The Dark Death

CHAPTER XVII. THE SCHEMER RESUMES

FOUR days had passed since The Shadow’s discovery of Seth Brophy’s body. Two men of crime were still missing: Cuyler Willington and Gyp Tangoli. The furor aroused by the murders in the Club Cadiz had died away.

The police had gained no inkling of Cuyler Willington’s part in murder. Oddly, however, they were searching for the man whom Willington sought. The law was after Gyp Tangoli for a matter other than the slaughter at the Club Cadiz.

The fight at the Delphin Apartments had been laid on Gyp Tangoli. It was believed that Gyp, as the tenant of Apartment 3 G, had been responsible for the deaths of Skeeter Wigan and an unidentified Hindu.

The report of the trouble at Gyp Tangoli’s had been but a small item in the daily newspapers. But along the grapevine telegraph of the underworld, it was an important subject. The underworld knew that the bulls were after Gyp Tangoli. The underworld knew also that Gyp had disappeared.

No one had reported Gyp as having been at the Club Cadiz on the night of slaughter. In fact, the dead bodies in his apartment had served him as an alibi; for the fight there had taken place just before the massacre at the Club Cadiz.

As for Cuyler Willington, his position was perfect so far as the law was concerned. Moving in select circles, this crook felt no fear of implication in the Club Cadiz outrage. He was keeping out of sight on account of Gyp Tangoli.

This was the fourth evening since The Shadow’s investigation at Brophy’s house. The night was drizzly.

City traffic was hampered by the mean weather. Taxis were few along Sixth Avenue. The drivers preferred thoroughfares where there was no chance of skidding into elevated posts.

One cab, however, was sloshing directly along the avenue, close to the curb. It came almost to a stop; then moved on a dozen yards and halted. Peering through the rain, the driver spied a number over an old battered door. He announced to his passenger that they had reached the destination.

The man who alighted was wearing a raincoat, with the collar turned up about his face. He paid the driver; when the cab pulled away, he went up the steps to the battered door and rang the bell.

The door opened. A stooped figure met the visitor. The two men went up a flight of darkened stairs and entered a room that was lighted by a single gas jet.

The visitor doffed his hat and coat. His pallid features were revealed in the light. This man who had come to the old house on Sixth Avenue was Cuyler Willington.

THE stoop-shouldered fellow who had admitted Willington, was an evil-faced scoundrel whose features were wizened and dusky. He was wearing a shabby smoking jacket and a black fez with a gold tassel.

He was puffing a large pipe, and his lips showed a toothless grin.

“It is good you are here, Mr. Willington,” declared the man with the fez. “I have wondered every day when you would come. At last you are here.”

“Yes,” chuckled Willington, “I’m here, Rami Zaka. There would have been no use in coming earlier. It was safer for me to remain at the little hotel where I am staying.”

“I have kept the box that you sent to me,” declared Rami Zaka. “It’s in the storeroom, with the elephant table. Would you like to see them?”

“Not yet.” Willington reached to his raincoat pocket. He brought out a newspaper that was dampened by the rain. “I want you to read this advertisement, Rami Zaka.”

The dark man took the newspaper. He studied the column that Willington had indicated. His eyes became glaring.

“So!” hissed Rami Zaka, “He is back! That fake who calls himself swami Marabout Bey. Bah! He was the one who hurt the business which I had been doing.”

“Do you know who he really is?” questioned Willington.

Rami Zaka shook his head. Willington took the newspaper and turned to another page. He pointed to a news column, where a brief item mentioned the search for Gyp Tangoli.

“What!” exclaimed Rami Zaka, eagerly. “This Gyp Tangoli — he is Swami Marabout Bey also? Ha! That will be good for me. I shall speak to the police—”

“Keep your fez on,” interposed Willington, with a laugh. “You won’t talk to the law just yet, Rami Zaka. Sit down and listen. I have something to tell you.”

Rami Zaka quieted. He perched, Turkish fashion, upon a little stool that stood in the corner. Willington began to talk.

“You remember, Rami,” he said, “that this Swami Bey worked for me at one time. I found him unreliable. I let him go. He quit the swami racket and went around under his right name: Gyp Tangoli.”

“He is no gypsy—”

“He looks like one. They call him Gyp for a nickname. Anyway, Gyp Tangoli tried to make trouble for me, not so long ago. I ducked out of sight. Gyp had to do the same, on account of the bad business tip at his apartment.”

Willington was fixing a cigarette in his holder; apparently that engaged his attention while he spoke.

Actually, he was eyeing Rami Zaka beneath lowered brows. He could see that the wizened man was accepting the story.

“Gyp is not afraid of me,” went on Willington. “He thinks that he has me on the run. That is why he went back into the swami racket. He thinks he is safe. The worst of it is that if the police get him, they won’t be able to pin anything on him.”

“Men were killed in his apartment recently—”

“That doesn’t prove that he was the murderer. The same way with a lot of crooked stuff that Gyp pulled. The law needs proof. To merely expose him as a fake would gain us nothing. I have a better scheme.”

Willington paused. Rami Zaka puffed tensely at his pipe. Willington eyed the stoop-shouldered man.

Rami Zaka was not a crook. Willington was basing his plan upon the fellow’s love of fakery.

“Gyp Tangoli knows the swami business.” remarked Willington. “Read that ad. It says that he and his company of Hindu mystics have opened their new psychic parlors. You know who will go there. People who have lots of money.”

Rami Zaka nodded wisely.

“Our game is to queer Gyp’s racket,” resumed Willington. “To do it, we will have to keep tabs on him. That is why I asked you about the elephant table. It has the hollow base, where you used to keep the midget hidden.”

“That is right,” nodded Rami Zaka. “Little Poley used to sit in there for hours at a time, hearing what people said when they came into my reception room. They admired that table, with its four posts like elephant trunks. They never knew that the little man was inside.”

“And Gyp Tangoli — Swami Marabout Bey — will not know what is inside that table when you sell it to him.”

RAMI ZAKA’S eyes opened wide. The man lowered his pipe. He began to understand; his grin appeared. Then the expression faded. Rami Zaka shook his head.

“It will not do,” he declared. “Little Poley is no longer here. What if he was? What if we could find another like him? If I sell the table to Swami Marabout Bey, he would find that someone was inside it. Our little man could not stay there all the while.”

“We’re putting something else inside the table,” explained Willington. “We won’t use a midget. We’ll use a machine.”

“A machine? Is that what you sent me in the box?”

“Yes. A silent recording device. It starts automatically and stops at the sound of a human voice.”

“Ah! You mean it will catch all that is said in the swami’s seance room?”

“Exactly. It can stay there indefinitely.”

Rami Zaka began to nod; then paused.

“How will we get the table back?” he questioned.

“Easily,” replied Willington, smoothly. “Sell it to Gyp Tangoli. Cheap. Meet his terms; then explain that you will have to have the table back for just one seance that you are going to give. And when you deliver the table it will be necessary for you to connect the electric wire from the recording device into a floor plug. This will have to be done unseen.

“Tangoli can use the table in the meantime, paying you part of the cash. After a few days, you go back and get it. We will keep it for a few hours. During that time, we can remove the recording machine.”

“And we will know all about the swami’s game,” chortled Rami Zaka, springing from his perch. “It is a wonderful idea, Mr. Willington. What will we do after that?”

“Start a swami racket of our own. Chisel in on his best customers. I can stay out of sight — you a silent partner. Come. Rami, let’s see the elephant table.”

Rami Zaka led the way into an apartment that served as a storeroom. Two objects caught Willington’s eye: One was the elephant table; the other the crate that contained the Q-ray machine. He had brought it here for storage, after his departure from the Club Cadiz.

THE elephant table was a massive piece of furniture. It consisted of a solid pedestal. Its corner posts were formed by elephant heads, with long trunks extending down to the base. In the center of the top was a circular stand, intended to receive a crystal ball.

Rami Zaka approached and gave a twist to the cylinder. It unscrewed under pressure and came out, to show a space beneath. Reaching in, the wizened fellow undid hidden clamps. He lifted off the top of the elephant table. He pointed to tiny air holes that could not be seen from the outside, due to the darkness within the big pedestal.

“All right,” said Willington with a nod. “It is large enough. Help me open the box.”

They pried the top of the crate and brought out the Q-ray machine. Rami Zaka looked puzzled at the oddity of the device. Willington made no comment other than a gesture to lift the machine into the elephant table. The space proved ample.

Willington noted that the all-important lever was below the surface of the elephant table. He looked about, found a piece of wire and attached it to the lever. He replaced the top of the table, reached in and tightened the clamps. Then he drew out the end of the wire.

Examining the cylinder that went in the center of the top, Willington noted that it had a slight projection beneath. He carefully coiled the wire about this knoblike section. Allowing some slack, he began to screw the cylinder into place.

When this was nearly accomplished, Willington felt the resistance of the wire. He smiled.

The slack was gone. Another turn of that cylinder, accomplished against pressure, would cause the wire to draw the lever. The apparatus was set for murder. All that it needed would be a final twist.

“Touch nothing,” said Willington, warningly, as he turned to Rami Zaka. “The mechanism is as I want it. Go to see the swami tonight. Be friendly. Pretend that you need money. Offer him the table. Let me know how you succeed. I shall do the rest.”

Rami Zaka nodded in agreement. He ushered his visitor from the storeroom. Willington donned hat and coat and left the dismal little apartment.

Ten minutes after Willington’s departure, Rami Zaka also fared forth.

One hour later, the schemer received a telephone call at the obscure hotel where he was stopping. It was from Rami Zaka. The wizened seer had made a bargain with Swami Marabout Bey. Gyp Tangoli would receive the table tomorrow.

Standing by the window of his room, Cuyler Willington looked out toward the dreary glow of the city that shone through the misty night. His lips formed a contemptuous smile. One that symbolized a triumph that the murderer had long anticipated.