Burbank frequently encountered delay in reaching The Shadow, for his chief visited the sanctum only at intervals. Tonight The Shadow had had important business of his own, and it been taken Burbank more than fifteen minutes to reach him after receiving Hawkeye’s report.
But all this had meant less than an actual hour before The Shadow had learned the news that Hawkeye had sent him. With ample time ahead, he had given Burbank definite instructions for Hawkeye and other agents.
MIDNIGHT had brought a lessening in the drizzle that was falling on Manhattan. Ping Gradley, riding in a taxicab, wore a pleased smile as he approached the uptown night club known as the Casino Rouge. The clearing sky meant more customers at the night club.
As Ping had hoped, the Casino Rouge was crowded. A floor show was on and the patrons had chosen all the closest tables. The overflow extended almost to the walls; hence Ping, of necessity, was forced to take a table against the wall itself. This, too, was in keeping with his scheme.
Ping had passed the check room without leaving his hat and coat. He laid the garments on one chair of the two at the table and took the other for himself. Waiters were busy; it would be some minutes before any happened to notice the newcomer.
Ping was counting upon acting before a waiter showed up. Hunched at his table, he was watching the night club with shifty eyes; but his gaze kept focusing at one definite point — a doorway on the near side of a pillar some twenty feet away.
Five minutes passed. No waiter had appeared. Ping’s shifting eyes caught sight of a tall man in tuxedo, walking toward the doorway — an elderly face; a bald head fringed with gray hair. Ping recognized Karl Durmsted, the night club proprietor. He watched. Durmsted passed through the doorway. Rising immediately, Ping picked up his hat and coat and strolled in the same direction.
Ping had been wearing street clothes on his visit to Chinatown. Since then, he had changed to tuxedo. His present attire enabled him to pass muster as a regular patron of the Casino Rouge. A passing waiter gave him no more than a glance. Ping’s white shirt-front was an indication that he was a reputable guest.
Ping was at the doorway when the waiter passed. As soon as the man’s gaze had turned, Ping stepped through a little arch, descended four steps and rapped politely at the door itself.
The doorknob turned; the portal opened and Ping stepped into a little office to find himself face to face with Karl Durmsted.
First noticing Ping’s attire, the proprietor stepped back, thinking that he had admitted a friend.
Ping closed the door with his left hand. He thrust his right into the packet of his tuxedo coat. An ugly bulge indicated that he had gripped a revolver.
“Sit down,” growled Ping, indicating the chair by Durmsted’s desk. “Sit down and listen. I want to talk to you!”
DURMSTED complied. His face showed a look that betokened puzzlement rather than fear. Ping moved to the front of the desk and rested the right side of his coat upon it. He did not remove his hand from his pocket; but the bulge showed more plainly. Durmsted could hear something metallic thud through the cloth as it contacted the surface of the table.
“Listen, you,” began Ping. “I’ve got something I want to talk over. Just a little business deal that’s going to be good for your health.”
“Rather interesting,” returned Durmsted dryly. “If you want the combination of the safe” — he nodded toward the corner — “you are welcome to it. Unfortunately — for you at least — it contains only a few dollars. Enough, though, to pay you for the rent of that tuxedo.”
“Lay off the wisecracks,” snarled Ping. “I told you I’m here to talk business, and that’s what I’m going to do!”
“Very well,” nodded Durmsted; “suppose you introduce yourself. I presume you already know who I am.”
“And it won’t do you no good,” snorted Ping, “to know who I am. The proposition I’m goin’ to talk about is one you’ve heard already. From a guy named Louie Caparani who gave you a good chance to pick up some soft dough.”
“I recall Caparani,” admitted Durmsted. “I also remember the proposal that he made. I told him I was not interested in it. That was final.”
“Yeah?” returned Ping. “Well maybe you didn’t hear Louie straight and maybe he didn’t hear you straight. He told me you got the idea and that you liked it. Just wanted me to drop in and remind you.”
“Caparani’s proposition was this,” declared Durmsted. He leaned forward in his swivel chair and rested his hands upon the edge of the desk. “First of all he wanted the checking privileges in this night club. I told him that they were already contracted for. I added that I would not be interested even if he offered a higher bid. Then he told me that he did not intend to make a bid at all; that he expected me to pay him for the favor of taking the check rooms off my hands.”
Durmsted paused with a sour smile; he was staring straight at Ping. The mobleader, his eyes no longer shifty, was meeting the proprietor’s gaze.
“Go on,” ordered Ping. “I’ll hear you out, just to see if you’ve got it straight the way Louie told you.”
“CAPARANI felt” — Durmsted’s tone was dry and sarcastic — “that the check rooms needed what he termed ‘protection’; namely, that patrons of this night club might suffer loss and damage to their belongings if I continued to entrust the check-room privileges to the present holders.”
“All right,” growled Ping. “And what did you say to that?”
“I told Caparani that he was running a racket,” retorted Durmsted, leaning further forward and tightening his hands on the desk edge.
“That’s your idea,” snarled Ping, “but Louie thinks different! Listen to me, old bozo. I’m not here to listen to a stall. I’ve come to give you the works, and you’re going to get it, unless you change your mind in a hurry. It’s Louie that wants to be soft with you; but I don’t! What’s your answer? Are you in or out?” Durmsted’s right thumb was beneath the edge of the desk. It pressed, unseen by Ping. Meeting the vicious killer’s gaze, Durmsted made a final stall for time. He began to nod; then spoke slowly:
“I guess I’m in — since you put it that way. Maybe — well, maybe it would be best to take on this Caparani proposition. Yes, I’m in.”
So speaking, Durmsted rose from his chair. His tall form relaxed. He looked weak and helpless.
Ping shifted back from the desk and drew his hand from his pocket. He eyed Durmsted and saw a smile appear upon the proprietor’s lips.
“Take a look behind you,” suggested Durmsted.
Ping wheeled about. The door had opened. Into the small room had stepped two husky men in tuxedos.
They were trouncers whom Durmsted had summoned by pressure of the button on his desk.
“I provided for an occasion such as this,” remarked the proprietor to Ping. “I thought it best to hire two men who could deal with visitors of your type.” Then to the bouncers the proprietor ordered:
“Take this fellow’s gun away from him and eject him by my private exit.” Still smiling, Durmsted pointed to a door at the right of the room. “Don’t give him opportunity to make any trouble. That is why I want you to use the private exit. No need to disturb the customers if you have to be violent.”
“So you’ve ticketed me for a slugging, hey?” jeered Ping. “Well, you made a bum guess this trip. Didn’t have much trouble getting a pair of tough bimbos on your pay roll, did you? Well I didn’t have any trouble fixing them to work for me!”
AS he spoke, Ping stepped forward unmolested by the bouncers. Yanking a stub-nosed revolver from his pocket, Ping jabbed it against Durmsted’s ribs.