Hidden conflict was in the making. Thrusts and counter-thrusts would come in the dark. The Shadow, by learning that Rook still lived, had merely lessened the odds upon which the big shot had counted.
All considered, the best was an even break for The Shadow. Rook Hollister, hidden ruler of crimedom, had reached the coveted position from which he could battle The Shadow upon equal terms!
CHAPTER XIII. UNDER COVER
A FEW days had passed. Crime lay latent in New York. The underworld had not yet adjusted itself to the regime of Lingo Queed. Alliances were being made; lieutenants were strengthening their forces.
Rook Hollister had counted upon such a lull. He had believed that The Shadow would make use of it to implant workers more firmly in the ranks of underworld groups. This would prove of advantage later, when spies passed reports through Buzz Dongarth.
The Shadow, unknown to Rook, was crossing the dope. His agents were busy; but in a manner that would leave Rook guessing. For The Shadow, recognizing the hidden big shot’s scheme, had withdrawn his aids from all activities that might betray their identity.
Moreover, he had put them on a task which might prove damaging to Rook’s own position. To a man, The Shadow’s agents were engaged in a hunt for the big shot himself. This course was as safe as it was crafty, since Rook dwelt in ignorance of the fact that The Shadow knew him to be alive.
Clyde Burke, enterprising reporter on the staff of the Classic, had gained a vacation. He was using it in and about Manhattan, strolling into mobster hangouts, visiting the water fronts, cruising everywhere in free-lance journalistic fashion. Always with one purpose: to listen for any mention of Rook Hollister.
Harry Vincent, a keen-cut chap who had long served The Shadow, was watching lobbies of the large hotels, always on the lookout for any one who might resemble Rook. Harry was also ready for special orders.
Aiding in the search through the better districts of Manhattan was a shrewd-faced cab driver who was prepared to recognize Rook on sight. This was Moe Shrevnitz, an independent taxi man whose cab was actually owned by The Shadow. Moe was a clever hand in searches of this sort.
In the underworld, a stalwart agent was on the lookout. This was Cliff Marsland, who ranked as ace of The Shadow’s sharp-shooters. Cliff was to be off the firing line. The Shadow had another plan for dealing with crime when it arose. Cliff, like the other agents, was trying to spot Rook Hollister.
ONE alone had gained a unique duty. This was Hawkeye, the little trailer who had so often shown his worth. Hawkeye had been delegated to the special task of implanting himself in the select group of thugs who constituted the court of the new king, Lingo Queed.
Hawkeye’s duty, however, was leading to the same goal that the other agents were seeking. The Shadow had recognized that Rook Hollister would find it profitable to keep tabs on Lingo Queed. Among Lingo’s associates would be one who would know that Rook still lived. That individual discovered, Hawkeye would be useful in trailing him.
It was later afternoon. Hawkeye was shuffling along an East Side street, toward an old apartment building. It was on the fourth floor of that structure that Lingo Queed had established headquarters.
Unlike Rook, Lingo had no penchant for luxury.
Hawkeye felt qualms as he approached his destination. From Burbank, the little agent had gained explicit instructions. He was versed in the method that he was to use with Lingo. The Shadow had planned a good way for his aid to make an impression upon the new big shot and his lieutenants.
Shuffling up to the entrance of the old apartment house, Hawkeye encountered a sweatered guard. This mobster was a gorilla who belonged to one of the mobleaders serving Lingo. Hawkeye nodded to the fellow; then announced that he wanted to see Lingo.
The guard waved Hawkeye through. Entering a decrepit elevator, Hawkeye found another mobster serving as operator. This thug heard his request, agreed to it and took Hawkeye to the fourth floor. There Hawkeye was passed through by a third ruffian, who stood as guard of Lingo’s apartment.
Nothing formal about meeting Lingo Queed, if a caller looked tough enough. Hawkeye found that out at once. He walked straight into a poorly furnished conference room to find Lingo engaged in a discussion with half a dozen lieutenants.
Louie Caparani was present. So was Blitz Schumbert. Outside of these racketeers, the others were mobleaders. One in particular caught Hawkeye’s gaze. The fellow was Buzz Dongarth, a new acquisition to the list of lieutenants.
LINGO recognized Hawkeye. This was not surprising, since both had been roamers, in the bad lands.
Lingo had come to the top of the heap, in one bound from obscurity. Hawkeye, on the contrary, was still an unimportant figure.
It was Lingo’s policy, however, to be friendly with all. His glance showed that he considered Hawkeye to be all right. He waved the little spotter to a corner.
Hawkeye listened in on a prolonged conference which dealt with future activities. Lingo, his big-featured face indulging in occasional smiles, was quite attentive to the plans proposed by his lieutenants. The trend seemed equal. Some felt that immediate action would strengthen Lingo’s status; while others claimed that delay would give opportunity for better organization.
Lingo finally decided with the latter group. All arguments heard, he summed matters with a brusque statement:
“You all know what happened to Rook Hollister. He got his because he was dumb. Shoved things through when he wasn’t ready. Let ‘em squawk if they don’t like it because I’m holding back. That’s better than starting off with some bum bet. Whatever I do is goin’ to be right.” Emphatically, Lingo had ended the conference. Forgetting the lieutenants, he swung about to Hawkeye and queried:
“Well? What’s biting you?”
Hawkeye grinned wisely. He looked at Lingo; then glanced at the big shot’s lieutenants. He nodded before he spoke.
“Just wanted to put you wise to something, Lingo,” declared Hawkeye. “I get around a few places. I hear what’s going on; I thought maybe you’d like to know about it.”
“Spring it,” growled Lingo.
“Well” — Hawkeye looked warily at the lieutenants — “I sort of have a hunch that you’re goin’ to be in for trouble. Some birds that I’ve heard talking are wondering who got the idea of making you big shot to begin with.”
Lingo glowered. Enraged utterances came from the lieutenants. Lingo waved his hand to silence the inappropriate epithets.
“Let’s hear him out,” suggested Lingo.
“You’d better,” commented Hawkeye, boldly. “You’re up against something, Lingo. It’s not just keeping yourself in right — it’s the idea of getting started at all. Each new guy that stepped in where you are has found it hotter than the fellow who was ahead of him.”
“Don’t I know it?” queried Lingo.
“Don’t look like it,” returned Hawkeye.
“Why not?” quizzed Lingo.
“Just because,” answered Hawkeye, “you’re starting off just the way the rest of ‘em did. I looked over those mugs you’ve got for bodyguards.” He glanced across the room where a pair of gorillas were lounging in the corner. “I don’t like the looks of them. How do you know they aren’t working for somebody that’s ready to knife you?”
“I know the guys that got them for me,” asserted Lingo. “They’re all right.”
“Yeah?” queried Hawkeye. “But do you know where they came from? Listen, Lingo—”
“Say,” interrupted Lingo savagely, “where did you get all this hooey? If there’s any heels that think they’re going to get me, it looks like they’ve sent you around here to pull a stall for a starter.” Guffaws of approval from the lieutenants. Mumbles about throwing Hawkeye out. The Shadow’s agent felt that his spot was a tough one. He hastened to play his lone trump.