The Dark Death

CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST THRUST

Two nights later, the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Royal was thronged with guests. An elevator arrived at the ground floor. Its doors clanged open. The last person to step forth was a man attired in evening clothes.

There was something debonair about this guest’s appearance. He looked like a member of the elite. His attire was perfect. His face was handsome, except for a slight paleness that was accentuated by the near-whiteness of his hair.

Approaching the desk, the tall man inquired if any mail had come for him. The clerk gave a negative response, addressing the tall man as “Mr. Willington.” Leaving his key, Willington strolled from the lobby and hailed a taxicab. He ordered the driver to take him to an address on Ninety-sixth Street.

As he rode along, Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in a long holder. He lighted the cigarette, tossed the match from the window and looked out through the back of the cab. He noted a green cab close behind his taxi. He spotted the license number.

Willington’s cab entered Central Park. The tall man looked back again. He saw the same cab still close behind. He rapped at the driver s window.

“Take a long way through the park,” he ordered. “Drive around a bit. I like the air.”

The driver nodded and changed course. Willington looked back. The same cab was still tailing. It kept on the trail as the curving course continued.

Willington lighted another cigarette. A puzzled frown appeared upon his forehead.

The driver finally decided that he had tacked enough unnecessary fare on the meter. He ended the meandering course and came back to a direct route. The cab left Central Park and finally arrived at the address that Willington had given. The place was a restaurant.

As Willington finished paying the driver, the green cab pulled up to the curb.

Willington spied it, turned quickly and entered the restaurant. He chose a table near the back. As he ordered from the menu, he looked sidelong to the front. He spied a darkish face peering through the plate-glass window.

The waiter brought soup. Willington finished the course, then arose suddenly. Close by was a door that formed an exit to a service entrance. Willington swung swiftly in that direction, cut through a passage and stepped out into the darkness of Ninety-fifth Street.

His pace became a jogging run for half a block. Then Willington darted into the entrance of an apartment house. Panting slightly, he pressed a button on the wall-board holding the names of the building tenants; then gave a quick ring to the bell button beneath. He picked up a hanging receiver, expecting a response from above. Instead, the front door buzzed. Willington leaped for the barrier, dashed through and closed the door behind him. He made for the automatic elevator.

Thirty seconds later, a hard-faced man entered the front of the apartment building. He had spotted Wilmington’s flight. The fellow took a look at the wall-board. He was sure that Willington had not gained time to press another button. He noted the connection button pressed at 3 B. The name on the card was “H. Mollin”.

The spy ducked out into the street. He found a man awaiting him. It was Turk Berchler. The spy reported.

“H. Mollin”, chuckled Turk. “Say — that’s a hot one! That guy is Congo Mollin! I knew him before he took a rap over at the Island. Been playing softy since then. I’ve been up to this apartment of his. Good work, Terry. Come along.”

The two men walked down the street to where others awaited them. Turk Berchler held confab with his torpedoes. One of them was a long-haired fellow who looked like a musician. He was carrying a guitar case. The crew moved toward a corner.

Up in Apartment 3 B. Cuyler Wellington was lighting a cigarette as he talked to a tall, solemn-faced man.

This was “Congo” Mollin. He looked like a butler; in fact, he had been one, prior to serving time at Welfare Island.

This was not the first time that Cuyler Willington had been to Congo’s apartment. Yet tonight, the gentleman crook was evidencing a new interest in the place. He and Congo were seated in a plainly-furnished living room. Congo was pouring his guest a drink from a decanter that he had taken from the top of a radio cabinet.

“Nice layout you’ve got here. Congo,” remarked Willington. “It should prove very quiet and restful at nights.”

“You think so?” replied Congo. “Well, it isn’t. These windows open on the back alley. There’s a garage on the other side. They make plenty of noise pulling cars in and out after midnight.”

“What about the bedroom?”

“That’s better.” Congo opened a door and turned on the light. “It opens into a court and the noise isn’t so bad. But it’s stuffy and I have to leave the door open to the living room. So I get the noise anyway.

“Too bad. You ought to move away from here.”

“I’m going to — next month. I’m getting sick of this place.”

“Well, Congo,” — Willington held out his glass while the solemn man filled it — “you’re going out with me tonight.”

“How come?”

“I want to talk with you.”

“If it’s about Brophy—”

“We’ll come to Brophy, later. You’ve got a dress suit, haven’t you?”

“Packed in camphor.”

“Dig it out. Put it on.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe down to the Club Cadiz. You need full dress to get into the gaming room there.”

“All right.” Congo went into the bedroom and Willington followed. Congo rummaged in the closet.

“Here’s the glad rags.”

“Get into them. I’ll talk while you’re dressing.”

“I’ve got bad news about Brophy.”

“Let me hear it.”

Congo began to talk solemnly as he spread out the dress suit on the bed. Willington watched him from a chair in the corner.

“I WENT to see Brophy last night,” explained Congo, “I told him another payment was due. He said he didn’t have the money.”

“Yes? What did he do with it?”

“He didn’t get it.”

“That sounds thin, Congo, you know he gets a thousand a month from the Universal Electric Company. Besides his regular amount from investments.”

“They’ve cut off his advances.”

“They couldn’t. He’s under contract to develop that Q-ray machine of theirs.”

“That’s just the trouble. The Q-ray has gone blooey. Experiments suspended.”

“On what account?”

“Too dangerous. It killed two men. They’re giving Brophy a leave of absence until their own men have made more tests. A fellow named Sundler is in charge.”

“I don’t like the story, Congo. You told me that Brophy used to work right in the path of the ray. He said it wasn’t dangerous.”

“He didn’t think it was. Then something funny happened. You know how pale, pasty-like, Brophy is?”

“Yes. What has that to do with it?”

“Well, the other fellows weren’t pale. The ones that got killed. They were dark.”

“You mean that the Q-ray finished them but couldn’t hurt Brophy?”

“That’s what Brophy says.”

“What about this fellow Sundler?”

“He’s a Scandinavian. It can’t hurt him either.”

“Bunk, Congo. Bunk!”

“Maybe it is. Anyway, Brophy sticks to his story. You know the deal you had with him. He was to pay you what came from that Q-ray machine. Well, he says he’s getting nothing.”

“What does he intend to do about it?”

“He wants to go away. Says he needs a rest. He’s getting enough income from his investments to take a trip.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him it would be tough for him if he moved out of the city. Said I’d pass his message along to you. He’s waiting to hear from us.”

“All right, Congo. I shall see Mr. Seth Brophy in person. If this tale about the capers of the Q-ray is true, I may make allowances. But if it is a lie, I’ll penalize him half his regular income, along with the advance money he gets from Universal Electric.”

By this time, Congo had donned his dress suit. It fitted him well and looked good except for a few creases where trousers and coat had been folded. Congo stood in front of a mirror and began to adjust a white bow tie.

Willington spoke in casual manner. “Gyp Tangoli ran into a cropper, Congo.”

“You mean that mess out on Long Island?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure Driller Borson and Gat Lober were working for him?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Your guesses are generally good.”

“I know that chump like a book,” mused Willington. “When Gyp was pulling the Swami Bey business, I could figure everything that was in his one-track mind. That’s why I had to get rid of him. He was crude.”

“So you always said.”

“Gyp tried to be a Hindu swami. He wasn’t bad at that job. But as a speakeasy proprietor, as a racketeer, he was just another lemon. I figured he was out to be a big shot after that. Well, he lost out. But he’s starting up again.”

“Who’s he getting to replace Driller and Gat?”

“He’s picked Turk Berchler.”

“No!” Congo swung around with a startled look. “Who told you that?”

“Tony Luggeto, who runs the roulette wheel down at the Club Cadiz. Tony’s done work for me, you know.”

“Tony saw Gyp and Turk together?”

“Yes. Two nights ago. They had a conference in Nicky Donarth’s office.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

Congo eyed Willington seriously.

“Gyp Tangoli would like to get you.” he declared. “He hasn’t nerve to try it alone. But with Turk to help him he’s liable to point the finger in your direction.”

Willington clapped Congo on the shoulder.

“Thanks for the tip,” he laughed. “You’re a pal, Congo. You stood by me the time I pinched Lady Atherton’s pearl necklace. If they’d found it on me, there at Thoreau’s, it would have been the end of my career.”

“But you slipped it to me,” added Congo, with a smile. “To me, Thoreau’s butler. They found it on me.”

“And you took the rap. Stout fellow. You’d do anything to help me out, wouldn’t you, Congo?”

“I sure would. Any time—”

“Then get me a drink. Out of that pet decanter of yours. That imported stuff is great.”

Congo laughed. He stepped past Willington and left the bedroom. Willington watched him start across the living room toward the radio cabinet where the decanter stood.

Like Willington, Congo was now in evening attire. His figure looked very much like that of his visitor.

Congo had to walk past the row of three windows as he headed for the far corner of the living room.

Willington was straining as he gazed from the doorway of the bedroom.

Congo passed the first window. He was at the second. The window was open; sounds of snorting automobiles could he heard from the garage across the alley. Then came a sharp, sudden rattle that sounded like the tattoo of a riveting machine.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Congo Mollin slumped suddenly in his tracks and went sprawling to the floor. He had stepped directly into the path of a machine-gun barrage that had opened from the roof across the way.

More bullets pounded the inner wall of the living room, while Cuyler Willington watched plaster crackle and fall in chunks. Then the firing stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

WILLINGTON stood quietly in the doorway. He could hear shouts from the alleyway below. Men in the garage had heard the volley from the roof. They were raising an excited cry.

At the end of two minutes Willington smiled. He knew the assassins would be gone by this time.

Calmly, the tall man strolled across the room. He poured himself a drink from the decanter. Holding the glass, he stared at Congo’s bullet-riddled form and shook his head sadly.

“Too bad, Congo,” spoke Willington, to the dead man. “It had to be one of us. The same as before. You didn’t know it was coming. It was an easy out.”

“You did look good in a dress suit, Congo. If you hadn’t, they wouldn’t have mistaken you for me. I thought that garage roof would be the spot they would choose. I guessed right again, Congo.”

With that final comment, Willington tossed down his drink and replaced the glass beside the decanter. He left the apartment and descended in the automatic elevator. Three minutes later, he was hailing a cab on the avenue near Ninety-fifth Street.

But the address that he gave the driver was neither the Club Cadiz nor the Hotel Royal. Cuyler Willington had decided that it would not be healthy to return to either of those haunts.

From now on, he intended to remain at some obscure hotel as long as he might be in Manhattan. For this thrust from Gyp Tangoli had come through Turk Berchler. Those fellows meant business.

Cuyler Willington was pondering deeply as he adjusted a cigarette in the long holder. His thoughts concerned his future actions as a suave gentleman of crime.