No trace of Harry; yet the setup was still working. To The Shadow, that offered two possible conclusions. Either Harry had blundered into trouble outside of the hotel and had covered up his real activities; or he had been trapped by Buzz and the dictograph had been allowed to remain as a means of enticing another victim.
The Shadow, stealthy in his visit, had fallen for no lure. Departing, he had made no effort to learn which case existed. For The Shadow, always prepared for complications, had planned a mode of action in case of emergency such as this.
A soft laugh whispered through the sanctum. Rare opportunity had come The Shadow’s way. It was a chance that he had carefully avoided; because, as planned procedure, it would first have forced him to throw an agent into Rook Hollister’s hands.
The Shadow had preferred not to risk the life of a trusted aid. But since circumstances had caused Harry’s disappearance The Shadow was now forced to the course that he had considered and rejected.
First: The Shadow must learn if Rook actually held Harry Vincent. Second: He must extricate his agent from the big shot’s toils. The Shadow’s scheme was double-barreled; it promised to accomplish both missions.
Moreover, it carried further. If successful, it would give The Shadow a direct lead to the big shot himself, But in every step, The Shadow’s plan required delicate strategy. No blunt maneuver would do — such as the violent seizure of Buzz Dongarth.
For The Shadow had long since realized that Rook Hollister would stop at nothing. Assuming that Rook held Harry, it was a sure fact that the big shot would murder the prisoner the moment that Harry became a burden rather than a means of reaching The Shadow.
Burbank’s voice was coming over the wire. Whispered orders came from The Shadow’s hidden lips.
Prompt instructions to Hawkeye. New work for the little agent. The Shadow was chancing a course that, if successful, would prove swift.
The light clicked out. The Shadow was departing. His final laugh was prophetic. But that mirth might have been less mocking had The Shadow guessed that two, not one, of his agents were held prisoner by Rook Hollister.
Reports from both Mann and Burbank had announced Clyde Burke off duty. Even The Shadow supposed that the reporter was a passenger aboard a coastwise vessel. Rook Hollister, like The Shadow, was equipped with a double-edged weapon.
AFTERNOON arrived. A slouching figure came along the East Side street where Lingo Queed’s apartment was located. Hawkeye waved greeting to Jerry, the street guard stationed in front of the building.
“Lingo in?” queried Hawkeye.
“Sure,” grunted Jerry. “He was out this morning, though, and you should have seen the way he beat it in a taxi.”
“Figures the finger’s on him?”
“Looks that way.”
“Lingo’s alone now?”
“Naw. Couple of guys are up there with him. Buzz Dongarth and Blitz Schumbert. Guess he’s weeping on their shoulder.”
Hawkeye grinned as he rode up in the elevator. He had learned plenty for a start. Lingo was turning yellow. Just what Hawkeye wanted in order to spring the new proposition that The Shadow had ordered. The presence of Buzz Dongarth was also a vital point in the scheme.
WHEN Jericho admitted Hawkeye, the little spotter found Lingo Queed in conference with Buzz Dongarth and Blitz Schumbert.
Lingo’s face was drawn, his eyes worried. Buzz was seated in noncommittal fashion, looking on while Blitz rumbled angry accusations. It was plain that the pug-faced racketeer was still beefing over the fate that had befallen Louie Caparani.
“You’ve muffed things worse than Rook did,” bassoed Blitz. “Worse than Rook did, and quicker. It won’t be a bunch getting together to rub you out, Lingo. It’ll be everybody. Even your own gorillas.”
“I’ve got Jericho,” grunted Lingo.
“He won’t help you,” scoffed Blitz. “What I’m telling you, Lingo, is for your own good. I’m not against you — because I figure we were saps to have bumped Rook, the way things have turned out since. Whoever comes along next may be worse.”
“What do you think, Hawkeye?” queried Lingo, appealing to the newcomer.
“Blitz is right,” commented Hawkeye. He had gained an immediate chance to start things moving. “There’s only one out for you, Lingo.”
“What’s that? To take it on the lam?”
“No — to pull something hot enough to make these mugs forget your bum guesses.”
Blitz rumbled contemptuously.
“Where do you get that line?” queried the racketeer. “What can Lingo pull that’s going to set him in right? The bulls have queered every job since Lingo was in. One good bet isn’t going to fix things for Lingo.”
“No?” There was a sly gleam on Hawkeye’s wizened face. “You’d better think again, Blitz. I know something that would square Lingo everywhere and put the bulls on the fritz besides.”
“Let’s hear it,” suggested Lingo eagerly.
“All right,” agreed Hawkeye. “To begin with, where do you think this dumb egg Cardona is getting all his tips from?”
“Stoolies?” questioned Blitz.
“Not a chance,” jeered Hawkeye. “Why, Cardona’s wised to stuff that hasn’t even been piped along the grapevine. I’ll tell you who’s handing the dope to the bulls. The Shadow!”
Lingo stared, open-mouthed. Blitz looked troubled. Buzz showed no change of expression.
“I’m telling you what I know,” assured Hawkeye. “I’ve heard plenty of mugs talking about it. There’s your stunt, Lingo. Get The Shadow.”
“Say” — Lingo snorted as he sank back in his chair — “what is this? A gag? Listen to that, Blitz: Hawkeye says to get The Shadow. Like it was a cinch.”
“It oughtn’t to be tough,” asserted Hawkeye. “Not if you go after it right.”
“How’s that?” inquired Lingo.
“Easy,” replied Hawkeye. “It wouldn’t be if The Shadow was still playing a one-man racket. But the way things are blowing, it’s a sure bet he’s got stoolies of his own. You’ve got to grab one of those mugs first.”
“What then?”
“Lay a trap for The Shadow. Let him come around to snatch back his stoolie. Then you’ve got The Shadow.”
SILENCE followed the proposal. It was making Lingo think. Blitz was nodding his slow approval of the idea! It was Buzz who put the objection.
“Trouble with that,” he remarked, “is that The Shadow would crimp it for you. Maybe you could land one of these heels that’s working with him. But you couldn’t put the clamps on The Shadow with no ordinary trap.”
Hawkeye was about to refute Buzz’s statement when Lingo saved him the trouble. The big shot came upright in his chair. His lips spread sourly beneath his spread-out nose; his jaw thrust forward in a challenge.
“Couldn’t snag The Shadow, huh?” he demanded, savagely. “Who couldn’t? Say — if I had one of those stoolies of his for bait, I’d make a cinch of it!”
Buzz, doubt showing on his hardened countenance, emitted a depreciating grunt as he heard Lingo’s boast. The big shot showed ire at the lieutenant’s attitude. Hawkeye saw another opportunity.
“Lingo means it, Buzz,” vouchsafed the little spotter. “Maybe he is in wrong with a lot of guys that think they’re big shots; but he stands in tight in places where those four-flushers don’t count.”
“Like where?” queried Buzz.
“Down in Little Italy,” remarked Hawkeye.
“Since Louie Caparani got his?” snorted Buzz.
“Well,” admitted Hawkeye, “maybe that wasn’t so good for Lingo. But you still rate high in Chinatown, don’t you, Lingo? Say — I’ll bet that’s where you figure you can nab The Shadow.”