“What do you want, sir?” he asked.
“I came to see Mr. Marmosa,” replied the young man.
“I will see if he is here,” responded the waiter. “What is your name, sir?”
“Harry Vincent.”
The waiter ascended the curving stairway, and disappeared when he reached the balcony. The man who had introduced himself as Harry Vincent sat down at one of the tables, and studied the sumptuous surroundings of the cafe, with both ground floor and balcony filled with tables and booths.
Vincent’s thoughts were interrupted by the return of the waiter, who beckoned to him to come upstairs. When they reached the top, the waiter turned abruptly to the left, and conducted Vincent to a partitioned office, hidden behind a corner pillar of the balcony.
Entering the office, Vincent discovered a man seated at a desk. The office was very small — scarcely more than a nook, and the man who occupied it seemed out of proportion to his surroundings.
He was heavy-set, and slightly bald. He weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, and the chair in which he was sitting was almost invisible beneath his bulk.
“Ah!” The man’s voice was suave, and melodious. “You are Mr. Vincent, eh? I am Mr. Marmosa — Frank Marmosa. You have come here as I asked you, eh?”
“Yes. I received your wire yesterday afternoon.”
“Sit down, Mr. Vincent. Let me talk to you. I am glad that you have come, and I think that you will like it here.”
There was a chair opposite the desk — a chair crowded into the extreme corner of the tiny office. Harry Vincent took his place there, and looked quizzically at Frank Marmosa.
There was a real friendliness about the big man beyond his suavity. Vincent sized him up as a man who could be trusted, with reservations. Marmosa was presumably of Italian ancestry, but one could not have judged his nationality without knowing his name.
“My telegram surprised you, eh?” chuckled Marmosa, as he studied Harry Vincent. “Well, my boy, it was just by a chance that I learned of you.
“I have been waiting for two weeks to hear from my friend Barutti, in New York. I had asked him for a man to work with me here. I received no reply, until night before last, when Barutti called me up by long distance. He told me to wire you in Michigan; that you would be the man I needed.”
A SUDDEN light dawned on Harry Vincent. Now, for the first time, he understood the connection that had brought him to Chicago.
He had suspected that the hand of The Shadow was behind this mission, for Vincent was a trusted agent of the strange man whose name carried terror to the minions of gangdom. But he had never before heard of Frank Marmosa, and only the mention of Barutti gave him the inkling that brought realization of the situation.
Barutti operated an Italian restaurant in New York. Harry Vincent had chosen the place as a favorite eating spot, when in Manhattan.
Barutti was not a figure in the underworld; on the contrary, he operated a legitimate business. But, like many others, he had certain connections of a doubtful sort.
Two weeks ago, Harry had been dining in Barutti’s restaurant. The Italian had exhibited a letter, remarking that it was from a big man in Chicago.
“A verra big man,” Barutti had said, with a grin. “A big man in bizaness — a big man like dis” — and he had qualified the final statement by spreading his arms to indicate a person of enormous size.
Barutti had then talked with a man seated at another table in the Italian restaurant — a chap whom Harry had seen there on several occasions, and who talked both English and Italian.
From the snatches that Harry had heard of their mixed conversation, Barutti had told the other customer that his friend in Chicago had asked a favor, but that he would not grant it at present. For Barutti was going away for a month’s vacation. His friend in Chicago could wait.
Harry had also left New York for a vacation — to the town in Michigan where his family resided. He had been there ten days, and had then been startled to read of the death of Claude Fellows.
This news, furnished by a Chicago paper, had stunned Harry Vincent. He was one of the few persons who knew that the insurance broker was an agent of the mysterious Shadow. He had wondered what would follow.
The result had been a telegram from Chicago, signed by Frank Marmosa, telling Harry to come to see him immediately.
A complete theory had now formed in Harry’s mind.
His thoughts went back to that day in Barutti’s place. Barutti had shown the letter to the stranger who dined there. That stranger, Harry felt sure, was none other than The Shadow!
Immediately after the death of Claude Fellows, The Shadow must have called Frank Marmosa by long distance, representing himself as Barutti, to tell Marmosa that he had found the man he wanted.
WHILE Harry Vincent still pondered on this idea, Frank Marmosa resumed the conversation, and his words formed a cue which Harry was quick to follow.
“So you are a friend of Barutti, eh?” questioned Marmosa.
“I have known him a long while,” replied Harry quietly.
“You know him very well?”
“Quite well.”
“He told me that I could trust you in every way.”
“Whatever Barutti may have said is true.”
“Good.” Frank Marmosa’s grin displayed a row of large, white teeth. He studied Harry carefully, then motioned toward the door with his thumb.
“Shut the door,” he said.
Harry complied with the order.
“Barutti told you about me?” questioned Marmosa, in a low, confidential voice.
“He told me that you were a big man in Chicago,” answered Harry.
The statement seemed to please Marmosa. He grinned and chuckled, and looked approvingly at Harry.
“You know what it means to be a big man in Chicago?” asked Marmosa.
Harry nodded.
“You know what makes big men in Chicago, eh?” continued Marmosa. “You know what is most important, eh?”
“I think I know.”
“What is it, then.”
“Getting in right — and staying in right.”
“Very good,” chuckled Marmosa. “You understand. Barutti did well to send you here.
“Well, Vincent, I am in right; and I stay in right. When they say to me: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile, and I pay it. When some one else says: ‘Frank, you must give us a rake-off,’ I smile again.
“I pay to those who are big. They keep away those who are little. You understand? I am in right. You will be in right, too.”
The big man stared steadily at Harry Vincent. The young man met his gaze. Finally, Marmosa grinned again, and extended his hand. Harry shook it, and with that action, he realized that he was entering a new career. He had blindly made a bargain with Frank Marmosa.
“You are all right, young fellow,” said the big man assuringly. “You will work for me, eh? Good. Come along. I will show you something that will surprise you.”
HE rose and opened the door. Harry followed him along the soft carpet of the balcony. Frank Marmosa pressed a hidden spot in the wall, behind a shielding pillar, and a partition slid noiselessly aside.
The two men entered a spacious room, evidently built over the kitchen of the restaurant. The place was a glittering den of gambling.
In the center stood two roulette wheels, along the sides were faro tables, while card tables in the corners invited the play of those who preferred poker.
There was a short mahogany bar in the far corner of the room. Its brass rail shone like gold, and behind it stood a man in a white coat, polishing glasses.
“Come.”
Marmosa led Harry around the room, and pointed out the roulette wheels and the faro tables as though he were directing a sight-seeing tour.
When they reached the bar, Marmosa smilingly invited Harry to have a drink. When the young man shook his head in refusal, Marmosa’s grin broadened to his characteristic smile.