The Red Blot

CHAPTER XIX FIVE MILLION DOLLARS

IT was nearly half past nine. Far from the area where The Shadow’s automatics had roared their deadly retorts to the revolvers of those who had sought to slay him, the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association were assembled for their crucial test.

They were gathered about the large table of the conference room. Five stories above the street, in a secluded corner of a mammoth building, they were uneasy despite the security which reason told them was theirs.

The room was lighted. Upon the center of the table lay a long box; beneath its cover was the wealth which had been brought here by Felix Cushman’s order. Like a grim guardian, the black-haired man sat scowling at one end of the table.

Dobson Pringle, his gray hair giving an aged look to his peaked face, sat at the opposite end of the table. During this final lull when all were tense, he put a question which he had propounded previously.

“Where can Carlton Carmody be?” he asked.

“Will you stop asking that question?” queried Felix Cushman. “What has Carmody to do with this meeting? He is not a director — nor an officer of this association.”

“He was to be here,” responded Pringle.

“By whose order?” demanded Cushman.

“Mine,” asserted Pringle.

“You had no right to tell him to be here,” came Cushman’s angry retort.

“Let me explain,” persisted Pringle. “Carmody stayed late this evening. The detective — Hembroke — found him in the office. Carmody insisted that he must see me — here in the conference room — regarding plans for buildings. I told him to remain until we came—”

“Plans for buildings!” snorted Cushman, in contempt. “A fine time for such trivialities. Carmody must be crazy!”

“From what Hembroke said,” declared Pringle, “the matter must have been urgent. It might have had a bearing—”

“On tonight? Nonsense. Let us discuss more serious matters. Gentlemen” — Cushman glanced at his watch and turned to the directors — “it is nearly half past nine. The outer door of this conference room — through the little entrance there — is closed. Any emissary of The Red Blot must open it to appear here.”

“Detectives are planted outside. In the offices at the end of the large central room are three men. Detective Hembroke is one. Others, headed by Detective Cardona, are outside in the long corridor by the elevators and the stairway.

“They slipped in when the money was delivered. Commissioner Weston himself is with them. They are spread out — peering from side offices. They are allowing every opportunity for a man to enter — none for a man to escape.

“We must be calm” — all attention was now upon Cushman — “and we must treat with The Red Blot’s emissary. I shall be the spokesman. We have the money here; we can rightfully demand the release of Selfridge Woodstock and—”

Cushman paused to stare at Dobson Pringle. The president of the association was staring beyond Cushman’s shoulder, his face aghast. Other directors saw his look; they swung in the same direction — toward the entrance from the anteroom. An evil laugh greeted them.

FOUR men, each holding a heavy revolver, had entered the conference room! The leader, who stood a pace ahead of the others, was a pudgy-nosed, ugly-jawed individual, whose roughened cheeks made his appearance more formidable.

“Stick ‘em up!” came the man’s growl.

A thrust of the revolver caused all hands to raise. Gasps came from trembling directors; another growl silenced these audible expressions.

“No noise, get me?” said the rough-faced man. “If there’s going to be noise, I’ll make it, with this gat! I’m the guy you’re expecting. Socks Mallory — working for The Red Blot. Shove over that kale!”

Before any of the astounded men could respond, Socks acted for himself. He stepped forward and upset the box; his big paw spread out treasury certificates of thousand-dollar denominations.

“We’ll count it later,” laughed Socks. “If there’s any short of five million, you birds will pay the difference. You’ll pay hard, too.”

He beckoned to his men; as they approached, Socks replaced the stacks of bills that he had disturbed. He pocketed his revolver, closed the box, and hoisted it under his arm. With an ugly leer, Socks sidled away from the table, carrying his burden of wealth.

“If you stick where you are,” warned Socks, “nobody’s going to get hurt. We’ve got the dough — that’s all we want. But we’re going to blast our way out of here — and we don’t want trouble from the inside. Get me?”

Socks reached the little anteroom. His men, retreating as a protecting cordon, followed. The light switch was at the door of the conference room. A growl came from Socks. One of the mobsters extinguished the lights.

Then came shots.

Bullets ricocheted against the walls. The outer door was opened. Heavy fire was breaking loose. Of the directors, Felix Cushman was the only one who kept his nerve, while the others dived for the shelter of the table. In the darkness, Cushman leaped to his feet, pulled out a revolver, and blazed away blindly through the darkness, hoping to hit any of the robbers who might be forced to retreat.

Cushman reached the door of the anteroom. Beyond, he could hear the shots of the detectives as they took up the fire.

Lights came on in the outer office. Cushman saw them as he opened the door. Out at the entrance to the corridor, Detective Morton Hembroke was firing his revolver. Answering shots reechoed from the distance.

“Come on, men!” shouted Hembroke. “They’ve got to double back this way! We’ll hold it here!”

The other detectives joined Hembroke. Cushman stood grim, while Pringle and the directors came crowding up in back of him as their protector. Shots outside; then came the swarthy face of Joe Cardona, in from the corridor.

“Did you get them?” came his question.

“Get them?” echoed Hembroke. “They broke through this way—”

“Up toward the other end of the corridor then!” exclaimed Cardona.

Lights were on in the corridor now; detectives came around the turn at the opposite end. They stopped in amazement as Cardona approached them on the run.

“Where did they go, Joe?” came the demand.

“Your way!” cried the ace detective.

“Not this direction!” returned a detective.

Police Commissioner Ralph Weston appeared suddenly from an office doorway. He saw the signs of confusion, and put forth an angry question.

“What is this?” he demanded. “A false alarm?”

SHOULDERING his way through the detectives, Weston reached the office of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Hembroke was standing there; he joined the commissioner as Weston strode up to Felix Cushman.

“What started it?” he questioned. “What began all this shooting at nothing?”

“What started it?” Cushman raised his voice to a snarl. “I’ll tell you what started it! Four men marched into this conference room and grabbed five million dollars! What’s the matter with your crowd of flatfeet! Where’s the gang that took our money?”

Weston stared incredulously. He could see by the expressions of the other directors that Felix Cushman was stating simple facts. The commissioner turned to Hembroke.

“What happened out here?” he queried.

“They came out this way,” returned Hembroke. “We were way up at the end — pretty far, but the only place we could be. They must have suspected we were there. They started shooting toward us. What about it, boys?”

“Right,” agreed the men who had been in the other offices.

“I hopped out,” asserted Hembroke. “Dropped behind a desk — had it all picked — and fired back. The crooks fired wild, and I shouted to the boys to pile out.”

“Then what?” questioned Weston.

“I figured they’d head for the corridors,” resumed Hembroke. “If they doubled back into the conference room, we’d have them sure. So we came up to cut them off — expecting Cardona would be on the job outside. I saw some figures in the light from the window. I kept on firing — so did my men.”

“They didn’t double back!” exclaimed Cushman.

“Not a bit of it,” added Hembroke. “I knew that when I saw you at the door.”

“They left the conference room,” asserted one of the directors. “They did not come back.”

His companions nodded their absolute conviction of that statement.

Weston wheeled to Cardona.

“There was a lot of fireworks in the hall,” said the commissioner coldly. “It looks as though Hembroke drove the crooks right into your hands, Cardona. What about it?”

“They didn’t come my way,” returned Cardona. “I had good men posted at the other end of the hallway.”

“This has been a big mistake,” said Commissioner Weston sadly. “Four bandits run out into a corridor. They are blocked from both directions, and they make a getaway.”

“It’s not the first time The Red Blot’s men have pulled a slip like that,” declared Cardona. “I don’t know how they do it — but they have a way of sliding into nowhere—”

“Except the time when Hembroke got two of them in the pawnshop,” broke in Weston furiously. “I put the wrong man on the outside; that’s all. Hembroke should have had that job — not you, Cardona! Get going, men! Through the building! Search everywhere! You’re in charge from now on, Hembroke. You stay here, Cardona!”

Four armed bandits. Five million dollars. The Red Blot. Such were the thoughts that flashed through Joe Cardona’s brain as he dejectedly heard Commissioner Weston argue the situation with Felix Cushman.

Well did Joe Cardona know what the result of this episode would be. Once again, he had been totally tricked by the cunning of The Red Blot. This would be the end of Joe Cardona’s career as a detective.

There were other times when Cardona had experienced failure. But never before had a rival such as Merton Hembroke shown superior craft. Hembroke had gained some credit tonight. He had done all that could have been expected. Cardona was the one who had failed.

The Red Blot!

Cardona felt that he was helpless before the machinations of that supermind of crime. Failure tonight. Tomorrow, his resignation from the force. It would be expected.

How could one cope with amazing mobsters who vanished within the tightness of a cordon? Cardona heard Cushman giving Weston the name of Socks Mallory. So that murderer was in again — and Cardona had failed to find a single clew to his whereabouts!

Dully, Cardona knew that he was beaten. There were times when aid had come for him from a strange source — from a personage in whom Commissioner Weston expressed disbelief, but whom Cardona knew to be real — The Shadow.

This time, there had been no such aid; could be no such help. The Red Blot was a master crook beyond all credible belief. Even The Shadow, Cardona decided, could not salvage the hopeless cause that now existed!