Like Hawkeye, Jericho was working for The Shadow. Two aids were now on duty to keep tabs on all that passed at Lingo’s. The Shadow had competent men ready for the future. With Jericho at Lingo’s, Hawkeye was now free to trail Buzz Dongarth. That would prove an easy task.
LATER, Burbank, seated before a switchboard in a quiet room, plugged in to form contact with his chief.
In methodical tones, Burbank delivered verbatim a final report that he had received from Hawkeye.
Through the earphones which Burbank wore came the soft whisper of a sinister laugh that carried a strange tone of mirth.
Burbank withdrew the plug. He had heard that parting laugh before; and usually he accepted it without expression of his own. But tonight, Burbank indulged in a sly dry chuckle. The fact that The Shadow had planted two aids with Lingo Queed was a bit of irony that Burbank relished.
CHAPTER XV. STALEMATE
TWO weeks had passed. A new evening found Rook Hollister still secure in his hidden abode atop the Hotel Moselle. Attired in garish dressing gown, Rook was awaiting the arrival of Bart Koplin.
A rap at the door. Rook answered it. Bart entered the shuttered living room gloating as he flourished an extra that he had just purchased on the street. Rook chortled as he saw the headline. Police, that afternoon, had smashed a mob attack on an armored bank car. Armed thugs had been captured.
“Looks tough for Lingo Queed,” announced Bart. “He’s let these lieutenants of his cut loose. They’ve been getting theirs — they and their mobs.”
“Lingo can’t last,” agreed Rook. “He stalled off too long before he started. Now he’s making the mistake of letting his pals run things the way they want. They’re jamming themselves.”
“Which means,” asserted Bart, “that Lingo will be rubbed out. Like we counted on — but not by The Shadow. His pals will get him on their own. Then Buzz Dongarth can step in.” Bart was chuckling as he spoke; but when he had finished, the private dick noted that Rook did not share his new elation. Bart waited, wondering. Rook’s explanation came.
“That’s the tough part of it, Bart,” declared the big shot. “The Shadow business. Looks to me like he’s crossing the dope again. First of all, he used to play a lone game; then he began this fake mob business.
“Right now he’s doing neither. He’s sitting back, out of sight, with all the guys that work for him. He’s picked a new way of queering jobs and rackets.”
“A new way?” queried Bart. “Say, Rook — I hadn’t figured The Shadow being in on anything.”
“No? Who do you suppose is passing these tipoffs to the bulls? They’ve been showing up everywhere, just when they weren’t wanted.”
“You mean The Shadow’s in on it? Getting the inside on everything that Lingo and his pals are planning?”
“That’s it. There’s a leak somewhere.”
Bart pondered. Then he nodded.
“That fits with the reports I’ve been getting from Buzz,” admitted the private dick. “He’s told me it was the police, not The Shadow, crimping Lingo’s setup. They’ve been piling in before the stoolies have had a chance to grab off any info from the grapevine.”
FISHING in his pocket, Bart brought out a folded sheet of paper which he passed to Rook. It was a list of lieutenant and bodyguards who stood in with Lingo Queed. Rook checked the list.
Most of the names upon it were those of crooks who had formerly been with Rook himself. The big shot knew that none of them would sell out to the law. Rook noted Hawkeye’s name on the line-up. He passed it by.
Hawkeye had too good a rep in the bad lands. The little spotter had once served time in the penitentiary.
Since his return from the “big house,” he had shown himself cautious in his actions.
It was not surprising that Hawkeye had at last sought to blossom out. As an aid of Lingo Queed, he had a chance to build up new status for himself. To Rook, the very fact that Hawkeye had once been “in stir” was proof that he was all right.
Among those listed as Lingo’s own guards, Rook noted the name of Jericho. Through Buzz, the big shot had learned of the circumstances which had led Lingo to hire the big bodyguard. Jericho, to Rook’s way of putting it, was “out of the know” and therefore of no consequence.
“This doesn’t give us anything,” argued Rook, passing the list back to Bart. “It’s good, in a way, that things are going like they are. Because Lingo will soon be on the spot as bad as I was.
“Maybe The Shadow is keeping hands off him on that account. Figuring Lingo will go the voyage without a push to help. But the bad point is that Buzz is getting nowhere. Those spotters he’s got working haven’t found a phony gazebo in any outfit.”
“I know it,” admitted Bart, ruefully.
“If we could land some goof that’s working for The Shadow,” added Rook, “we’d be sitting pretty. Mighty pretty! We’d have a lead, maybe, straight to The Shadow himself. But this new gag of turning loose the bulls is too smart a move for us to smear.”
“Maybe Buzz has got some new dope tonight,” suggested Bart. “Suppose I go down and wigwag him. He ought to be in his hotel room right now.”
“All right,” nodded Rook. “Tell him I’m sitting tight, waiting. Say, Bart” — the big shot paused to smile — “it’s a hot one, isn’t it — me hiding out right over your signal post. It’s a sure bet that even Buzz is bluffed.”
Bart chuckled in acknowledgment as he left the shuttered apartment. He carried neither hat nor coat, for his destination was a close one. Bart was going to that table by the parapet of the Moselle Roof Cafe.
ACROSS the street on the south side of the Hotel Moselle, was a newer hostelry that rose ten stories higher. This was the Hotel Framton, a modern, pyramiding skyscraper that showed a mass of set-in steps on its higher floors.
There, in a room that fronted on the avenue, a young man was stationed by a table, earphones clamped to his head. Twenty-two floors above the roar of thoroughfares, he was listening over the line of a dictaphone.
This was Harry Vincent. Days ago, this agent of The Shadow had taken up his abode at the Hotel Framton. His room was next to one which was situated on a northern corner. That room next door was the present residence of Buzz Dongarth.
Hawkeye had learned where the hard-faced lieutenant was living. Word relayed to The Shadow, through Burbank, had been followed by Harry Vincent’s registration at the Framton. On his second day of residence, Harry had found opportunity to enter Buzz’s room while it was being cleaned.
There, The Shadow’s agent had installed a microphone behind a radiator. He had run the wire out through the window. After dark, he had completed the hookup by fishing from his own room. Since then, he had been keeping complete tabs on Buzz Dongarth.
There was nothing unusual in Buzz Dongarth’s choice of the Hotel Framton. When mobleaders of his type were “in the money” they invariably picked some better-class establishment as a residence. It was merely a task of getting past the management.
Evidently Buzz had not been recognized for what he was. That was not surprising, because he had not cut much figure in mobland during recent periods. Louie Caparani had lined Buzz up with Lingo Queed; and Buzz, seeing a profitable future, had become swanky for a start.
That, at least, was Harry Vincent’s analysis; and circumstances backed Harry’s belief. For not once, during all his stretches of vigil, had Harry heard anything suspicious from Buzz Dongarth’s room.
Occasionally, the mobleader had made telephone calls or had answered them; but always his conversation had been innocuous.
Harry knew also, that Hawkeye was still trailing Buzz to and from this hotel. It was Hawkeye’s job to find out if the mobleader made contact elsewhere. So far, Hawkeye had gained nothing on Buzz.