The Red Blot

CHAPTER VII OVER THE WIRE

RALPH WESTON, police commissioner, was seated in a small office which was located in his luxurious apartment. Here, twenty-four hours after the battle near the East Side Bank, he was studying the reports of thwarted crime.

Weston was a dynamic sort of man. He had been a success as police commissioner because of his persistent efforts to get at the roots of crime. To him, the menace of The Red Blot had been quite as real and as horrifying as the newspapers had chosen to make it.

Weston was grim this evening. On two successive nights, the police had encountered unusual crime. Weston was apprehensive about tonight. He knew that the law had gained success; yet victory had been barren.

Two nights ago, Detective Merton Hembroke had made an effective raid. With a squad of police, he had entered the pawnshop of Timothy Baruch. Two criminals — Hurley Brewster and Tweezers Darley — had been surprised at an opened safe. Both had been slain.

That was good; the unfortunate part was that Baruch’s safe had been rifled, and the crimson splotch upon a sheet of white paper had signified the evil hand of the unknown master mind called The Red Blot.

Last night, a squad of mobsters had attacked the East Side Bank. Police, responding to the alarm, had driven them off. Five gangsters had fallen; others, wounded, had kept on. Two dead men; three who had died from their wounds — of the latter not one had spoken. Sullenly, they had kept sealed lips regarding The Red Blot.

No crimson splotch had appeared last night; yet Weston was sure that The Red Blot was in back of it. All five of the dead mobsters had been men of crime whom the police had believed were out of New Yolk.

Commissioner Weston picked up an afternoon newspaper. His own picture appeared upon the front page, together with his statement that The Red Blot must be found. Weston, in fact, had issued words which savored of immunity to anyone who would put the police on the direct trail to the master crook.

WESTON began to pace his little office. He had talked with Inspector Timothy Klein not long before, the subject being the proper handling of these new crimes.

Detective Joe Cardona, dubbed the ace of the New York force, was still investigating the first cases in which The Red Blot had appeared. In the meantime, another sleuth had sprung into active prominence. Merton Hembroke, whose surprise raid at Baruch’s had marked the first success against The Red Blot, was working on the affair at the East Side Bank.

Commissioner Weston had a marked respect for Joe Cardona’s ability. At the same time, he was disappointed at the ace’s lack of results. On certain occasions, in the past, Weston had been harsh with Cardona. Every time, Joe had come through in the end.

Tonight, Weston had the same problem, but there was chance for a few solution. Instead of relying upon Cardona, he could depend on Hembroke. No doubt about it: Hembroke was a comer. Klein had just reported that Hembroke was at headquarters, sticking there, hoping for some break that would lead him closer to The Red Blot.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted Ralph Weston’s soliloquy. The police commissioner picked up the instrument and grumbled a short “Hello.” A pause; then came a response in a whining tone that Weston did not recognize.

“Hello!” demanded the commissioner. “Who is it?”

“Are you Commissioner Weston?” came the query.

“The commissioner speaking,” said Weston.

“Say” — the voice was nervous — “is that straight dope you was givin’ tonight in the paper? If there’s a guy that’s got somethin’ on The Red Blot — you’ll treat him square if he squawks?”

“Do you know something?” challenged Weston.

“Yeah,” said the voice. “But I ain’t goin’ to talk unless I can see you. I don’t trust the bulls. I ain’t—”

“Is this a hoax?” demanded Weston.

“I ain’t kiddin’, commissioner,” persisted the voice, in a new, plaintive tone.

“Say — I’ll give you some dope over the phone — right now — if you’ll give me a chance to come up to your place. You can have the bulls there. I’ll tell you who I am before I come, if only you’ll promise to give me the chance.”

COMMISSIONER WESTON was a sage individual. He sensed that he had a real informant on the other end of the wire. To alarm the man might end the call; to give him too much assurance might mean a change of mind on the fellow’s part. Tactful and practical, Weston decided to learn what he could while the opportunity was here.

“If this is no hoax,” he said, in a calm voice, “I am quite ready to talk with you. It does not matter if you have participated in crime which involves this man they call The Red Blot—”

“I ain’t done nothin’, commissioner,” the voice intervened. “Let me give you the low down. Are you listenin’?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been tippin’ off a guy, understand? Talkin’ with a fellow who works for The Red Blot. He wanted me to go along with him — get the idea? I was scared.”

“The Red Blot’s goin’ to pull somethin’ big, commissioner. You can’t stop him, but there’s a guy that’s goin’ to make trouble for him. The Shadow — that’s who, commissioner! The Shadow is out to get The Red Blot! I’ve seen him — The Shadow!”

Commissioner Weston repressed a snort of disdain. He had heard of The Shadow — a strange phantom garbed in black who warred with crime. One of Joe Cardona’s pet beliefs — The Shadow.

This awed voice, speaking from somewhere in the underworld, was adding new testimony to prove the existence of The Shadow, a thought which Weston had constantly tried to belittle.

“If The Shadow gets The Red Blot” — the voice seemed more scared than before — “he’ll go after the whole works. He’ll get me, maybe, because I know about The Red Blot. That’s why I’m tippin’ you off.”

“Tipping me off?” queried Weston testily. “You haven’t told me anything yet.”

“You’ve got to believe me,” complained the voice. “Listen, commissioner — put this down and you’ll know I’m right. There’s a guy named Socks Mallory. He’s supposed to be out of New York. He’s here — he was in on last night’s job. He’s out to get a big shot named Tony Loretti—”

“Yes! Yes!” Weston spoke eagerly as the voice broke off.

“I can’t tell you no more,” pleaded the informant. “I’ve got to see you. If Socks Mallory knew that I was squealin’, he’d get me, sure.”

“Listen, commissioner. I’ll come up there if you’ll let me. I’ll tell you how I’ll come — and you can cover me all along the way. Send along some dicks — they’ll know me, an’ they can stick close to me.”

“Go ahead,” ordered Weston. “I’ll agree to see you.”

“An hour from now,” said the voice, in a relieved tone. “Say — you’re on the level—”

“Absolutely.”

“O.K., then. I’ll get on the Lexington Avenue sub at Fourteenth Street, an hour from now. Tell the dicks to cover me. Spider Carew — that’s me. They’ll know Spider Carew. I’m a little guy, wearin’ a cap, an’ sweater under a coat. I’ll get on a local to Thirty-third Street. Off there an’ over to your place. Let the dicks trail me — but if they grab me, I won’t talk. I’ve got to see you, commissioner.”

“That’s exactly right, Carew,” said Weston, in a soothing tone. “Come right along. You will not be molested. That is my promise.”

“I’m goin’ back to my hideout,”’ informed Spider. “Then I’ll do a quick sneak over to the sub. I’ll play straight, commissioner!”

The receiver clicked. The call was ended.

COMMISSIONER WESTON lost no time. He called Inspector Klein.

“One hour from now,” Weston told the inspector, “a man named Spider Carew will enter the Lexington Avenue subway at Fourteenth Street. He is coming here. I want him trailed, but he is not to be arrested.”

Klein’s reply of acquiescence came over the wire.

“He is a small man, Klein,” explained Weston. “He wears a cap, and a sweater underneath his coat. He will take a local train to Thirty-third Street; from there he will walk here.”

Weston hung up the receiver after Klein had promised to make the arrangements promptly. A few minutes later, the bell rang, and the commissioner again heard the inspector’s voice.

“I told Detective Sergeant Markham to cover Spider Carew,” explained Klein. “He was to leave with three men. In the meantime, Hembroke came into my office.”

“Good!” exclaimed Weston. “You put him on the job also?”

“Yes,” returned Klein, “He gave me a valuable suggestion. The detectives will leave here separately; each will arrive at Fourteenth Street within thirty minutes. They will post themselves so that they can watch each other. When one spots Spider Carew, all will follow the lead.”

“Excellent,” decided Weston. “That is better than sending them as a squad.”

“Anything else, commissioner?”

“Yes.”

Weston recalled his conversation with Spider. Normally, the commissioner would have mentioned the names of Socks Mallory and Tony Loretti; but another name crowded those from his mind.

“This man Carew” — Weston’s tone became a bit ironical — “said that he feared The Shadow. I am telling you that, inspector, but there is no need to mention it to our men. You know my opinion regarding The Shadow. He may be a myth for all I know. That is all, inspector.”

The call ended, Commissioner Weston sat at his desk. He now recalled the names of Mallory and Loretti, and jotted them on a pad. These could wait. Spider Carew had committed himself, and would surely come here now. Direct questioning would bring more detailed information about The Red Blot.

As Weston pondered, he found himself thinking of The Shadow. Despite his disbelief in the activities of that mysterious being who fought with crime, the commissioner could not forget the awed tone of Spider’s voice.

The Shadow! Weston was doubting his own opinions. Spider Carew had said that he had seen The Shadow. That would be one subject upon which Weston would examine the informant, when Spider Carew arrived for his appointment!