The Dark Death

CHAPTER VII. THE NEW ALLIANCE

AT nine o’clock the next evening, Gyp Tangoli alighted from a taxicab on Broadway. Glittering lights above a marquee spelled the name “Club Cadiz.” This garish pleasure palace was Gyp’s destination.

The dark-visaged big shot nodded in response to the doorman’s greeting. He entered the night club and ascended a flight of steps, for the main room of the Club Cadiz was located on the second floor.

At the top of the steps, Gyp looked over a glittering scene. Tables were crowded at the Club Cadiz. A floor show was in progress. All eyes were toward the spotlight that centered upon a pair of acrobatic dancers.

Gyp nudged a headwaiter who was by the door. The fellow started, swung about and nodded as he saw Gyp’s dark, grinning face.

“Hello, Mr. Tangoli,” said the headwaiter. “You want a table? Expecting to meet friends?”

“I’m looking for Turk Berchler,” returned Gyp. “Seen him around?”

“In the gaming room,” whispered the headwaiter.

Gyp nodded. He strolled away and skirted the big room until he reached a short passage. He came to a door. He knocked. A loophole popped open; a dark eye recognized him, as its owner peered from within. Bolts slid back. Gyp entered the gaming room.

This was a profitable department of the Club Cadiz. The room was large; its walls were lined with slot machines. In the center, a throng was gathered about a roulette table that stood upon a heavy pedestal.

A keen-eyed, mustached individual was operating the roulette wheel. Gyp knew the fellow — Tony Luggeto. He was supposed to have run a roulette wheel at Monte Carlo. No one had ever inquired why Tony had come to America.

Near the head of the roulette table stood a portly, gray-haired man whose paunchy-cheeked face was the shade of a manila parchment. This was Nicky Donarth, proprietor of the Club Cadiz. Gyp approached the portly man. Nicky shook hands.

Tony Luggeto’s dark face turned toward them. The roulette operator eyed the meeting. Then Tony concentrated on the wheel. He was close enough, however, to hear what the pair had to say.

“Where’s Turk Berchler?” questioned Gyp, in an undertone.

“In my office,” responded Nicky, “You want to see him?”

“Sure thing.”

“Then go on in.”

Gyp strolled away. At the far side of the room he found the door marked “Office”. He entered, followed a short passage and came to a second door.

It was locked. Gyp knocked.

“Who’s there?” came a sharp voice, “Nicky?”

“No,” returned Gyp. “It’s me, Turk. Gyp Tangoli.”

The door opened when “Turk” turned the inner lock. Gyp entered and found himself in a small room.

Desk and chairs in the center; beyond them a safe. There were two other doorways in the office, one at each side of the room. These were closed with heavy metal barriers.

Turk Berchler was a squatty, pug-nosed man whose tawny complexion was almost as dark as Gyp’s. His eyes were black and gleamy. His puffy lips showed a slight smile.

“Thought I’d be hearing from you, Gyp.” commented Turk. “Sit down. Let’s chat.”

Gyp nodded. He took a chair; accepted a cigar that Turk plucked from a box on Nicky’s desk; then shrugged his shoulders.

“Not much to talk about, Turk,” he said. “You’ve seen the newspapers. Gat Lober and Driller Borson got theirs.”

“And they were working for you.”

“Yeah.”

Turk was lighting a cigar of his own. His sharp eyes were watching Gyp’s sour countenance. Turk laughed harshly.

“I told you to lay off those mugs,” he asserted. “Palookas, both of them. Everybody knew that Driller was a safe-cracker. And Gat was always too ready with a rod. What’s more, he was on the lam. It’s a wonder the bulls didn’t wise up to them sooner.”

“It wasn’t the bulls that got them, Turk.”

“No? Who was it, then? Some guys muscling in on their game?”

“Guess again.”

Turk shrugged his shoulders.

“You’ve got me,” he insisted.

“It was The Shadow, Turk,” informed Gyp.

Turk Berchler blinked. He became visibly nervous. For a moment he started to draw away, as though fearing to be in the same room with Gyp Tangoli.

The visitor laughed.

“Don’t worry, Turk,” said Gyp. “There’s no trail leading to me. Only one guy The Shadow might follow — and I’ve got him hiding out at my apartment. Skeeter Wigan.”

Turk managed to smile.

“Listen, Turk,” declared Gyp. “You said you thought you’d be hearing from me. Well, you are. I’m here to talk business.”

“Maybe I’m not interested, Gyp.”

“On account of The Shadow?”

“Yeah — in a way.”

“You can forget The Shadow.”

“That sounds all right. But that’s not all, Gyp. You want me to pick up where Driller and Gat left off. That doesn’t hit me as such a swell proposition.”

“Why not?”

“Because the jobs they pulled were the cream. I’m getting the left-overs if I go in with you. And The Shadow is—”

“Wait a minute, Turk.”

Gyp arose and paced about the office. Finally he stopped and faced the squatty crook. He spoke in a straightforward tone that impressed Turk Berchler.

“LISTEN, Turk,” said Gyp. “I knew that Driller and Gat were small-timers. That’s why I used them on the jobs I did. That’s why I didn’t want you working for me. I’ve been saving you for something real.”

“First of all, I’ve got to go back a bit and tell you how I got started in this business. It goes back to before the time I met you. Before I mixed in the rackets; before I had that speak on Forty-ninth Street.”

Turk nodded. He sensed that he was about to hear something extraordinary.

“Did you ever hear of Swami Marabout Bey?” questioned Gyp.

Turk shook his head.

“Well,” declared Gyp, “I was the swami. What I couldn’t see in a crystal ball wasn’t worth seeing. I was a hot shot. Invited out to swanky homes. Had a couple of Hindus with me. Talked their lingo.”

“The same guys you’ve got now?”

“Yeah. Mahmud and Bundha. But it wasn’t only crystal gazing that I did. I looked around those ritzy places where I went. I learned a lot about the people who owned them — a whole lot, I did.”

“Say,” put in Turk, with a grin, “I’m beginning to see—”

“Hold up,” interposed Gyp. “You haven’t heard anything yet. At one of those places I ran into a rich guy named Cuyler Willington. Ever hear of him?”

“Sure. He lives at the Hotel Royal. Comes in here right along. Nicky knows him.”

“All right. Get a picture of Willington. Fine-looking guy, isn’t he? Tall, handsome face, eyes blue, hair almost white — looks like a society dude.”

“He is.”

“So you think. But I know different. I know Willington is a crook!”

“Say—”

“No hokum, Turk. When I was playing the swami game, Willington spotted that I was phony. He came to see me one night and laid his cards on the table. Wanted me to work with him.”

“A swell stunt.”

“That’s what I thought. Willington got me in with the real people. I picked up enough information to last me a year. Places that were set-ups. Cash, jewels, laying around in boxes that you could open with a hair-pin.”

“And you went after them, Gyp?”

“No, I didn’t. Willington said hands off.”

“Was he goofy?”

“No. He wanted to work those society people for big dough. Smooth, so there’d be no comeback. That sounded pretty good. But some of the jobs were so easy I couldn’t pass them up. I raided one swell apartment and swiped a lot of sparklers that I fenced for ten grand.”

“Did Willington find out about it?”

“Sure — when I offered him his split. He was sore.”

“Sore about getting five grand?”

“You bet. He said we could have made fifty grand out of those saps — fifty grand apiece, if I’d let him play them. He was going to burn them with a phony stock deal, as near as I could make out. Anyway, Willington gave me the gate.”

“What did you do then?”

“What was there to do? I quit the swami racket and put my dough in the speak. I became Gyp Tangoli again. Willington used to drop in at the speak. We talked friendly enough.”

“And then?”

“The speak went sour. Too many of them in New York. I tried a racket; it went on the bum. So I started this new game. Using Driller and Gat to raid places I knew about.”

“What did Willington say to that?”

“Nothing. Because I only picked places that I had learned about before I met Wellington. I knew he’d get tough if I took a whack at any of his ritzy friends. I had five good jobs I knew about. Lovenson’s — that Long island place — was the last of them.”

Turk nodded. He was calculating, and his dark face showed a gleam that matched Gyp’s evil leer.

“Listen, Turk,” stated Gyp. “There’s just one reason why I’ve laid off of Cuyler Willington. That’s because he’s supposed to be a society guy. I figured that if I tried to bump him, I’d have The Shadow on my neck,”

“Maybe you would,” agreed Turk. “They say The Shadow keeps an eye on people who have dough, just because he knows they’re the ones that crooks will go after.”

“That’s right. But I learned something last night that changes all that. Skeeter wised up that The Shadow was with Driller’s mob under the name of Tonk Ringo.”

“Acting as a gorilla?”

“Yeah. And he knew about it when Driller bumped Reds Parrock. He didn’t bust the game. See what that means? If a crook gets a crook, The Shadow lets it ride.”

“I get it. You’re figuring on the same thing if you go after Willington. But maybe The Shadow don’t know that Wilmington’s crooked.”

“I don’t think he does. But suppose we give Willington the works. What’ll the police do about it?”

“They’ll investigate Willington’s affairs.”

“Sure. And The Shadow?”

“He’ll do the same.”

“Right. And they’ll find out that Willington was a phony. He goes in for blackmail, Turk. As soon as he’s bumped, a lot of saps are going to spill what they know about him. People who are keeping their traps shut right at present.”

“I’m getting it now.”

“Sure you are. When The Shadow gets the real dope about what Willington was, he’s going to laugh about it. A crook bumped by crooks. He won’t worry who did it.”

“And then—”

“We’ll wait a while. Sit tight and look gentle. Then we’ll bust loose. One job after another. Places I learned about while I was working with Willington. And he won’t be around to crimp the game.”

Turk thrust out a hand. Gyp received it. The two crooks grinned as they formed their pact. Then came a click at the door; a key turned in the lock. Nicky Donarth entered.

THE night club proprietor chatted pleasantly as he went to the safe and opened it. Nicky removed a stack of bank notes, closed the safe and went out.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Gyp turned to Turk.

“What about Nicky?” questioned Gyp. “You know him pretty well, don’t you, Turk?”

“Sure,” grinned Turk. “He and I are pals. You wouldn’t find him leaving me alone in this office if we wasn’t.”

“He’d give you an alibi if you needed it?”

“Sure, he would. Want me to talk to him?”

“Yeah. But don’t tell him too much, Turk. You’ve got some torpedoes you can count on?”

“Any time I want them. Not a bunch of bum gorillas, either. Smart guys.”

“Use them. Tail Willington. Have Nicky fixed to give you an alibi. But don’t tell him what for until after you’ve rubbed out Willington. Get it?”

“Every bit. Leave it to me, Gyp.”

Gyp Tangoli leered. He strolled to the door, turned the latch and went out, closing the door behind him.

Turk Berchler sat down behind Nicky Donarth’s desk and began to drum with his fingers. A grin appeared upon his dark face.

But that grin was nothing to the gleaming leer that Gyp Tangoli wore when he entered a taxicab outside the Club Cadiz. For Gyp Tangoli, thwarted by The Shadow, was looking forward to bigger and more profitable crime.