The contact man had instructed Hawkeye to be ready to sneak from his lookout post whenever Trip left the meeting room. It would then be Hawkeye’s job to pick up Trip’s trail when the mobleader appeared outside the entrance to the Silver Dragon.
Evidently Trip Burley was playing some double part; a fact which The Shadow must have suspected. For Trip Burley, as an underworld character, could not be regarded as either important or formidable.
The fact that Trip was not in the meeting room was simply proof to Hawkeye that others might be expected. Looking across the room, Hawkeye noted what appeared to be a doorway between two hanging banners. As he watched, Hawkeye saw a panel move up; the man who stepped into view was Trip Burley.
THERE was something about Trip Burley that made him look suspicious. As hard-faced as the others, he had an air of affability that seemed at variance with the toughness. Trip’s eyes were beady; his puffy lips carried a leering grin. The newcomer waved a greeting to the group about the table and seated himself upon a vacant taboret.
Hawkeye noticed that the paneled door remained up. Half a minute later, two more men entered. Both were attired in American clothes, but one was a Chinese. Hawkeye decided that the bland-faced Oriental must be Koy Dow.
The other was an individual whose presence puzzled Hawkeye; for although he was recognized in the underworld, he was not reputed to be a lieutenant of Rook Hollister’s. Koy Dow’s companion was named “Lingo” Queed. He was a tall, lanky fellow who walked in loose-limbed fashion.
Lingo Queed’s face was recognizable by two predominant features. One was a flattened nose that spread over the whole center of his physiognomy. Apparently it had always been overlarge; and its present appearance looked like the result of a powerful punch that Lingo had once failed to stop.
Lingo’s chin was his other characteristic. He carried it with an outward thrust that looked like an invitation for future battlers to use it for a target instead of his crippled nose.
Standing within the doorway, Lingo looked around the group as though inquiring if all were present. He received a nod from Blitz Schumbert. Turning, Lingo babbled words of Chinese to Koy Dow. The Celestial went out through the door and closed the panel behind him.
The incident explained the situation to Hawkeye. Lingo Queed’s nickname, like so many underworld monikers, was a deserved one. He was called “Lingo” because of his ability to handle various languages.
It was easy to see that Rook Hollister’s lieutenants had wanted complete secrecy in their meeting.
Chinatown had been a good bet. Lingo, familiar with the Chinese tongue, and therefore friendly with Celestials such as Koy Dow, had fixed the meeting place for them.
This had obviously worked excellently for The Shadow. He was as familiar with Chinatown as was Lingo Queed. Hawkeye figured that The Shadow must have learned of this meeting during one of his visits to Chinatown. That explained the tip that had come through Burbank.
Lingo Queed, as fixer, rated with Rook’s lieutenants. He sat down with the others. It was Blitz Schumbert who started the proceedings. His opening comments came in a snarling basso that Hawkeye heard clearly.
“You birds know why we’re here,” commenced Blitz. “We’ve all been working straight with Rook Hollister. But we’ve been waiting for him to deliver, and he hasn’t. My racket is queered because he muffed the deal. That hits the rest of you, because we’re all supposed to be working together.” Blitz paused, his statement almost unfinished, in order that he might see the effect of his opening remarks.
He was waiting for comments, and one came. From Louie Caparani.
“The way I look at it, Blitz,” purred Louie. “You’ve got a good reason to want the skids greased for Rook—”
“I’m not saying that,” interrupted Blitz quickly. “I’m not the guy to beef just because one bet goes sour. But I’m tellin’ you this: Rook muffed a couple of good bets before this one; and he told me that when the racket was ripe he’d guarantee the pineapple mob would do their stuff. Well, they didn’t, and my racket is shot. I’m just tellin’ what happened, that’s all.”
“I know all that, Blitz” — Louie Caparani’s purr was even more convincing than before — “and I’m sticking to what I just said. You’ve got a good reason to want the skids greased; and since you’ve got it, we’ve got it too.”
“Then you’re for greasing them?”
“More than that, Blitz.”
“A rubout, Louie?”
“You’ve guessed it.”
TENSE silence followed. This meeting had come to its point more quickly than even Blitz Schumbert, its instigator, had expected. Blitz himself was staring steadily at the group. Louie Caparani was extracting a cigarette from his pocket, a half smile on his thin dark lips.
Hawkeye studied the others. Ping Gradley’s eyes were no longer on the move. They were fixed toward Louie. Lingo Queed appeared almost disinterested, as though the matter did not concern him.
Trip Burley, however, had shown a marked change of expression. His smirking grin was gone. His beady eyes were blinking as he leaned forward, fists half clenched upon the table. There was something in his attitude that renewed Hawkeye’s suspicion that Trip was here with a conniving purpose.
“All right, Louie,” affirmed Blitz suddenly, “you’ve put the proposition. Looks like we’re all with you. We’ll listen some more. The finger’s on Rook. How soon will we press it?”
“In a little while,” returned Louie. “After the next time we come here. We’ll have a chance to talk it over then.”
“What’s the good of stalling,” queried Queed, in a harsh growl. “We’ve put the finger on Rook. The job is to rub him out.”
“Unless we lift the finger,” remarked Louie, still holding his half smile. “We might want to do that, Blitz.”
“On account of what?”
“On account of my racket, Blitz. It’s ripe. Rook Hollister is getting his chance to help it along tonight. If I let it ride until after we put Rook on the spot, I may lose out on a good bet.”
“I get you, Louie. You’re for giving Rook another break?”
“Yes; but get me straight. It’s not on Rook’s account. It’s on my own. Listen, Blitz” — Louie leaned forward upon the table and wagged a wise finger — “I’ve got the night club bimbos sewed up the way I want them. Ready for a swell payoff—”
“You mean, if Rook comes through and makes them know you mean business?”
“That’s right. Wait a minute, Blitz.” Louie held up a hand as Blitz started to speak. “I know what you’re going to say. Rook didn’t swing it for you. But that’s no reason he isn’t going to swing it for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know the guy he’s sending out on tonight’s job!”
“Yeah? Who?”
Louie made a nudge with his thumb. Blitz’s eyes followed the direction. Louie was indicating Ping Gradley, whose eyes were still steady. Blitz met Ping’s gaze; Ping nodded.
“Louie’s right, Blitz,” assured Ping. “I’m working for Rook tonight. And it’s no hooey this time. Rook’s picked the spot that counts. You know Karl Durmsted? Fellow that runs the Casino Rouge?” Blitz nodded.
“Well, I’m slated to talk business with Durmsted tonight.” Ping laughed roughly. “And if Durmsted don’t listen to me, he won’t be listening to nobody about nothing else!”
“Rook’s told you to bump him?”
“You bet he has! What’s more, he’s picked the best way to do it. No fireworks around the night club. Durmsted goes out by his own private exit, with nobody knowing he’s left. After that, he takes a ride.”
“And listen to this, Blitz,” added Louie Caparani. “I’m telling you that if Durmsted gets his one-way trip, I’ll have every other night club owner begging for the proposition that I’ve offered them. We’ll mop up the softest big dough that we’ve counted on yet!”