“Sure,” replied Bart, “but nobody’s going to know about it. That’s part of the gag. The big part. But listen, Buzz: we figured on having Trip Burley in as the big shot. That went blooey. What about this guy Lingo Queed? Who is he?”
“Where’d you hear about him?”
“Down at headquarters. I was listening when Joe Cardona was talking to some reporters.”
“What’d you hear about him?”
“Nothing, except that he was in. Cardona didn’t know why.”
“I’ll tell you why.” Buzz leaned forward in his chair. “And listen, Bart, what I’m giving you is so tight it ain’t even going along the grapevine. Which means no stoolie’s even beginning to hear about it.
“But remember — we can’t do nothing about it. I’m in with Louie Caparani. Mighty close, but not close enough for Louie to ring me in on the meetings that he and some other guys were holding. I want to keep in with Louie; that’s why we’ve got to hold tight to what he told me. About Lingo Queed.
“LAST night a deal was made. The guy that rubbed out Rook was to be the big shot, see? Well, Louie got a call later from Lingo Queed. Louie and some others went up to Rook’s place by a private elevator — one I didn’t even know about. Lingo was there.”
“You mean he knew about the elevator?”
“You bet! And he was the guy that bumped Rook. So that’s why he’s the big shot.
“I mean” — Buzz grinned — “Lingo was the bird that bumped the guy they thought was Rook.”
“What about Trip?”
“He was dead already. This guy that looked like Rook had smeared him. So Lingo planted things to make it look like Rook and Trip had plugged each other. The boys are keeping it quiet so the bulls won’t bother Lingo.”
“And Cardona fell for it.” Bart shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it looked right enough. Say, Buzz — if you’re in with Louie Caparani, you ought to be able to get close to Lingo.”
“Sure thing! That’s just what Louie told me. Figures I can build up a mob to work for Lingo. To take the place of Ping Gradley’s outfit.”
“Good!” Bart arose and clapped a heavy paw to Buzz Dongarth’s shoulder. “Say — Rook’s going to feel swell when he hears this dope. You line up the right guys, like you said. Then get in with Lingo, so’s to be ready when we need you. It’ll work out just about as good as if we still had Trip. Better, maybe, as I see it.”
“Because if you don’t like Lingo—”
“We can chop him down. That would have been tough with Trip. He would have been ready to squawk if he felt it coming.”
This concluded the conference. Bart Koplin made his departure from the dingy house. Buzz Dongarth remained and read over the letter that had come from Rook Hollister. The longer he digested its contents, the more pleased his grin became.
Buzz moved his lips, as if memorizing something. Then, with pencil, he began notations on the back of the letter. At times, he referred to the letter itself to see if his memory was correct. This process continued for a full half hour. Finally Buzz was satisfied.
He tore the letter to shreds and lighted the pieces with a match. He dropped the burning paper in a battered metal wastebasket and watched until Rook’s message was entirely destroyed.
LUCK had come to Buzz Dongarth. He was a mobleader whose crew had run into trouble at the docks.
At that time, criticism had been heavy toward Rook Hollister. The big shot, to save his face, had passed the buck to Buzz. But in so doing, Rook had removed the sting by promising future service.
Louie Caparani had known of the situation. He had classed Buzz as luke-warm, so far as a plot against Rook might be concerned; because Buzz had some future chance so long as Rook remained big shot.
But since last night, Louie — as well as Blitz and other lieutenants — had been busy mollifying just such persons as Buzz Dongarth.
“Sure. Rook was a pal,” Louie had said. Buzz’s hard mouth showed a fanglike grin at recollection of it.
“A pal of yours Buzz, and a pal of mine. But he put you in the discard, didn’t he, when you flivved a job? Well, the boys had to rub out Rook, and Lingo Queed’s the big shot because he did it. Are you with us?”
Buzz had said yes. A logical reply, with Rook dead. But this news that Rook was still alive gave him a different impetus. The proposal that had come from the ex-big shot was one that promised huge return. It meant that for the present Buzz would be the visible head of an invisible chain working in behalf of a hidden campaign.
It meant the end of this squalor; this pretended disgrace that Buzz had borne in behalf of Rook. A chance to blow some of the dough that Rook had passed him, by pretending that new connections were proving profitable.
Buzz Dongarth began to pack a bag. He was leaving here to take up a new and more pretentious abode.
Like Bart Koplin, he was sold on the idea of Rook Hollister’s new campaign.
ELSEWHERE, Clyde had put in his report to Burbank. The contact man, in turn, had given it to The Shadow. In the seclusion of a strange black-walled room, the master fighter was reviewing the facts that Clyde had given.
The Shadow was in his hidden sanctum. Bluish light glowed upon the surface of a polished table. Long, white hands were fingering papers; then the right hand began to inscribe brief comments:
No impressions taken—
These words appeared in bluish ink. Then the inscription faded as was the way with The Shadow’s written thoughts. A soft laugh sounded from outside the sphere of lamplight. The Shadow was referring to the fact that Joe Cardona had seen no necessity of taking fingerprints from the bodies found at Rook Hollister’s.
A photostatic sheet came into view. This was from The Shadow’s files. Records more extensive — so far as utility was concerned — than those of the police. This sheet showed full face and profile of Rook Hollister. Beneath the pictures were reproductions of Rook’s thumb and finger impressions.
A waxed sheet slid on the table. This had undergone a change since The Shadow had folded it at Rook’s.
Donald Manthell’s fingerprints had been brushed with a black powder. The Shadow compared them with the photostat of Rook’s impressions.
Bluish light gave the answer. The prints were totally different! The Shadow knew that the man whom Trip Burley had slain was not the big shot. Rook Hollister, king of the underworld, still lived. Freed from the foment of the underworld, Rook would be trebly dangerous.
Papers rustled from the table. White hands plucked earphones from the wall. A tiny bulb glittered; Burbank’s voice spoke over the wire. In return, The Shadow uttered whispered commands that were weird and sinister in tone.
Instructions to all agents. Full information that Rook Hollister was alive. New orders changing entirely the work that aids had been performing.
The Shadow, cognizant of the truth, had mapped a new campaign.
CHAPTER XII. VILLAINS DEDUCT
AT nine o’clock that evening, Bart Koplin strolled into a subway entrance at Times Square. Newsboys were selling early copies of tomorrow morning’s newspapers. Bart bought one of the “bulldog” editions.
Passing through a turnstile, the heavy-jowled private dick followed the planking and boarded a waiting shuttle train. Seated in the half-empty car, he read new reports concerning the supposed death of Rook Hollister.
The front page carried a photograph of The Hotel Thurmont, with arrows marking the rear windows of Rook’s apartment. Other pictures showed Rook, himself, in various poses. One when he had attended races on Long Island; another when he had left a courtroom after a squashed trial.
The shuttle train started and carried Bart clear to Grand Central before he had finished reading the padded accounts of gangdom’s revolt against its wavering czar. Bart tossed the newspaper on a seat. He left the train and made his way out through Grand Central Station.