The Red Blot

CHAPTER X THE CLUB JANEIRO

“You say the murderer escaped — with five of you there to seize him?”

The question came from Commissioner Weston. The police official was talking to Detective Merton Hembroke.

“One of us was there to seize him,” responded Hembroke laconically. “Four of us were in the local; Markham was the only one in the express.”

“Inefficient!” growled Weston. “Very poor judgment on the part of Markham.”

“Markham did quite well tonight,” rejoined Hembroke. The detective seemed to be completely at ease in his mild correction of the commissioner’s statement. “He suspected trouble on the express. That’s how he happened to be there. He didn’t prevent the murder; but he recognized the man who killed Spider Carew.”

“That’s good!” exclaimed Weston.

“Moreover,” continued Hembroke, calmly seating himself on the opposite side of the commissioner’s small desk, “the man who killed Spider was already wanted for murder.”

“Ah!” Weston looked up in surprise. From the moment that Detective Hembroke had arrived at the apartment, there had been one startling statement after another. Merton Hembroke was an unusual sleuth. He had the faculty of whetting a listener’s interest; and he was unfolding a keen description of the subway shooting, which Weston was accepting with eager ears.

“Wanted for murder,” repeated Hembroke. “A former racketeer — supposed to be somewhere other than New York. A crook known as Socks Mallory!”

The name brought a prompt response. Weston was on his feet, pounding his desk. His voice sounded loudly in that little office as he seized a piece of paper and thrust it into Hembroke’s hands.

“Socks Mallory!” cried the commissioner. “Look at that, Hembroke! That’s the name Spider Carew gave me over the telephone! Socks Mallory — working for The Red Blot!”

“There are two names here,” remarked Hembroke.

“Certainly!” exclaimed Weston. “The other is the man whom Mallory is out to get. Carew told me that, also.”

“Tony Loretti!” Hembroke whistled. “Say — you know who he is, don’t you, commissioner?”

“He runs a night club,” returned Weston. “I’ve been to the place. A shady character, this Loretti — but one who seems to keep clear of crime.”

“Yes,” agreed Hembroke, “but there’s more to it than that. Tony Loretti put Socks Mallory out of the running, so far as the nightclub racket was concerned. No wonder Socks is out to get Loretti!”

“Where could we find Loretti?”

“Up at the Club Janeiro. That’s his headquarters. Socks Mallory tried to run that place until Loretti chased him out. But Loretti is safe enough tonight, commissioner.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ve got Mallory bottled up in the subway. Maybe they’ve caught him by this time.”

Commissioner Weston shook his head as he heard Hembroke’s words. It struck him that this time the detective might be far from right.

“Suppose Mallory has made his escape?” suggested Weston. “He doesn’t know that Spider Carew told me about Loretti. If Mallory is free, the Club Janeiro will be the place where he will go. That’s where we’re going, Hembroke. Right now!”

The detective smiled and nodded in response.

“You and I,” added the commissioner, “and five men from headquarters.”

“Just one thing, commissioner,” objected Hembroke cautiously. “If Socks has made a getaway and is heading for the Club Janeiro, it wouldn’t be wise to have too big a crowd laying for him when—”

“Don’t worry about that,” returned the commissioner grimly, as he picked up the telephone to call headquarters. “I’m taking charge of this expedition, Hembroke. You’re my right-hand man tonight. We’ll post our watchers properly.”

TWENTY minutes later, Commissioner Ralph Weston and Detective Merton Hembroke alighted from a taxicab at the Club Janeiro. They strolled through the front door.

As they entered the huge central room of the gay night club, the commissioner’s quick eye noted five detectives posted at tables just within the door. Motioning to Hembroke, Weston moved toward another table.

Hardly had the two seated themselves before a head waiter approached and spoke to Commissioner Weston in a low, careful tone.

“Good evening, commissioner,” said the man. “Mr. Loretti told me to welcome you here. He is in his office, should you care to see him.”

Weston glanced sourly at Hembroke. The detective responded with a similar expression. Coming here unannounced, Weston had been discovered immediately.

“What about it?” Weston asked the detective.

“We might as well see Loretti,” returned Hembroke. “He knows we’re here.”

The commissioner nodded to the head waiter. The man conducted Weston and Hembroke to the rear of the large dining room. The trio passed through an archway. A short passage; then a corridor that led off in both directions.

The waiter kept on, however, until he reached a door at the end. He knocked; a voice responded. The man opened the door and ushered Weston and Hembroke into a fair-sized room that had the appearance of an office.

There were two persons here. One was a middle-sized, dark-faced man with black hair, who showed gold teeth when he grinned. The other was a black-haired woman attired in a gorgeous Spanish costume — clothes which betokened her nationality.

The smiling man arose and bowed. He extended his hand to Ralph Weston, and nodded to Merton Hembroke.

“It pleases me to welcome you here, commissioner,” he said. “I am Tony Loretti. This lady is Senorita Juanita Pasquales. She has full charge of the Club Janeiro.”

“How did you know I was coming here?” demanded Weston.

“Very simply,” responded Loretti. “About five minutes ago, my head waiter reported that two detectives had come into the Club Janeiro. He heard them say something about watching for the commissioner. So I instructed my man to await your arrival and to invite you here.”

Weston was forced to smile. He studied Tony Loretti carefully.

The man’s career was known to the police. Tony Loretti had muscled into the nightclub business — the old racket of offering protection against criminal activities.

Loretti had been successful in his enterprise, and had managed to make it appear quite legitimate. Where other racketeers had picked established business upon which to prey, Tony had wisely chosen a form of business which really needed some sort of protection.

Night clubs had been overrun by trouble-making mobsters until Tony Loretti had taken hold. Since then, these gay spots had known a period of real prosperity, with Tony Loretti assuming the proportions of an overlord.

Juanita Pasquales owned and operated the Club Janeiro. Other persons handled different night clubs. Tony Loretti, having chosen the Club Janeiro merely as a headquarters, let his subordinates make the rounds and take a percentage of the profits.

“I PRESUME,” purred Loretti, while Weston still watched him, “that you are intending some sort of an investigation? If that is the case, Mr. Commissioner, I shall be pleased to aid you.”

Weston shook his head solemnly. He decided that Loretti must be in ignorance of the real reason for the police visit; therefore, the best plan would be to give him the correct information, and note his response.

“We have come here to protect you, Loretti,” announced the commissioner. “A certain murderer is at large. We intend to capture him. We have learned that you are intended as his next victim.”

A raucous laugh came from Tony Loretti. He turned to Juanita Pasquales, who responded to his mirth with a quiet smile.

“Someone out to get me?” queried Loretti, in an incredulous tone. “That is impossible! Tell me — do you know the name of this man who wants to make trouble for himself?”

“Yes,” stated Weston. “The man is known as Socks Mallory.”

“Mallory!” Loretti’s brows narrowed. “Is he here in New York?”

“He killed a man tonight,” returned Weston. “Murdered his victim in the Lexington Avenue subway.”

“Socks Mallory!” Tony Loretti pronounced the name with a sneer. “He is a tough customer. He threatened me once before, but lacked nerve to take a shot at me. Let me thank you, commissioner, for this information. I shall assure you that if Mallory comes here tonight, he will do me no harm. I need no police protection.”

“Perhaps not,” said Weston dryly. “Nevertheless, you’ll take it, Loretti. Is this office your headquarters?”

“Yes,” admitted Loretti sullenly.

“These other rooms?” Weston pointed to the doors.

“My private office to the right,” returned Loretti. “Senorita Pasquales has the office on the left. This is sort of a reception room.”

“Come on, Hembroke,” ordered the commissioner.

The two investigators entered each office in turn. The rooms were small ones. The one used by Loretti had a mahogany desk and several chairs. The office which belonged to Juanita Pasquales was furnished with table, chairs, filing cabinet, and broad, shelved cabinet with glass doors. The shelves showed only stacks of newspapers and scattered magazines.

“All right,” announced Weston, when he returned to the central office, “we’re going to watch this place, Loretti.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Commissioner,” was the reply. “Let me warn you, though, that it can only make trouble. I know how to look out for myself. I need no police protection. If Mallory is coming here, you’ll only scare him away.”

“There’s logic in that, commissioner,” declared Hembroke.

“I know it,” agreed Weston. “That’s why I wanted to make sure that no one else was in these rooms. There’s just one entrance to this suite. You will be here, Loretti. Stay here.”

“I always do,” returned Loretti suavely.

“And you, Miss Pasquales?” questioned Weston. “Where do you intend to be this evening?”

“On the floor,” returned the woman. “The show goes on in about fifteen minutes. It will last one hour.”

“Good,” approved Weston. “You will come out with us, Miss Pasquales. Loretti, I’m going to post men in those two side corridors just beyond the door of this suite. There will be others — including myself — in the big room of the night club. If Socks Mallory comes here tonight we’ll trap him.”

A gleaming smile appeared upon Tony Loretti’s lips. The nightclub governor approved this plan.

“All right, commissioner,” he said. “Those side passages go to the dressing rooms, and they serve as exits, also. If your men lay low, it will work out, maybe.”

“Hembroke,” said Weston, to the detective, “I’m putting you in charge of those corridors. Take three men. Make sure that all the entertainers have gone out to the floor. You and one man take a corridor; the other two men stay opposite. I’ll keep the extra man with me. Get busy!”

HEMBROKE nodded and left the office. It was several minutes before he returned to announce that all was ready.

The commissioner nodded to Juanita Pasquales. The senorita left the office, and Weston watched through the half-opened door as he saw her conduct a troop of entertainers out through the archway to the main room.

Hembroke had disappeared; now, while Weston still waited, the detective came from the corridor on the left to announce that the dressing rooms were clear.

“My men are posted,” he added. “Wait about two minutes, until I get set. Then you can go out to the main room, commissioner. Look down the corridors as you go by. You’ll see that we’re well out of sight. Weems — he’s the extra man of the squad — is at a table just past the archway.”

Commissioner Weston waited the required period. He glanced at Tony Loretti, and the man smiled confidently. Weston left the office, and closed the door behind him. At the crossing of the passages, he looked first to the right; then to the left.

The side corridors were gloomy. No one was in sight. The detectives must be hiding at the ends, beyond the dressing rooms. Weston smiled in satisfaction. He went through the archway.

A screen hid the main room of the night club. Weston sidled past the edge and looked about for Weems. He saw the detective at a near-by table. The man was watching the screen that concealed the archway.

The commissioner strolled past the table and paused to speak in a low tone.

“Keep watching, Weems,” he ordered. “I’m going to take a table of my own, where I can watch, too. If there’s any trouble, jump past the screen.”

Weems nodded.

Looking for a vacant table, Weston found himself in a quandary. He felt that more men should have come; but it would be unwise to summon them now. Weems was the only sleuth covering that archway. Weston realized that he, the police commissioner, might have to do service if trouble occurred.

The thought made Weston smile; nevertheless, he was still a trifle worried. Hembroke and the other detectives were posted. It was too late to make new arrangements. Ralph Weston glanced around, and in that moment observed a tall man entering through a side entrance of the Club Janeiro.

INSTANTLY, Weston recognized the newcomer. That hawklike countenance, stern and impassive; those keen eyes, and thin, determined lips! Here was a man whom Weston had met before; a unique character among the wealthy residents of Manhattan.

Lamont Cranston, millionaire adventurer, globe-trotter, whose travels had carried him to the wilds of Tibet; a man to whom big-game hunting in the African jungle was a mere pastime!

The head waiter of the Club Janeiro was not far from where Weston stood. The commissioner moved over and spoke to him.

“Do you see the man who has just entered?” questioned Weston. “His name is Lamont Cranston. Go quickly. Bring him to my table.”

“Yes, sir,” returned the head waiter.

Weston took a seat at a vacant table and waited. A few minutes later, he saw Cranston approaching. The millionaire betrayed no expression of surprise. He merely came to Weston’s table, drew back a chair, and sat down, as though he had been expected.

“Good evening, Cranston,” said the commissioner.

“Good evening,” responded the calm-faced millionaire.

Cranston was immaculate in evening clothes. He picked up a menu, gave an order to a waiter, and looked quizzically at Weston.

The police commissioner smiled and picked up a card himself. He gave an order, also. He looked around, saw that no one was close by, and spoke in an admiring tone.

“You’re a cool one, Cranston,” declared the commissioner. “How did you know that I didn’t want you to show a lot of enthusiasm over meeting me here?”

“I seldom express enthusiasm,” responded Cranston quietly. “Moreover, I knew that the police commissioner would not care to appear conspicuous at the Club Janeiro. What has brought you here, Weston?”

“Cranston,” returned the commissioner, in a low whisper. “we are looking for a murderer tonight. A man called Socks Mallory. He is scheduled to make an attempt upon Tony Loretti, the big shot of the night clubs.”

“Interesting,” commented Cranston. “Where is Loretti at present?”

“In his office,” answered Weston, “past that screen. I have four men posted in side corridors. That man four tables away from us is another detective. He and I are watching this end. There may be trouble. I could use another man.”

“Meaning—”

“Yourself.”

A faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips. The millionaire bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“I have two automatics with me,” whispered the commissioner. “If you care to assist, one is ready for you. Under the table—”

“Pass it,” said Cranston calmly.

The automatic changed hands. Commissioner Weston sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The waiter came with the order. Weston and Cranston began to eat, conversing quietly while they watched the screen.

New confidence held the commissioner. He felt that he could rely upon Lamont Cranston. There was something about Cranston’s manner that made Ralph Weston realize that he had chosen an intrepid aid.

THERE was cause for the impression. Had Commissioner Ralph Weston known the identity of this person who had agreed to aid him, he would have been amazed beyond recall. Had he known Lamont Cranston’s purpose here tonight, he would have been doubly astonished.

This calm-faced personage had come to the Club Janeiro for the same purpose as Commissioner Weston and his band of sleuths. He was here to encounter Socks Mallory. The features of Lamont Cranston were a guise that he had adopted to serve him for the occasion.

Beneath that full-dress coat were two automatics, compared to which Weston’s guns were puny weapons. The police commissioner was dining with The Shadow!

Again, the mysterious warrior had been forced to change his plans. Alone, he could have watched Tony Loretti, unseen. But with police on hand, with Commissioner Weston calling upon him for aid, The Shadow found it necessary to bide his time.

In the guise of Lamont Cranston, he waited. He, The Shadow, was the aid of Commissioner Ralph Weston — the police official who believed The Shadow to be a myth!