WHILE Manthell was pouring out a glass, Bart went back into the room that they had just left. Out of Manthell’s view the private detective pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed and piled Manthell’s clothes in it.
When he returned into the living room, Bart was carrying the bag. He made no comment regarding it. He merely waved good-by to his guest and walked into the dressing room to take the elevator.
As he opened the door of the lift, Bart dropped back. A man was standing there in the light. Bart’s startlement ended as he recognized Rook Hollister. Stepping in with the big shot, Bart closed the door.
Rook pressed the lever. The car descended.
“I was still here when you came in,” remarked Rook as they descended in the darkness, “so I thought I’d better wait for you. Everything working right?”
“Great!” chuckled Bart. “Say — the guy’s a dead ringer for you Rook! When I shoved him into that tux you left in the bedroom closet, you’d have thought he was your own reflection, if you’d seen him.”
“All the better,” growled Rook as the car arrived at the ground level. “You’ve got his outfit in the bag all right?”
“Sure. And he’s waiting for me to come back with Sargon, the big guy with Enterprise. He fell for the stall. All the better, because he’d worked in some shorts out in Hollywood. He thinks he’d have been a star if he’d stayed there.”
“Tough for him; he didn’t stay,” Rook answered. “All right Bart. Take it easy when we move into the garage. I don’t want anybody to spot me. We’ll grab a cab over on the avenue.”
The two men moved out in silence. They reached the street unobserved and traced their course toward the avenue. Rook Hollister was making a secret getaway.
No eyes were here to view the big shot’s departure. Both The Shadow and Hawkeye were gone, each to a new task. Neither had lingered long enough to view the arrival of Bart and Manthell.
So far the big shot’s game lay undiscovered. Bart Koplin and Trip Burley alone knew its details. All others who knew Rook Hollister believed that the big shot was still in his apartment, awaiting mobland’s verdict.
To all appearances Rook still was there. The occupant of Rook’s suite looked exactly like the big shot.
For Bart had left Donald Manthell there as a plant whose identity was calculated to deceive expected visitors.
CHAPTER VIII. GANGDOM’S DEAL
TRIP BURLEY had led Hawkeye a circuitous journey after his departure from the garage behind the Hotel Thurmont. But the trail had ended where Hawkeye had expected it to finish: in Chinatown.
There, Trip had gone into the shop called the Silver Dragon. Hawkeye, in turn, had ducked through the secret passage to take his place behind the slitted wall. Once more, The Shadow’s agent was spying on the racketeers and mobleaders who had assembled at Koy Dow’s.
Trip had been the last to arrive. He had just entered when Hawkeye took his post. All those who had been at the former meeting were here with one exception. Ping Gradley was not present. That was a matter of course. Ping’s career had ended on the night he met The Shadow.
Blitz Schumbert was in charge of the meeting. The pug-nosed racketeer was rumbling in his accustomed basso. No hedging tonight. Blitz was calling for Rook Hollister’s doom.
“We’ve given Rook his chance,” Hawkeye heard Blitz declare, “and we’d have done better if we hadn’t. Maybe your racket would still be good, Louie. Maybe we’d have Ping here with us.”
Louie Caparani was sitting, his face toward Hawkeye. The Shadow’s agent saw a hard smile flicker on Louie’s lips. When Louie spoke, his words were blunt and harsh.
“Ping’s dead,” affirmed the dark-visaged racketeer. “My game’s as sour as yours, Blitz. It’s even been bum business for me to go near the night club men that I had approached.
“Even the guys that had already lined up are going back on me. Phone calls — from Brooklyn, Harlem, yeah, and from Canarsie — telling me to drag out the coin machines before they chuck them in the alley.
“Karl Durmsted told everything he knew. The cops figure every coin machine in town must have been planted by me. Those machines are hot; and the birds that have them know it. They want to give me the go-by.”
“Like with my laundry racket,” put in Blitz, sourly. “I had some good lineups. All it needed was a blowoff to make them jump through the hoop—”
“And the blowoff didn’t come. But it’s worse with my racket, Blitz. I had things moving; little places were with me. I was building for the big ones. Now the works is wiped out.” Louie paused. His eyes were glaring with a venom as they swept around the group. Mobleaders were restless as the racketeer’s eyes met theirs. Hawkeye saw Trip Burley flinch.
It was almost that Louie was accusing someone present. His gesture was a dominating challenge to the entire group, Ping’s death had made Louie vengeful; and these rogues knew it.
One man alone was indifferent to Louie’s glare. That was Lingo Queed.
HAWKEYE, noting Lingo, observed a far-away gaze in the fellow’s eyes. Louie Caparani spotted it also. There was harshness in his tone as he called Lingo to task for not listening.
“Well, dummy?” queried Louie, glaring at Lingo. “Did you hear what I’ve been saying? I mean you, Lingo.”
“I heard you!” Lingo swung his staring gaze toward Louie. “I know Ping’s dead. I’ve been wondering why.”
It was Blitz Schumbert who snorted.
“Wondering why?” demanded the laundry racketeer. “I’ll tell you why. Because Rook Hollister is a palooka. Because he let too many guys in on what he was doing. Spilled it that Ping was going up to the Casino Rouge.”
“Did he?” queried Lingo. “Say, Blitz, that’s a rare one. Seems to me most of us here are pretty close to Rook. But it was news to all of us — except Louie — when Ping said that he was going up to the Casino Rouge.”
“Say — what are you getting at?” Blitz’s tone carried a challenge this time. “You mean somebody pulled a double cross? Sent a mob in there to knock off Ping Gradley? Just to make it look extra bad for Rook?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” replied Lingo, casually. “But I wouldn’t call it a double cross, either. The skids were already under Rook. I wouldn’t blame anybody for getting impatient.” Sudden silence followed Lingo’s statement. Mobleaders were nodding unconsciously. Trip Burley was fidgety; he was waiting for a chance to speak. Blitz Schumbert was glowering more fiercely than before.
Louie Caparani alone was serene. It was he who broke the silence.
“There may be something in what Lingo says,” observed Louie suavely. “But I wouldn’t call it a double cross, either. Just the same, nobody can figure that I pulled anything phony, because I’d have been a sap to queer my own racket when it was just about set to go through.”
Mumbles of approval. There was logic in Louie’s statement. Only one man took it with ill grace. That was Blitz Schumbert. Rising, he drove a huge fist down upon the teakwood table. With scowling, furious lips he stormed at Louie Caparani.
“Arguing that way,” rumbled Blitz, “you’re trying to pin it on me, Louie! By saying that you’d have laid off because your racket might be good, you’re making it look like I’d have made trouble for Ping just because my racket was already sour.”
“I’m blaming nobody,” retorted Louie. “Ping’s dead. Rook’s through. That’s all. We might just as well know where we stand for a start. We’re going to pick a big shot to take Rook’s place after we’ve rubbed Rook out. And the guy we pick—”
“I get it,” snorted Blitz. He glared about the group, then centered finally on Louie. “I started this move against Rook and by rights I’d be the new big shot. But you’ve been waiting for a chance to make it look like I was framing things my way!”