The Blue Sphinx

CHAPTER XVI CLIFF SENDS WORD

TWO days later. Again, evening was settling upon Latuna. Lights were aglow in the living room of a suite at the Phoenix Hotel. Konk Zitz was enjoying an early dinner that a waiter had brought to his room.

Two other men were present: Tinker Furris and Cliff Marsland.

“What’s the matter, Tinker?” growled Konk, dropping a chicken leg that he had been gnawing. “All afternoon you’ve been sitting around like you had something worrying you. Spill it!”

“I’m wondering about the blow-off,” retorted Tinker. “Maybe it ain’t none of my business. I’m wondering, just the same.”

“So that’s it?” questioned Konk, turning his attention to a chicken wing. “Well, it’s coming. Tomorrow night.”

Cliff Marsland sat silent, without making a move. This was the word for which he had been waiting. Tinker, however, showed no signs of pleasure.

“It ought to be tonight,” he said. “Should have been last night.”

“What do you know about it?” snarled Konk.

“Well,” admitted Tinker, “maybe I don’t know much—”

“You’re right you don’t! Listen, mug, while I tell you a few things. You’ve asked for them, so I’m talking. Marsland can listen in.

“The whole crowd knows there’s going to be a blow-off. They’ve figured it, even though they don’t know what it’s all about. But the blow-off couldn’t come until the police chief yanked his coppers off this beat of theirs. That’s simple, ain’t it?”

Tinker nodded his understanding.

“There was no hurry for the blow-off,” went on Konk. “It could come next week — maybe next month. Sooner the better, of course, but no big hurry so long as we all played goody.”

“I get that, Konk.”

“Glad you do. Well, Grewling yanks the bulls. Two nights ago. But it came kind of sudden. It wouldn’t have been good stuff to move right off. So I began figuring things out. I got word — I got ideas, I mean — that tomorrow night would be best.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you why. Tonight there’s a bunch of stuffed shirts meeting by request of the mayor. Going to give Police Chief Grewling a hearing. Up at that wealthy guy’s house. Strafford Malden — that’s his name.”

“The mayor’s going to be there, ain’t he?”

“Sure. And both the newspaper editors. Big Mouth Knode and Saphead Dunham. How do you like those monikers, Tinker?”

“They sound all right. But it makes me think tonight would be the time to pull the blow-off.”

“Yeah,” admitted Konk, “it would, in a pinch. But there ain’t going to be any pinch. I sort of figure tomorrow night would be better.”

“Well, your word goes.”

“THAT’S the way to look at it, Tinker. You see, I want to make these mugs look like a bunch of palookas. Hit them when they think they’re all settled. I’d sort of like to see what happens up there tonight.”

“You mean with Grewling?”

“Yeah. It won’t hurt us either way. Suppose Grewling gets the bounce. The mayor will make some dub police chief. He won’t watch here, because the mayor called that quits. So we can move tomorrow night. Boy, won’t we make that new chief look like a goof!”

“That ain’t bad, Konk,” affirmed Tinker, with a grin. “But what if Grewling keeps his job?”

“Well,” explained Konk, “he’ll have to shake hands with the mayor. They’ll compromise. Promise to work together. This hotel was their sore point. They won’t talk about it. If they do decide to put men back on the job, it’ll be a couple of days before they do.”

“That sounds likely enough.”

“So we’ll move tomorrow night anyway. And if Grewling is back on the job, we’ll show him up. The skids will be under him proper when we pull the blow-off.”

“It works great both ways, Konk.”

“You’re right it does! Don’t get me wrong, though. The blow-off is what really counts. I just figured it would be real ripe tomorrow.”

Zitz attacked the remnants of his dinner. Several minutes passed; then Tinker brought up another subject.

“Say, Konk,” he remarked, “I was thinking about something else. This guy Drury. He dropped in to see you last night. He was here the night before. You said something about him coming up late tonight.”

“That’s right. He is.”

“Well, it ain’t such a good idea, is it, to be pals with a news hawk like him?”

Konk chuckled as he pushed his plate aside.

“I’m horsing the mug,” he declared. “Kidding him along while I pump him dry. Listen. He’s spilled some good stuff, without knowing it. He’s let me in on what Knode’s going to do next.”

“What’s that?”

“Pan the mayor.”

“He’s been doing that all along.”

“Sure. But it’s going to be on account of us.”

“How?”

“Well, Drury’s looking for a story. He’s admitted it. Some funny business to be pulled by this outfit. So Knode can throw the harpoon into Rush. That’s a laugh, eh?”

“You’re going to give Drury a story?”

“So I’ve been telling him. But that’s a stall. I’m keeping him eagerlike. So he won’t wise up that the blow-off is due. He’ll get his story tomorrow night.”

“Great stuff, Konk.”

Zitz made no reply. Instead, he rose from the table, tossed his napkin aside and lighted a cigarette. He strolled about for a few minutes, then nudged his thumb toward the door.

“So long, mugs,” he said. “Tell the boys downstairs I want to see them in about ten minutes. Then go on out and eat. Come back inside an hour. We’ll stage a poker game. Tell the waiter to come up for this table — no, never mind. I’ll call him.”

KONK was stepping toward the telephone when Cliff and Tinker went out. To Cliff, the action was suspicious. He wondered if Konk had made the statement to cover the fact that he was about to make an outside call.

This impression increased when they reached the lobby. While Tinker went in the taproom to speak to other crooks, Cliff watched the dining room and saw no sign of a waiter coming to the elevator. Service was unusually prompt at the Phoenix. Cliff doubted that Konk had called the dining room.

That, however, was a secondary matter. Cliff had learned the vital news that The Shadow had been awaiting; the night when Konk Zitz and his crew were to strike. Cliff had a hunch that somehow The Shadow had divined the purpose of these men in Latuna. He believed that The Shadow intended to beat them to some game.

Yet Cliff, himself, had gained no inkling of what Konk Zitz was planning. Except for reference to a coming “blow-off,” the crook leader had been close-mouthed.

While Tinker was talking to the bunch in the taproom, Cliff strolled to a writing desk. He sat down, took a sheet of hotel stationery, and began to write a succession of figures, which he crossed out with lines and x marks. He blotted this sheet and was studying the figures when Tinker arrived from the taproom.

“What’s the gag?” quizzed Tinker; looking at the paper.

“Remember that roulette system I was telling Dopey about?” returned Cliff. “Well, this is it. Some of the figures are wrong, though. Wait — I’ll do it over.”

He crumpled the paper and tossed it in a wastebasket. Tinker offered an objection as Cliff took a fresh piece of paper from the rack.

“It don’t interest me,” he growled. “Show it to Dopey when you see him. Come on, let’s head for the beanery. Konk wants us back for the poker game.”

Cliff arose and went with Tinker. The pock-faced ruffian continued to growl as they reached the street. Cliff had paused there to light a cigarette. His first match went out.

“Mushmug was in the taproom,” Tinker informed. “You know the guy. That funny-looking gumshoe that Grewling had watching us.”

“I thought Grewling had called off his bloodhounds,” returned Cliff, as he finally managed to get a light.

“He did,” said Tinker, as they started for the beanery. “Mushmug ain’t here on duty. It’s his night off.”

“Just hanging around the taproom, eh?”

“Yeah. Looks like he’s trying to stand in right with Grewling. Figures the police chief will come out on top. Then he can report that he was watching us. I told the gang to mention it to Konk.”

“He’ll take care of it, Tinker.”

“Yeah. Mushmug’s just a dumb dick.”

ACROSS the street, a young man had watched Cliff and Tinker come from the Phoenix Hotel. It was Harry Vincent; and this agent of The Shadow had noted Cliff’s difficulties with the match.

Crossing the street, Harry strolled into the Phoenix lobby. He bought three picture post cards and went to the table where Cliff had been figuring his roulette system.

Harry wrote messages and addressed the post cards. He picked up the blotter that Cliff had used. On its surface, Harry noted the imprint of the blotted figures. They formed a coded message.

The numerical code was one that The Shadow’s agents used frequently. They were trained in reading it in looking-glass fashion. Briefly, the marks on the blotter told Harry Vincent the all-important news: Konk Zitz had set tomorrow night.

Harry blotted his post cards, thus obliterating traces of Cliff’s penmanship. He walked across the lobby, posted the cards and strolled from the Phoenix Hotel.

A few minutes later, he entered his own hotel and rode up to the sixth floor. In his room he inscribed a brief message to The Shadow, thrust it under the door of Room 640 and went out.

WITHIN that room, a quiet-looking personage noted the arrival of the note. As Henry Arnaud, The Shadow arose and extinguished the big light. By the writing table lamp, he opened and read the message. He laughed softly as he clicked off the lamp.

A short interval; then faint swishes announced his departure in the attire of The Shadow.

Half an hour later, a beetlelike form scaled the side wall of the Latuna Museum. The Shadow entered the dome and swung to the ledge. Here, he performed an action which proved that he had made more than one previous visit to the museum. Clinging to the ledge, he found a wire and carried it down with him during his descent.

On the moonlit floor beside the Blue Sphinx, The Shadow drew upon this wire. It was affixed to a bar in the dome; as The Shadow pulled carefully, the stout strand tightened. A box swung from the ledge, up toward the dome. It descended as The Shadow carefully paid out the wire. The box settled to the floor.

The Shadow had brought this to the museum on some previous visit. He had planted it upon the ledge. It was to serve him in some fashion tonight. This was the time for which The Shadow had been waiting. He had needed surety that crooks were ready to move.

The box was a foot square. From its interior, The Shadow removed an object that looked like a drill. He paused suddenly as the museum trembled slightly in response to a muffled blast from the neighboring quarry. Then he closed the box and set it between the huge front paws of the stone sphinx.

The pedestal on which the statue rested was made in sections, which were mortared together. Picking one of these vulnerable spots, The Shadow set to work with the drill. The strength with which he handled the implement brought immediate results. Mortar crackled and fell with slight clicks.

The noise was not great enough to be heard outside the Sphinx Room. The Shadow never desisted from his work. The drill penetrated further.

Ending his work, The Shadow moved along the pedestal and attacked another mortared crevice.

Gauged by the time that he had taken with the first drilling, this hidden worker would have a few hours of work ahead, if he intended to drill holes all along the pedestal. Whatever his purpose, The Shadow showed no great haste.

Tonight, he had gained Cliff’s definite report that crime was not slated until the morrow. Tonight belonged to The Shadow. He was using these hours to anticipate some scheme which he knew was in the making.

Time moved slowly by while The Shadow continued his steady, methodical drilling. Moonlight, filtering through the glass dome, showed that untiring figure as a blotch of swaying blackness, close beside the time-scarred surface of the great Blue Sphinx.