Lingo

CHAPTER IX. DOUBLE DEATH

HAWKEYE’S trip to put in a report was one that would require no more than ten minutes. Yet in that short period, events were due to happen. The first occurred outside of the garage when a blackened, shrouded shape made momentary appearance in the lamplight.

The Shadow, independent of Hawkeye, had returned to this vicinity. He had as yet received no report concerning Trip Burley’s journeying; but that, apparently, made no difference in his plans.

The Shadow’s form glided from view. The cloaked arrival had entered the garage. He was making for the secret elevator, planning a surreptitious visit to Rook Hollister’s apartment. Apparently, The Shadow had decided it was time to listen in on the big shot’s coming plans.

UPSTAIRS, Trip Burley was crouching in the little dressing room. Coming up by elevator, Trip had alighted cautiously after opening the paneled door. Peering into the living room, Trip observed a man standing at the rear window.

It was Donald Manthell. Glass in one hand, cigar in the other, the would-be movie star was staring out toward the city’s glow.

Trip was listening to a sound outside. The approaching rumble of an elevated train. A leer showed on the mobleader’s face. Time for action had come. Drawing hand from pocket, Trip produced a glimmering revolver. With a vicious snarl, he sprang into the living room.

Manthell wheeled. Startled, he saw the threatening foe. His hands trembled. That action brought a grin to Trip’s lips, a steadiness to his blinking, shifty eyes. For Trip, despite the fact that he was in the game, had been stopped cold by Manthell’s striking resemblance to Rook Hollister.

In fact, Trip had thought for an instant that he was face to face with his real chief. He believed that plans had gone wrong. It was Manthell’s quiver that told him this was the double; it was that same tremor that sealed Manthell’s doom.

Trip hesitated no longer. The rumble from the elevated had become a roar. As Manthell stood transfixed, save for his shaking, Trip made another leap toward him. Jabbing the point of his revolver squarely against Manthell’s breast, the mobleader fired.

The burst of Trip’s stub-nosed gat was drowned by the window-rattling clatter of the elevated. Even to the murderer himself the gunshot was no more than an insignificant pop. But its work had been complete.

Manthell’s collapse was automatic. As Trip stepped back, his victim rolled upon the floor. The glass bounded on a tufted rug, spilling its liquid contents. The cigar rolled to the bare floor and lay there, glowing.

Trip had been brutally efficient. His bullet, delivered from six-inch range, had found Manthell’s heart.

Rook Hollister’s double had died almost instantly, with no more than a gasping murmur.

The fading roar of the elevated train was an aftermath of murder. Trip grinned viciously. Pocketing his revolver, he turned about and started for the little dressing room. His work was finished. It was time for prompt departure.

The living room was remote from the actual front of the apartment. Rook Hollister had always demanded seclusion and never admitted the gorillas who kept watch in the hotel. Hence Trip’s timed shot had been heard by no one. That had been in accord with prearranged plans.

AS Trip neared the panel that hid the elevator shaft, he stopped short. His ears caught the murmur of a dying rumble, one that must have begun while he was slaying Manthell. Someone had opened the door at the bottom of the elevator shaft. That same person must have found and pressed a hidden button that served to bring the car down.

Trip listened. The sound of the mechanism began again. The elevator was coming up.

Trip stared blankly at the paneled door. This did not fit in with his plans. So far as Trip knew, only two men, besides himself were aware of the existence of this secret elevator. One was Rook Hollister; the other, Bart Koplin.

Neither was due to return. Yet it could be no one other than Rook or Bart — so, at least, Trip believed.

Doubt seized the murderer. He stood back from the panel, revolver leveled in his hand.

The rumble ceased. The elevator had reached the top. Trip waited, tensely straining. The door did not open immediately.

Half a minute passed. While he waited, Trip could hear the approach of another train on the elevated. Its sound was increasing to a roar.

Of a sudden, the door slid open to reveal the lighted elevator. Caught in his strained attitude, Trip was momentarily paralyzed by the sight before him. Almost sure that it would be Rook or Bart, convinced that an intruder would certainly be someone of a slinking type, the killer was totally unprepared for the surprise that he received.

The occupant of the elevator was The Shadow. Cloaked form fully revealed in the light; eyes burning from beneath extended hat-brim, the grim avenger was clutching a leveled automatic in one fist, its muzzle ready to cover any one who might plan to block his way.

THE SHADOW had taken a dangerous trip. But in so doing, he had counted upon the chance that visitors other than Trip Burley might be users of this secret lift. He had come up with the belief that any blocker would be prepared to challenge as an opening.

The sudden click of the light switch at the top of the shaft had increased The Shadow’s quicksteps. He had found the release for the door, he had held an automatic ready while his free hand had pressed the catch.

The Shadow was in light — an open target for Trip Burley. But the mobleader, himself, was also visible to The Shadow. Trip had relied upon the semi-gloom of the dressing room, forgetting that it was caused by the light from the living room; and that he was standing directly between the elevator and the living room door.

Where Trip saw a sinister, terrifying figure that even the bright light could not fully reveal, The Shadow saw a skulking outline framed against the light from the door of the living room. Where Trip faced a big automatic, The Shadow spotted the telltale glitter of a puny revolver.

The Shadow was prepared for the sight of some crouching foe. Trip, in turn, had foreseen the possibility of an enemy in the elevator. But where The Shadow’s antagonist was the type he had expected, Trip’s enemy was more formidable than he had anticipated.

In hand to hand encounter, The Shadow frequently relied upon the surprise which he created through his own appearance. Time and again, evil fighters had quailed at the crucial moment. Only the most notorious of mobland killers were competent to meet The Shadow without a flinch.

Trip Burley was a second-rater. Rook Hollister had chosen him as a tool because of that very fact. The big shot had known that Trip could do a job like the slaying of Donald Manthell; hence he had appointed him to that task.

But the sight of a foe who could strike back was enough to make Trip falter. The opening door had given him the advantage. Trip had the bead and was ready to use it; but his trigger finger lacked the quickness of response required for this moment.

Amid the roar of the second elevated train came the burst of a gun accompanied by long-tongued flame.

The flash was from The Shadow’s automatic. Delivered with split-second swiftness, it ended Trip’s attempt. The mobleader sagged, his finger slipping from the trigger of his revolver.

In this crisis, The Shadow had fired to kill. He had known that his foe must be a desperado; he had also recognized that his own life depended upon swift and certain action.

As Trip wavered and sprawled sidewise on the floor, The Shadow sprang forward to the door of the living room, ready to meet other comers.

He stopped short on the threshold. Sprawled at the opposite side of the room he saw the figure of Donald Manthell.

APPROACHING, The Shadow studied the dead man. He recognized the features of Rook Hollister. A laugh came from The Shadow’s hidden lips. Repressed, it sounded as an aftermath to the fading clatter of the second train.

The Shadow knew that he had eliminated a murderer. To all appearances, Trip Burley had double-crossed Rook Hollister. The tool had presumably killed his chief. That, to The Shadow, was incongruous.

Denizens of the underworld might have deemed Trip Burley capable of rubbing out Rook Hollister. In the bad lands Trip had built himself a reputation of a mobleader. But The Shadow knew the source of Trip’s repute. Rook Hollister had deliberately aided Trip in his bluff by giving the second-rate mobleader an undeserved lieutenancy.

The Shadow had recognized that fact long since Hawkeye’s trailing had shown definitely that Trip was in league with Rook and had therefore substantiated The Shadow’s assumptions.

Odd happenings were frequent in the affairs of the underworld. It was possible that Trip could have shown nerve enough to rub out Rook. On the contrary, it was probable that some other explanation could be found.

Searching the body that looked like Rook’s, The Shadow found no traces of a gun. Turning, he went back into the room where Trip’s form lay.

Trip’s revolver lay close by the opening to the elevator. It was a .32; that fact gave The Shadow a new impression. Certain killers might have ventured forth with a weapon of such puny caliber, but not Trip Burley if he had planned so momentous a task as the murder of Rook Hollister.

Turning on the light of the dressing room The Shadow looked about and spied the telephone that rested on a table. He lifted the instrument and dialed a number. A quiet voice came over the wire. It was Burbank.

In whispered tones The Shadow called for reports. He received one that Burbank had just gained from Hawkeye. The Shadow learned the details of the Chinatown meeting as Hawkeye had observed them.

He completed his call.

One thing was certain. Trip Burley, by his act of murder had placed himself in line for appointment in Rook Hollister’s stead. His haste hither could have been inspired by the belief that others of Rook’s lieutenants might also know of the secret elevator and be contemplating murder on their own.

That, however did not nullify The Shadow’s previous conclusions. Trip’s .32 still impressed him as a weapon of too trivial proportions. The mobleader might have used it to slay a harmless victim; but not to deal with Rook.

Burns on the murdered man’s shirt front showed a close-range shot. It was odd that Rook should have put up no fight while facing Trip at less than a yard’s distance.

A TABLE drawer was partly opened. The Shadow pulled it out. Inside he saw the glimmer of a gun. He removed the weapon. It was an expensive automatic, of medium caliber, with inlaid handle bearing the initial “H.”

Evidently a pistol that Rook had prized. One that he kept in readiness in case of intruders. The Shadow placed the loaded weapon beneath his cloak. His low-toned laugh indicated a new purpose.

The Shadow, like Trip Burley, had profited by a shot fired while a train was passing on the elevated. He had downed a murderer; but as circumstances now stood there was every indication that someone beside the two dead men had participated in gunfire.

The Shadow saw a reason to nullify that situation. He left Trip’s .32 beside the dead mobleader’s body.

That remained as an indication that Trip had actually slain the man in the living room. Moving in to where Manthell’s body lay, The Shadow performed two actions.

His first was to raise the dead man’s hands, each in turn, and press thumb and fingers upon the surface of a waxed paper that he produced from beneath his cloak.

That done, The Shadow took his own automatic — the .45 with which he had felled Trip Burley — and pressed it into Manthell’s right hand. Carefully folding the waxed paper, The Shadow placed it beneath his cloak along with the initialed pistol which he had removed from the table drawer.

Gliding swiftly into the dressing room, The Shadow extinguished the light. His sinister laugh sounded in a prophetic mirthless tone as he entered the secret elevator. Again The Shadow laughed.

The panel clicked shut as parting echoes faded in the hollowness of the dressing room. Then came the muffled grinding of the descending elevator. The Shadow had departed from this place where double death had struck.