Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER XVI THE FOURTH PLOT

THE lobby of the Salina Hotel was virtually deserted. This was not unusual. The Salina Hotel was one of the oldest and least-frequented in Fargo, North Dakota. Business at this inn was so light that there was not even a clerk in constant attendance. Guests rang a loud bell on the desk and waited for someone to come in response.

On this particular evening, the man who entered the hotel lobby seemed pleased to note that no one was there to observe him. He walked past the desk, ascended a flight of stairs and walked along a dim corridor until he came to a room which bore the number 206. There he stopped and tapped softly. Leaning close to the door, he whispered a countersign:

“Chicquatil!”

The door opened. The man entered a darkened room. The door closed behind him. A light clicked on, to reveal the fact that the window shade was drawn. The light also snowed the features of the visitor and the man who was there to receive him.

Both of these men were alike in countenance. Their expressionless features sloped away from their flat, pudgy noses. Wordless, the two men smiled. The sinister, twisted curves of their lips formed identical expressions.

More than that, their grotesque leers produced another effect. Each of these men became the exact image of Colpoc, the god of evil whose hideous statue was in the Aztec temple at Zeltapec!

The grinning host waved his visitor to a chair. The two sat down and began a low, important conversation. They became totally oblivious to their secluded surroundings.

“Nobody saw me come in, Charley,” declared the visitor. “You picked a great spot here. I got your postal card three days ago, but I didn’t want to come over from Sharport until I was all set.”

“That’s the stuff, Horace,” responded Charley. “It was best to wait a few days before we got together. I did that with the others. No one suspects anything about a little trip out of town — a few days before the fireworks begin.”

The men were no longer smiling. Their expressions were solemn and impassive. It was curious that there should be two men so exactly like. Horace, the visitor, seemed to realize the fact as he gazed reminiscently at Charley.

But Charley, the host, was quite indifferent. For to him, this was but another meeting. Within the past several weeks, he had held three such consultations with other men who were his doubles. The fact suddenly impressed itself upon him and he mentioned it to his visitor.

“It does seem funny,” he declared, “to have you speak to me as Charley Kistelle. I don’t look any more like myself than the man in the moon.

“This is a great game — being someone else. Back in Tilson, Illinois, I was Earl Northrup. In Barmouth, Maryland, I was Harold Thurber. In Daltona, Georgia, I was Tom Rodan. Here, I’m going to be Horace Fenwick.

“You know, Horace, I thought I was going to hear from Eddie before I did from you. He’s down in a town called Riviere, near New Orleans. Your letter was sent there from New York, so I hopped up here to Fargo. It’s only about twenty miles to Sharport, isn’t it?”

“Twenty-two,” responded the man called Horace Fenwick. “So I edged in ahead of Eddie, eh?”

“Yeah,” responded Charley Kistelle. “He’s got a good lay down there in Louisiana. Calls himself Edward P. Montague. Nice moniker he’s picked. I don’t think Eddie will be ready for me for another week yet.”

Kistelle paused reflectively. He was staring at Fenwick. His eyes were away from the window. Hence Kistelle did not notice a peculiar phenomenon that occurred there.

The window shade was moving very slightly, as though the soft raising of the sash beyond had caused it to flutter. Then the window shade was still, its bottom a few inches from the sill. Yet through that small space, a shaft of blackness was projecting. The stunted outline of a phantom shape was moving inward upon the floor. Then the unnoticed motion ceased.

ALTHOUGH neither Charley Kistelle nor Horace Fenwick realized it, someone was beyond that shade. There, in the outer darkness, someone was listening.

That someone must have been a veritable creature of the night, for not a sound betrayed his hidden presence. Only the unmoving blotch upon the floor could have served as evidence to declare the presence of The Shadow!

“You see,” declared Charley, “everything has been pulled without a slip. I’ve got a man posted in New York. He attends to the forwarding of the mail. Your case has worked just like the others, but it took a little longer, as I wasn’t expecting you just yet.

“When I was in New Orleans, I sent a hotel card to New York. So when your letter blew in, it was forwarded to me. I hopped here in a hurry and sent a card air mail from here in Fargo. As soon as this job is finished, I’m moving south. Probably St. Louis or Kansas City. There I’ll send in another card to New York.”

“What if Eddie’s call comes in and is sent here?” questioned Fenwick anxiously.

“What of it?” responded Kistelle. “I’ll notify this hotel where I’m gone. They’ll forward it. Suppose any one should see the letter? That Aztec signal won’t mean a thing. The only point is that I have to get notification from you fellows far enough in advance. I’ve counted on all of you to have a perfect job ready for me.”

Fenwick laughed.

“I’ve got a corker,” he responded. “Ready any time — if I keep watching. Listen, while I spill the works.”

He looked anxiously about him. Noticing that all seemed well, Fenwick lowered his voice to a buzz and began a soft, careful story, to which Charles Kistelle listened with understanding nods.

“I get you, Horace,” he said. “Old Dagwood will go down to the jeweler’s shop any night you suggest it. Is that the idea?”

“Sure thing,” responded Fenwick.

Kistelle arose and paced the room. He glanced at his watch. It showed half past eight.

“Listen, Horace,” he said suddenly. “It’s a long jump from here to New Orleans. I’ve got the lay here perfectly. Why should we wait? How about tonight?”

“I think we can do it,” returned Fenwick. “This is Saturday. The jeweler stays open until ten. Dagwood is at home. But I’ll have to head for Sharport pretty quick. I wouldn’t want to call Dagwood from Fargo.”

“Get going then,” ordered Kistelle. “I’ve got a car. Bought it yesterday over the phone. It’s waiting for me at a garage. Leave the rest to me. When you come out of that jewelry store, with Raymond Dagwood, give the crescent sign. I’ll be watching. You say it takes ten minutes to go from the jeweler’s to Dagwood’s?”

“Right.”

“You can get to the store at half past nine,” declared Kistelle, thoughtfully. “Then, after you’re gone with Dagwood and the jeweler, I can wait until just before closing time at ten.”

Fenwick nodded, and Kistelle pointed toward the door. Fenwick arose; then hesitated. He curved his right thumb and fingers so they formed a crescent. Pointing them upward, he said:

“All clear.”

Then, turning his hand so that the crescent points were down, he added:

“Lay low.”

Kistelle laughed and again pointed to the door. Fenwick departed.

Kistelle waited several minutes, then picked up his suitcase and strolled down to the lobby.

The clerk was not at the desk. Kistelle printed some words on a card:

Kistelle was chuckling to himself as he walked along a street toward the garage where a car was waiting for him. He had paid his hotel bill in advance. He was through with Fargo now.

AT the garage, Kistelle found the proprietor. Keeping his face turned away as though looking for the car that he had bought, Kistelle introduced himself as Henry Adams and asked about the car.

The owner led him to the rear of the garage. There Kistelle saw a small coupe. He put his bag in the back, peeled off two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar bills and paid the money to the garage man.

Then the new purchaser drove his car out to the street. He stopped to let the garage owner fill the tank. After that, Kistelle pulled away.

As the coupe rolled along the dim side street from the garage, a figure emerged suddenly from a darkened front of a deserted building. Like a living phantom, it swept through the slowly moving coupe. With a swift leap, it landed silently upon the rear of the coupe and nestled down within the tire rack.

To all appearances, this living being immediately became nothing more than a large, dark bundle jammed upon the back of the automobile. Charles Kistelle had no suspicion of what had happened behind him. He did not realize, as he headed along the road to Sharport, that he had gained a mysterious passenger.

In fact, Charles Kistelle was so engaged in a chuckling soliloquy that he had very little thought of anything except the road ahead. He was talking, half-aloud, as the car rolled along.

“Another swell job tonight,” were his elated words. “There’s nobody can spoil this game. Nobody — not even The Shadow!”

The mention of that name brought a contemptuous sneer to the lips of Charles Kistelle.

“The Shadow!” he repeated. “That’s the guy that was after Charley Kistelle. Fine chance he has of ever finding me now. This is the last place he would ever be — on my trail!”

Kistelle’s chuckle sounded above the roar of the speeding motor. Little did the evil plotter suspect that he was not alone — that the very man whose name he had ridiculed was riding five feet behind him.

Charles Kistelle was starting out to commit a perfect crime. The Shadow was accompanying him! The fourth plot of the evil men was destined to encounter unexpected consequences!