Morton finished his speech by walking over to Carpenter’s chair. He whisked the money from the blackmailer’s hand and placed it in his own pocket.
“It’s time this racket was ended,” he declared. “I guess you have found easy money here at Seaview City. Well, that’s ended now!”
Herbert Carpenter had regained his composure. He knew that he was in a bad spot, and he was prepared to work his way out, if possible.
“We are even, Morton,” he said quickly. “I am willing to call it quits—”
“You are willing!” snorted Morton. “Of course! You have enough nerve — I’ll grant you that. But it won’t help you out this time! When I say your game is ended, I mean it. You can’t touch me, Carpenter! When I’m through with you, you will be behind the bars. You crook!”
Herbert Carpenter made no response to the final impeachment. With an air of resignation, he settled back in his chair. The difficulties of his present situation did not seem to worry him.
“Think I’m going to feel softhearted?” questioned Morton. “You will have a long time to wait. When I testify, enough will come to light to convict you — but not enough to injure me.”
“The letters,” remarked Carpenter, in an easy tone. “Keep them!” defied Morton. “Whoever brings them to light will be incriminated with you. Those letters are dynamite in any hands other than mine.”
Wheeling, Morton turned to his secretary. Gorman blinked through tortoise-shell glasses as he awaited his employer’s bidding.
“Call the police!” ordered Morton.
Gorman went to the telephone. He clicked for the hotel operator. Gifford Morton chuckled with satisfaction.
Herbert Carpenter waited patiently. He had the air of a man who expected something to happen.
CHAPTER IX
TABLES TURN
A MAN was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Pavilion, close by the window where the telephone operator was located. Despite his correct attire, this individual’s face betrayed the fact that he was other than a gentleman.
Yet that did not bar him from these premises. Money was the one standard of admittance to this luxurious hotel. No one questioned the presence of Hooks Borglund.
This harsh-faced crime master was not the only person in the lobby who bore the marks of the underworld. Among the many guests were several others of his ilk. They were sitting quietly in lobby chairs, apparently ill at ease, others indifferent to their surroundings.
Hooks Borglund cast a cagey glance toward a stranger who entered the lobby. The newcomer was tall and calm-faced. He walked in leisurely fashion, with his hands in his coat pockets. Borglund’s ears pricked as he fancied that he heard the jingle of metal. The sound ended in a short click.
The advancing figure stared coldly toward Hooks Borglund, and the crook’s eyes met the piercing gaze of Lamont Cranston. Neither showed any sign of recognition. Cranston continued on his way, while Borglund wondered.
Possessed of intuitive shrewdness, Hooks sensed that some mystery surrounded the person who had just entered. He watched Cranston go toward the elevator.
Borglund half rose from his chair to watch the dial. It stopped at the fourteenth floor. Borglund sank back with a grin. Gifford Morton’s room was on the tenth. Evidently this man was not paying a visit there.
The sound of the telephone operator’s voice suddenly attracted Borglund’s attention. The girl was speaking in an excited tone.
“You want the police?” she questioned. “Room 1048? Can you wait until I notify Mr. Hurley… Yes… Oh, I see. Thank you. I shall notify him right away—”
Borglund was staring straight ahead as he rose again from his chair. The number that the girl had given was Gifford Morton’s room!
Hooks thumped his right fist against his open left hand. He had sensed that something was wrong, but he had been waiting. Now, perhaps, he had delayed too long.
It was not his job to interfere with Carpenter’s game; but it was his task to see that all went well.
Hooks cast a shrewd glance about the lobby. Questioning eyes met his gaze. As each well-dressed mobster caught the signal Hooks made a slight upward gesture with his thumb. He saw the gangsters rise one by one and saunter toward the elevator.
“Manager’s office?” The girl was speaking again. “Is Mr. Hurley there?… Yes, I must speak to him — trouble in 1048. They want the police… No, they asked for the police, not the house detective… All right, I’ll call headquarters — connect you with them, Mr. Hurley—”
The girl plugged in a switch, and then answered a light that appeared on the switchboard.
“You want Mr. Borglund?” she questioned. “I can have him paged—”
Hooks stepped up to the window.
“I am expecting a call,” he announced. “My name is Borglund. Will you have me paged if the call comes in—”
“Party is asking for you now,” responded the girl.
“Take the call in Booth 4.”
Hooks hurried into the indicated booth. He lifted the receiver, and recognized the growl of Wheels Bryant.
“That you, Hooks?”
“Yes. Hello, Wheels.”
“Trouble over at Big Tom’s. Gun play. Coppers cleaned up the joint after the mob finished the fireworks. Slide over with the mob and get the lay. There’s a guy we’ve got to get—”
“The mob’s gone upstairs, Wheels,” responded Hooks, in a low tone. He was watching from the booth to make sure that the girl was not listening in. “Carpenter’s in trouble. He’s working on a bird named Morton, and he must have landed in a jam. Someone called for the cops—”
“Leave it to the mob. Carpenter can tell them what to do. Get over to Big Tom’s right away. Alone—”
“O.K.”
Hooks Borglund hurried from the hotel. He knew that gun play at the Club Catalina meant a serious situation. As a chance visitor after the fray, Borglund would be of great value. Those in the hotel could take care of themselves. They were competent.
“A GUY we’ve got to get—”
That message from Wheels Bryant was puzzling to Hooks Borglund. He wondered who had jammed the works at the gambling joint. Not for one moment did he think of the tall, calm-faced man who had so recently passed him in the lobby.
Had Borglund caught a glimpse of that man now, he would have cursed himself for his folly in not sensing the meaning of the jingle that he had heard. In a room on the fourteenth floor of the Hotel Pavilion, Lamont Cranston was standing by a table near the window. The faintest trace of a smile wreathed those firm lips as Cranston’s eyes looked toward the lighted Club Catalina.
They were looking for him there — scurrying mobsters and incoming police. They were wondering where he had gone. Now, from a veritable watchtower, Lamont Cranston was observing the swarming crowds that were hurrying for a glimpse of the chaos that had been created on his account.
Stepping into the gloom of the dimly lighted room, the hawk-visaged millionaire removed two automatics from his pockets. He carefully reloaded them and placed them on the table. When he extracted stacks of glittering coins, which he piled before him.
A large trunk stood in the corner. Lamont Cranston drew it away from the wall and pressed two rivets. The back of the trunk opened, revealing two small compartments and a large cavity beneath.
He placed the money in one compartment, and added several rolls of bank notes. From the depths of the lower opening, he drew forth two garments — a black cloak and a slouch hat.
As Cranston’s long arms spread the cloak, its crimson lining showed in the dull light. The flowing garment slipped over his shoulders. His hands raised the hat and placed it on his head.