eyes were here to view the big shot’s departure. Both The Shadow and Hawkeye were gone, each to a new task. Neither had lingered long enough to view the arrival of Bart and Manthell.

So far the big shot’s game lay undiscovered. Bart Koplin and Trip Burley alone knew its details. All others who knew Rook Hollister believed that the big shot was still in his apartment, awaiting mobland’s verdict.

To all appearances Rook still was there. The occupant of Rook’s suite looked exactly like the big shot.

For Bart had left Donald Manthell there as a plant whose identity was calculated to deceive expected visitors.