The Shadow's Justice

CHAPTER III THE BIG SHOT

“STACKS LODI is outside, chief.”

“Bring him in, Twister.”

The man who uttered the order was seated in a deep-cushioned chair, in the corner of a sumptuous apartment. His words were spoken in a harsh monotone that befitted his importance.

For the speaker was none other than “Hub” Rowley, big-time gambler and racketeer, a man whose disdain for the law had gained him fortune, and whose smooth and devious cunning had kept him aloof from the toils of the police.

Here, in his apartment on the twentieth floor of the Hotel Castillian, Hub Rowley dwelt in royal state. The portals of his abode were under the jurisdiction of “Twister” Edmonds, Hub’s bodyguard. The magnificent suite occupied half the floor.

Attired in garish dressing gown, cigarette in hand, and a half-emptied glass upon the table beside him, Hub Rowley appeared to be a gentleman of leisure.

His hardened face, with pudgy lips and thick black eyebrows, marked him otherwise. Yet Hub preferred to keep up the pretense. He considered himself an aristocrat, even though he bore the stamp of the underworld.

The door opened, and Twister, a wiry, leering fellow, ushered in the visitor. Stacks Lodi, wearing a rain-soaked overcoat and carrying a dripping hat, came into the presence of his chief.

Stacks was a suitable underling for such a master as Hub Rowley. Stocky, swarthy, and shrewd of eye, he was schemer rather than mobster, yet his deportment showed him to be a hardened product of the school of crime.

“Hello, Stacks,” greeted Rowley, in a methodical tone.

“Hello, Hub.” was the rejoinder. “Nothing doing tonight.”

“So I supposed,” remarked the big shot. “Call Twister. He’ll get you a drink. I guess you can use it from the way you look.”

Twister, stepping out through the door, heard the order and promptly reappeared. Stacks Lodi threw his hat and coat on a table, and took a chair near Hub Rowley. Both men watched Twister Edmonds while the man uncorked a bottle and poured out a supply of liquor for the visitor.

IT was one of those minor incidents that happened to attract the attention of all concerned. Hence it was not surprising that none of the three observed what was happening at the half-opened door while their interest was centered on the bottles.

There, from the gloom of the dim outer room, came a tall, gliding shape that stopped when only partially in view. Gleaming eyes detected that the men in the room were looking elsewhere. Those same eyes spied a pair of curtains that led to another part of the apartment.

There was not an instant’s delay. A tall form clad in black moved boldly into Hub Rowley’s reception room. The Shadow stood in full view; then, with swift, silent stride, the black-garbed visitant glided toward the curtains beyond which lay darkness.

It was a cool, daring venture; and one that succeeded only by the fraction of a second. Hub Rowley, glancing up, noted that the door was ajar. He grunted his disapproval as his eyes swept about the room, stopping at the curtains just after The Shadow had vanished behind them.

“Close that door, Twister,” ordered the big shot. “Stay outside. I’ll let you know when I need you.”

Twister handed the drink to Stacks, and obsequiously obeyed Hub Rowley’s order. A few moments later, the big shot and his caller were alone in the room, neither one suspecting that a hidden listener was there to hear the conversation.

“Nothing to report, eh?” growled Hub.

Only that some fellow called to see the old man,” declared Stacks. “That was about nine o’clock The guy went away at ten. You told me that some fellow was coming there, and to lay low until after he had gone. That was the time for the tip-off; but it didn’t come.”

“I doubted that it would,” said Rowley, in a calm tone. “In fact, I felt rather sure that I would not need you tonight. Just the same, I wanted you there — in case—”

Stacks nodded.

“O. K. by me, Hub,” he affirmed. “Scully acted grouchy because he was getting soaked in the drizzle. I told him it was all in the night’s work. Sent him away when I figured all was off. Say, Hub” — Stacks paused to consider his words — “who was that bird that came to see the old man tonight? I wouldn’t be asking you to tell me if he hadn’t looked like some one I’ve seen before—”

“There’s no harm in your knowing,” interposed Hub Rowley. “That was Farland Tracy, the lawyer. He represents old Houston Boswick.”

“Now I remember him!” exclaimed Stacks. “He was the guy who came to see you about young Westling, Boswick’s nephew — the time the kid dropped ten grand in your uptown joint when—”

“Say Louie Gurtz’s joint,” corrected Hub in a cold tone.

“Well — Louie Gurtz’s joint,” repeated Stacks, with a sheepish grin. “I always call it that, Hub, except when I’m talking to you. Anyway, I remember Tracy now. He came to see you about getting back Westling’s I O U, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” admitted Hub Rowley, “but I still have it. Just holding it — that’s all. Westling knew he was in a jam, so he went to his uncle’s lawyer. When Tracy came to me, he asked me to go easy on the boy. I figured that if I didn’t, the old man would throw the nephew out, so I talked it over with Westling himself.

“That’s the way it looked to the kid. A throw-out — no dough for me. So I’m holding Westling until I want him, that’s all. I’ve worked the same way before.”

“What did the lawyer think about it?”

“Well, he’d like to have that I O U, all right. I’ve got a few more of Westling’s, besides. Just about twenty grand in the hole — that’s where the kid stands.”

“He’ll never have the dough to pay it.”

“That’s what Tracy told me. But I talked with Westling. His uncle’s estate is coming through one of these days. Twenty grand — with plenty of interest.”

“I guess you’re sitting pretty, Hub,” said Stacks admiringly. “But listen — if the dough’s sure, what’s the good of going through the place while the old man is away?”

“Stacks,” remarked Hub reprovingly, “sometimes it is not wise to know too much. That applies to you. Understand? However, just to ease your mind, I’ll ask you to recall my policy concerning every I O U that I hold. What do I do when one isn’t paid?”

“You collect it.”

“Right. Do I stop with the face amount?”

“No. You take plenty over.”

“How much over?”

“No limit. Whatever you can get.”

“All right,” concluded Hub. “Westling didn’t pay. His uncle’s lawyer told me that the old man wouldn’t pay. The old man’s got some dough that I know about. It’s likely to he Westling’s later on. If I can get it now, I will. If I can’t get it now, I’ll get it after Westling has it. The sooner the better — that’s all.”

THERE was silence. Stacks Lodi sensed the keenness of Hub Rowley’s words. Stacks, with Scully and others, had invaded Houston Boswick’s home not long ago. Their search for a treasure vault had brought no results.

But Stacks could see the probabilities. Somewhere, Hub Rowley must suspect, the old man had hidden wealth. Hub Rowley intended to get it.

Stacks shrugged his shoulders as he thought of Drew Westling. The young man was a weakling, and a spendthrift. What could he do to oppose Hub Rowley? In fact, it would be easy for Hub to force Drew Westling to do his bidding.

Stacks recalled measures that the big shot had adopted in the past. He had made his victims squeal; double-cross their friends; stoop to any foul measures to meet their gaming debts.

The telephone bell rang while Stacks Lodi was engaged in this soliloquy. With an easy sweep of his hand, Hub Rowley plucked the double-ended instrument from its hook and quietly spoke into the mouthpiece. Stacks listened intently.

“Hello… Yes…” Rowley’s voice was unperturbed. “Yes, I thought so… Nothing developed tonight, eh?… The old man looks bad, you say… His son is coming back?… When?… Where is…”

Consternation sudden came upon Hub Rowley’s thick brow. The big shot did not like this news concerning Carter Boswick’s return. Stacks Lodi had assumed — logically and correctly — that the term “old man” referred to Houston Boswick.

“All right….” Rowley was speaking again… “Don’t worry… You just play the game… I’m holding those I O Us until the pudding’s baked, that’s all… Sure, I understand. If the son gets the tip-off the old man talked about, it leaves you in a hole…. Well — there’s ways of handling that…. Left Montevideo, eh? What boat? Yes… Steamship Southern Star…. Havana… Say, just keep mum. Leave it to me…”

Hub Rowley finished his conversation and laid the phone in the cradle. He studied Stacks Lodi thoughtfully; then asked a pointed question.

“How would you like to play the boats again, Stacks?”

“I wouldn’t care for it,” said Stacks suavely.

“That’s where you got your name, wasn’t it?” purred Hub. “Stacks Lodi — the smoothest card sharper in the business. You can stack a full house, deal bottoms and seconds—”

“But on the boats no more, Hub.”

The big shot smiled.

“They made it pretty hot for you, didn’t they, Stacks?” he questioned. “Got to know you too well. Faro dealing in a gambling joint became a healthier job.”

“They knew me on every first-class ship between here and Europe. They’ve got nothing on me, you understand; but the name “Stacks” has stuck. They called me that because of the way I handled the pasteboards, and it’s suicide for me to try that racket any longer—”

“How about the South American boats?” interposed Hub.

“No gravy on them,” was Stacks Lodi’s verdict.

“But do they know you?” questioned Hub.

“No,” responded Stacks. “I’d be as safe as a person aboard one of those packets. But there’d be nobody to trim unless a Paraguayan ambassador or some such bird showed up to be plucked.”

“I think a boat trip would do you good,” nodded Hub Rowley, with a quiet smile. “Just a little tester — that’s all. Suppose, Stacks, that you hop down to Havana by air. Spend a few days around the casino. Pick a few friends there and invite them to travel up to New York with you by steamship.”

“On any boat?” Stacks was wondering at Hub’s purpose.

“No,” responded the big shot. “Not any boat, Stacks. A particular boat— the Southern Star of the Panorama Line.”

Hub Rowley continued to smile as a sudden light appeared on Stacks Lodi’s face. The suave henchman was connecting this suggestion with the big shot’s telephone conversation.

THE smile faded, and Hub Rowley became suddenly grim and emphatic.

“Listen, Stacks,” he said, in a firm tone, “I’ve got an important job for you. I’m counting on you to do it — and I’m giving you enough reason for it. Keep mum about what I’m telling you.”

“Big rackets are my business. I don’t go in for small stuff. Whatever I do, I do right. Savvy? That’s enough to let you know that I’m not playing old Houston Boswick for lunch money. I’m after plenty, and I don’t mind you knowing it.

“I had things the way I wanted them. The old man away at first — ready to kick in now that he’s back — young Westling sewed up so he can’t move. But I haven’t been able to locate what I’m after. I wanted to grab the gravy right away, and let the howl follow, if there is one. I’ve seen too many good lays spoiled by a bad break.

“Right now, the bad break is coming. It just shows that my hunch was right. I’ve got dope that Carter Boswick — the old man’s son — is coming back to America. He’d been gone so long, it looked like he might be dead. If he gets here, Westling will be out. No money — no pay — no chance for me to pick up the dough without a fight on my hands.

“Carter Boswick. That’s his name. Coming north on the steamship Southern Star. It’s due in New York on the twentieth, and it comes by way of Havana, with a lay-over. You’re coming in on that boat” — Hub Rowley’s voice became low and deliberate — “and Carter Boswick is not. Do you get me now?”

“Sure thing,” nodded Stacks slowly. “But you know my limit, Hub. I’m all right at the card table.”

“But not with the rod, eh?”

“I’m O. K. there, too,” asserted Stacks, now hasty in his tone, “but I may not be one hundred per cent — and, besides, on board a boat—”

Hub Rowley was leaning forward in his chair, eyes agleam.

“You heard what I told you, Stacks,” he insisted. “Find yourselves some friends. Invite them aboard. Play your own part — the lone gambler. Even if you get watched, it will be all the better. It leaves you out of what may happen.”

“You mean the others—”

“Certainly. But I want you there to make sure. You can handle Scully and other gorillas like him, can’t you? Well — this is the same thing in a different way.”

“Sure enough, Hub,” agreed Stacks, in a relieved tone. “Say — this won’t be hard at all. I’ll need dough—”

“I’m giving you twenty grand—”

“And I’ll have to hustle for Havana so—”

“By air, to-morrow morning. Pick your gorillas down there. The town is full of them. They’re getting ideas from Chicago, those people. Bumped off a big political friend of the president with machine guns.”

“Leave it to me, Hub.”

The big shot smiled, broadly this time. The smirk showed his glittering gold teeth. Hub pulled a thick wallet from his pocket and counted off a mass of bills which he handed to Stacks Lodi.

The former card shark knew that the interview was ended. He rose, donned his hat and coat; then departed toward the anteroom, followed by Hub Rowley’s shrewd gaze.

MINUTES drifted by. The big shot finished his drink and arose from his chair. He walked across the room to a door opposite the hanging curtains. He went into a next room; then called loudly for Twister Edmonds.

The bodyguard appeared from the outside room and came to join his chief.

The way to the outer door was clear. The blackness below the hanging curtains seemed to move. As if by wizardry, it transformed itself into an upright shape — the tall figure of a weird being clad in black.

As silently as he had entered, The Shadow made his departure, crossing the reception room, and entering the outer chamber that gave him access to the outside door. Stacks Lodi had gone; again, The Shadow had followed.

The aftermath to this strange scene occurred an hour later at an agency where air travelers made their reservations. The man who was going off duty made a chance comment to the one who relieved him.

“Funny how they come in at the last minute sometimes,” he observed. “Take that Havana plane, for instance. Here we figured she would run light on this trip. Now, within a half hour of each other, two men book transportation.”

The new man looked at the list. He saw the names inscribed there. One was Antonio Lodi; the other was Lamont Cranston. Those names meant nothing to the agent. He shrugged his shoulders and went about his duty.

Yet those names actually held a peculiar significance. The first was the genuine name of a man of crime; the second, the assumed identity of one who warred against the denizens of crookdom, from small to large.

Stacks Lodi was Havana hound; to-morrow, his plane was sailing. Aboard the same ship — unknown and unrecognized by Hub Rowley’s agent — would he the one personage whom all the underworld feared.

The Shadow, like Stacks Lodi, was traveling to Havana!