The Dark Death

CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEXT NIGHT

THE address of Swami Marabout Bey was that of an old house on Fifty-eighth Street. The place was an unpretentious residence that had been converted, years ago, into an apartment building.

On the same night that Cuyler Willington held his meeting with Rami Zaka, a vigil began outside of the house on Fifty-eighth Street. It started with the arrival of a taxicab that parked in the vicinity for a full hour. Moe Shrevnitz was the driver of that cab.

After the taxi had gone, a coupe parked and remained in the neighborhood until midnight. Harry Vincent was behind the wheel of the car. When he went off duty, another watcher took charge for the remainder of the night. This was Hawkeye, loitering in a little alley across the way.

In the morning, Moe was back. Afterward came an Italian fruit vender who kept moving his wagon up and down the street most of the day. This was Pietro, another of The Shadow’s reserve agents. The abode of Swami Marabout Bey was under constant surveillance.

For The Shadow had not been deceived by Gyp Tangoli’s return to his old character. Like Cuyler Willington, The Shadow had seen the advertisement in the newspaper. He had recognized that Gyp Tangoli and Swami Marabout Bey might be the same man. He wanted to know more about the affairs of the pretended mystic.

Rami Zaka’s visit to Fifty-eighth Street had preceded the vigil of The Shadow’s agents. Hence no trail had been gained that might lead back to Willington. But on the next day, reports came in to both Rutledge Mann and Burbank, The Shadow’s contact aids.

Various furnishings had been delivered to the house on Fifty-eighth Street, all of them to Swami Marabout Bey. These were described in as much detail as possible. Among them had come the elephant table, delivered in a single shipment.

EVENING found The Shadow in his sanctum, going over reports from his agents. He contacted with Burbank by telephone, to obtain final reports. Swami Marabout Bey had been seen entering his abode: this report came from Harry Vincent, who had relieved Pietro near dusk. Harry was not positive that the fellow was Gyp Tangoli.

A report from Clyde Burke was important. Clyde had seen Joe Cardona at headquarters. The detective had mentioned Gyp Tangoli. It was plain that Joe had gained no clue to the man’s identity. With that report, Clyde had gone off duty.

Matters had turned to The Shadow’s liking. A soft whisper above the blue lamp told that fact. There was a sinister tone to The Shadow’s mirth, one that z ill for crime. The Shadow’s mental prediction had come true.

Bait. That was Gyp Tangoli’s purpose. He had taken on the character of Swami Marabout Bey in order to lure Cuyler Willington to doom. Willington must certainly know that Gyp was the swami.

In his comparison of the two crooks, The Shadow had picked Gyp as the one who relied on power: Willington as the one who dealt in craft. He knew that Gyp could not have guessed the danger of the Q-ray, even though he had seen its action at the Club Cadiz.

Gyp probably realized that death had been delivered by Willington; yet his own survival had made him believe that his luck would hold. Entrenched in his new abode, he was ready for an attack, confident that he could overpower Willington if the man made a move.

Moreover, Gyp would not fear exposure to the police, through Willington. The law did not have the goods on Gyp Tangoli. In a tight spot, Gyp could tell plenty to make trouble for Willington. The Shadow knew that Gyp Tangoli was laughing at the law while he waited to receive Cuyler Willington as friend or foe, in whichever capacity Willington might choose to come.

Considering what he had learned of Willington, The Shadow felt sure that the schemer would eventually take the bait. Not, however, until he had formulated some plan of his own. That was why The Shadow had posted his agents for the first night. Well convinced that Gyp was the swami, The Shadow was ready now to move in person.

The bluish light clicked out. A laugh rang through the sanctum. It rose eerily and broke into shivering echoes. The Shadow had made his departure. Within a half hour he would be at Swami Marabout Bey’s.

DOWN at detective headquarters, Joe Cardona was seated at his desk. Something of Joe’s glumness had returned. His swarthy face was clouded. Quizzes at the Universal Electric Company had failed. The police had learned conclusively that no one could have had a part in the removal and replacement of the Q-ray machine.

That device had been dismantled. Its parts had been destroyed. James Sundler had produced physicians who had examined the bodies of the experimenters who had died during tests of the machine. Those doctors had looked at the victims of the slaughter in the Club Cadiz.

They believed that the persons at the night club had been murdered by the Q-ray. But how? By whom?

Joe’s check-up at the Universal laboratories had convinced him that there could not be a second Q-ray machine in existence.

Wearily, Cardona arose from his desk. He dreaded a meeting with the police commissioner. Weston had gone out of town for the evening, but would he back later tonight. Cardona knew that his chief would expect results.

Someone entered the office. Joe looked up to see Detective Sergeant Markham. Enthusiasm showed on the fellow’s face. Joe growled a question:

“What is it?”

“A lucky break, Joe!”

“On this Club Cadiz business?”

“No. On Gyp Tangoli.”

“Hang Gyp Tangoli!”

Cardona started for the door. Markham stopped him. The detective sergeant’s face was serious.

“It may be bigger than you think, Joe,” he informed. “That’s why I came here in a hurry. Listen, Joe: You can’t get anything tonight on the Club Cadiz business. But if you go after Gyp Tangoli — and get him — you’ll have something to tell the commissioner.”

“Maybe you’re right, Markham,” said Joe, suddenly. “After all, we might be able to pin a murder charge on Gyp. What did you find out, Markham?”

“Well — do you remember that dead Hindu up at Gyp’s apartment?”

“Yeah. We didn’t identify him.”

“I’ve found out who he was. His name was Bundha.”

“Bundha what?”

“Just Bundha, I guess. Maybe those Hindus only have one name. But wait’ll I tell you how I learned it. There was a Hindu uptown got hit by a truck a couple of hours ago. They took him to a hospital in the precinct where I was. The fellow was trying to talk. They couldn’t understand him. The lieutenant knows a lot of lingos. He went over to the hospital and I went with him.”

“Did the Hindu talk?”

“Yes. He came to and babbled in English. Saw me and gave me his chatter. Said his name was Nabu. Cousin of Bundha. The man who was killed by the gun. Then he began to curse another Hindu called Mahmud. Said Bundha died because he listened to Mahmud. Said he was dying because he was going to work for Mahmud.”

“Who was Mahmud?”

“From the way this Nabu talked, I got it clear that Bundha wasn’t the only Hindu there at Gyp Tangoli’s. Mahmud was there, too. Both of them working for Gyp. Bundha got bumped. So Mahmud got hold of this cousin, Nabu, and offered him a job.”

“To take Bundha’s place.”

“Sounds like it. And Nabu was on the way to work when the truck hit him. So Nabu figured it was fate. Guess he wanted me to warn all Hindus to stay clear of this guy Mahmud.”

“Where was Nabu going?”

“He said to a house of a wise man. The new mahatma that the newspapers told about. So I looked through the Classic on the way down here. I spotted this.”

MARKHAM pulled the tabloid from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona and pointed out the same ad that Cuyler Willington had shown Rami Zaka on the night before. Cardona studied it.

“Swami Marabout Bey,” he read. “Did this fellow Nabu mention him by name?”

“No. He said he was going to the house of a wise man. But I sort of figured that might be where Gyp is hiding out.”

“And he said he was going to work for Mahmud?”

“Yes.”

Cardona looked at the newspaper again; then thrust it in his pocket. The address on Fifty-eighth Street was firmly implanted in his mind. Joe turned to Markham.

“A company of Hindu mystics,” he quoted, from the ad. “That means a bunch of stooges — Hindus dressed up — working for this Swami Marabout Bey.”

“And Mahmud will be the chief guy of the Hindus, eh?”

“Yes. But what I’m wondering is who the swami is.”

“Some faker, I guess, that just blew into town.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He may be someone we’re after.”

“Who?”

“Think it over, Markham. You brought in the clue.”

Joe was reaching for the telephone. Markham stood scratching his head. Suddenly the answer burst upon him.

“Gyp Tangoli!”

Cardona nodded as he heard Markham’s ejaculation. Then, over the telephone, he began to give orders.

Cardona was arranging a raiding squad. He was taking up Markham’s lead, planning a swoop upon the headquarters of Swami Marabout Bey.

HAWKEYE had gone on duty opposite the house on Fifty-eighth Street. Standing in his sheltered alleyway, the little spotter heard a hiss like the one that had reached his ears on a previous night.

“Report.”

“Nothing new,” whispered Hawkeye. “The joint’s on the second floor front. Lights showing out from the shutters. The swami’s up there. I think he’s Gyp Tangoli.”

“Other entrances?”

“One at the back of the apartment house. Sort of a fire escape. Looks like it opens into a back hall.”

“Off duty.”

Hawkeye moved away. This time he did not look back. He would have seen nothing had he done so.

The Shadow’s departure across the gloomy street was too stealthy to be discerned by human eyes.

Through a passage beside the old house, The Shadow reached the rear. He found the fire escape; his long arms drew down the hinged steps. The Shadow ascended. He entered a darkened window at the rear of the second floor. It brought him into a back hall.

The interior arrangement of the old house was odd. To the right of the rear hall was the entrance to a small apartment. Past that, the hall turned and ran clear across the house. The front apartment was to the left of the front hall.

Reaching that point, The Shadow observed a stairway; he also saw the door of the front apartment.

On the way, he had noted a door leading from the portion of the hall that ran across. Unless it should prove to be the entrance to a clothes closet, that door would turn out to he a rear entrance to the front apartment.

The Shadow returned to that point. He found the door locked. He opened it with his pick and stepped into a small room where the only illumination came from the window. Across the room was another door, white in the gloom.

Approaching this barrier, The Shadow tested it. The door was locked; more than that. The Shadow’s pressure along the edge of the door told him that it was held by a high bolt on the other side.

The Shadow’s fingers tapped the edge of the door; not audibly, but in a fashion that indicated a dependence upon the sense of touch. It was as if The Shadow were feeling through the woodwork, picking the exact spot where the hidden bolt lay.

The tiny flashlight glimmered, its disk-like ray no larger than a silver dollar. Into that sphere of light came The Shadow’s other hand, bringing a tool shaped like a bradawl. The little instrument dug into the woodwork. The Shadow was probing for the bolt.

A slow but steady task. The awl, as it entered, furrowed from side to side. Once through the thick woodwork, that tool would press the bolt; slowly, indiscernibly, it would draw back the metal fastening.

Silently, careful to the extreme, The Shadow was seeking this mode of entry into the abode of Swami Marabout Bey.

Perhaps this process would lead to an encounter; possibly it would mean the opposite. The Shadow, knowing that retirement might prove the best plan, was painstaking in his work, so that he could cover it up afterward.

For it was not his purpose to deal alone with Gyp Tangoli, alias Swami Marabout Bey. Murderer though Gyp Tangoli was, The Shadow still wanted him as bait for a greater fiend. Until Gyp had managed to lure Cuyler Willington to this abode, The Shadow’s work must remain hidden from the knowledge of the false Swami Marabout Bey.