THE mobleader was in his room at present. He was alone; and the only sounds that Harry could hear through the dictaphone were those of Buzz moving about. So intent was Harry in his listening that he did not hear the door of his own room open and close.
Harry’s first inkling that he had a visitor arrived when a long hand glided upon the lighted writing desk in front of him. Harry stared; then checked himself as he recognized a purplish, translucent gem that glowed from the hand’s third finger. A girasol.
That jewel was The Shadow’s emblem. The chief had entered.
Mechanically, Harry removed his earphones and raised them above his shoulder. He heard a soft whisper in the gloom. Without turning, Harry waited while The Shadow, himself, began to listen over the wire.
Five slow minutes passed. The earphones came back to Harry. Donning them, the agent could hear a few faint sounds that indicated Buzz might be about to leave. Harry knew that The Shadow had heard nothing else. He realized that his chief intended to trail Buzz in person.
IN the adjoining room, Buzz was donning hat and coat. The Shadow had divined correctly. He intended to start somewhere. But before departing, Buzz made a final stroll across the room. He stopped by an opened window.
The night was mild; it was only the threat of rain that had caused Buzz to don his light topcoat. Standing by the window, Rook’s spy could see patrons gathered at the open-air tables on the Moselle Roof.
Bart Koplin was close by the parapet. He was looking sidewise, upward. The private dick could see Buzz outlined against the framed light of the window. Buzz moved one hand in wig-wag fashion.
Sheltered by a potted cedar, Bart responded with motions of a menu. Brief signals passed. Buzz was flashing that he had no news. Bart responded; then signed off. Buzz strolled from his hotel room.
Thus did Bart and Buzz form contact; the private dick keeping in direct touch with Rook while the mobleader had no idea that the big shot was hiding out only two stories above Bart’s signal post. Straight across from his room in the Framton, Buzz could see the dark shuttered windows of what appeared to be a deserted penthouse atop the Hotel Moselle.
Not once had Buzz supposed that those shutters hid Rook’s hideout. Similarly, Buzz, as he strolled from the Hotel Framton, had no idea that he was being followed by a dark-garbed personage who took up his eastward trail.
The Shadow had chosen this night to check on Harry Vincent’s work. He was performing Hawkeye’s task also. His purpose was to find out what his agents had failed to gain — some clue to the contact that he believed Buzz was making with Rook Hollister.
That clue had been in The Shadow’s grasp. Yet he had not yet clutched it. The dictaphone, usually so reliable, was this time useless. It gave no record of Buzz Dongarth’s unspoken activities.
The Shadow’s trail proved barren. Small wonder, for Buzz had already completed his duty to Rook Hollister.
Twenty minutes was all that The Shadow required to trail Buzz to the old apartment house where Lingo Queed lived. Nearing that place, The Shadow dropped the trail and faded into darkness.
GOING up to the fourth floor, Buzz rapped at the door and was admitted by Jericho. He found Hawkeye lounging in a chair. Lingo was not about. Buzz made query:
“Where’s Lingo?”
“Went out just before I got here,” returned Hawkeye. “An hour ago, I guess. He was with Louie and Blitz. Jericho says he ought to be back pretty soon.”
“You’re waiting for him?”
Hawkeye nodded.
Buzz sat down and lighted a cigarette. He had just finished smoking it when a knock sounded at the door. Jericho recognized it and sprang over to open the barrier. Lingo entered, followed by the gorilla elevator operator.
“All right, Gumbo,” said Lingo to the mobster, “get back on the elevator. Jericho’s here. And say — tell Jerry, at the door, to get my laundry from the chink place down the street. I forgot to tell him.” Gumbo nodded and departed. As soon as the door was closed, Lingo looked toward Buzz and Jericho.
“Maybe you can guess why I didn’t wait for the laundry myself,” he growled. “I went into the chink’s and he handed me some good old Shanghai chatter. That’s why I headed here; why I didn’t wait to talk to Jerry, the guy on the lower door.”
“Someone tailing you?” inquired Buzz.
“No,” returned Lingo. “Nobody gets my trail. I was out with Louie and Blitz; when I left them a half hour ago. I slid away in a hurry. Up at Brindle’s. Nobody tailed me.
“But the chink at the laundry says he’s seen guys around here. Fellows that looked like they were bumming; but that didn’t sound likely to me. I’ve got a hunch somebody’s figuring to rub me out.”
“I don’t think so,” remarked Buzz. “You’re still in right, Lingo.”
“Says you,” snorted Lingo. “Well, let’s get Hawkeye’s slant on it.”
“It don’t look good,” asserted Hawkeye. “If they’re gunning for you, Lingo, it wouldn’t have me surprised. I’ve been hearing plenty of squawks.”
“Anything along the grapevine?”
“Not yet. But liable to be. The bulls have knocked off three mobs in the last week. It don’t look good.”
“Anybody figured out why the bulls are so tough?”
“Sure. They say the commish told Cardona he could take a stab any time he knew he was busting up a job. Well, Cardona’s doing it.”
“Through tipoffs, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
LINGO paced the room, muttering. A knock at the door; the big shot gave a nervous jump. Then he ordered Jericho to answer.
It was only Gumbo with the laundry. Lingo ordered Jericho to leave it in the inner room.
“I’ve been letting these mugs work their own way,” growled Lingo, finally. “That’s why there’s been the leaks. Take tonight — here’s Louie Caparani; figures he’ll pull a swell job himself. Raiding that swell gambling joint they call the Cue Club.
“Going to do some mob leading on his own, Louie is. He knows the joint; he’s going to lay back while the crew sticks up that bunch of society swells at the Cue Club. I had to say go ahead. But I don’t know how much Louie’s been talking, see? So he may hit trouble, and if he does, it’ll be mighty bad.” Lingo resumed his pacing. Then, with an impatient gesture, he swung his arm toward the door, indicating that he wanted his visitors to leave.
Jericho opened the door; Lingo turned on his heel and went to his private quarters, while Buzz strolled out and Hawkeye shuffled after.
Buzz was smiling as he took a taxi to the Hotel Framton. There would still be time to wigwag to Bart Koplin. News of Lingo’s worriment would please Rook Hollister when it reached him.
Hawkeye, too, was grinning, as he headed off to report to Burbank. Another tip would reach the police tonight. The skids were under Lingo Queed. Already, Hawkeye could see another change forthcoming in the dynasty of mobland.
Though The Shadow was bearing hard upon the hunt for Rook Hollister, even to the point of engaging in it himself, he still was active in the crimping of crime. For while he followed pursuits of his own, he was invoking the law to concentrated action in behalf of right.
CHAPTER XVI. AN AGENT BLUNDERS
“UXTRY! Uxtry! Big gambler gets the bump!”
Clyde Burke paused to buy an evening newspaper. He had heard much the same words on another occasion, not many days ago. The reporter wanted to learn new details concerning a battle that had taken place last night, at midnight.
Louie Caparani’s photo graced the front page. He was the big gambler about whom the newsboy had been shouting. For Louie had gone too far in his checkered career. From gambler he had become racketeer; last night he had become mobleader.