Straight lips, prominent cheek bones and well-shaped nose showed beneath his broad, prominent forehead. His hair was dark, with slightly curly trend.
Attired in a tuxedo, Rook had the definite appearance of a well-groomed man about town.
The big shot was alone in his apartment. That did not mean that he was unprotected. Rook had bodyguards posted outside of his apartment. Any one trying to crash the gate of his apartment in the Hotel Thurmont would have run into immediate trouble.
Off from Rook’s living room was a small compartment of the dressing room type. It was in that direction that Rook gazed as he heard a faint sound that he recognized. Stepping to the dressing room, Rook reached into an opened table drawer and brought out a revolver. He listened to the faint noise of the rising elevator in the wall beyond. When it ceased, Rook was ready with the gun.
The rumble stopped. A paneled wall slid open and a light clicked automatically within the elevator shaft.
The occupant of the car was in plain view. Rook smiled suavely as he surveyed the visitor, a big, broad-shouldered fellow with heavy-jowled face.
“Hello, Bart,” greeted Rook. “I thought it was you coming up. Let’s go in the living room.” The broad-shouldered man closed the paneled entrance of the shaft. He accompanied the big shot into the living room. There the two sat down.
THEY formed an odd contrast as they faced each other. The difference between this pair was not limited to their facial expressions. In their occupations, Rook and Bart were two of different ilks. Rook Hollister’s career was one in which he ordered crime. Bart Koplin, his visitor, was one whose reputed work was crime prevention.
For Bart’s ostensible vocation was that of a private detective. Specializing in jobs of investigation, the heavy-jowled man had gained a high reputation for his ability. Among his clients were several well-known corporations.
No one had ever connected Bart Koplin with crime. That was not surprising, for Bart stayed away from crooks — with one exception. Bart’s only contact with the underworld lay through Rook Hollister. The private dick was a secret lieutenant of the big shot.
An elevated train rumbled heavily while Rook and Bart were lighting their cigars. The room vibrated slightly; then, as the roar of the train diminished, Rook eased back in his easy-chair and began to talk.
“Trip Burley was here tonight, Bart,” informed the big shot.
“Bringing bad news?” queried the dick.
“Sort of,” replied Rook. “The boys have slated me for the spot. Schumbert — Caparani — Gradley — you know the rest of them. They think Trip is their pal. That’s how he mooched in on the meeting.”
“Who sprang it? Blitz Schumbert?”
“Sure. He’s sore because my pineapple squad went sour.”
“Where did he bring the crowd together?”
“At a joint in Chinatown. So nobody would spot them and bring the news back to me.”
“I didn’t know Blitz stood in with the chinks, Rook.”
“He doesn’t. But he got hold of a guy that did. Lingo Queed, the bloke they’ve been using as an interpreter. Lingo fixed the meeting place with a chink named Koy Dow.”
BART nodded. He remembered that Rook, working through a lieutenant, had recently used Lingo to conduct some negotiations in Little Italy. Inasmuch as Lingo’s contact lay with lieutenants and not with the big shot, it was not surprising that he had gone over to the plotters.
“How soon do they figure on rubbing you out, Rook?” queried Bart, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Did Trip give you the data?”
“They may pass it up,” chuckled Rook, dryly. “Louie Caparani was all for bumping me; but he said it would be good business to wait and see if his racket went over.”
“And if it does?”
“There’ll be no rubout. Not until something else goes flooie.”
“Whew!” Bart shook his head. “It’s like I told you, Rook. You’re sitting on top of a volcano. The lid’s going to blow off some day.”
“Not for a while yet, Bart. Ping Gradley is taking Karl Durmsted for a ride tonight. That means Caparani’s racket will be O.K.”
“Ping Gradley! Say — he’s one of the guys that’s trying to put the skids under you! Say — you aren’t counting on him—”
“Sure I am, Bart.” Rook smiled as he paused to puff his cigar. “Listen. You’ve got to get this layout straight. None of these mugs have anything against me personally. I don’t blame them for talking things over.
“First off, Bart, this big shot business is a tough one. King Sickler tried it. They rubbed him out when he flivved. Then Al Loshter stepped in. I was one of Al’s lieutenants. When he muffed, I met with a bunch that put the finger on him. We bumped Al. That’s how I stepped in.” Bart nodded in recollection.
“We were all for Al,” reminded Rook. “All for him, while he was good. All against him when he was lousy. Well, I’m in the same spot Al was. You can’t blame the boys for wanting me out. But they’ll work for me — like Ping is doing tonight — right up until the last minute.”
“Then things look all right.”
“Yes — if Ping puts through his job tonight. But if he doesn’t — well, it means I’m through. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, Bart.”
Sudden interest showed on Bart’s bluff face.
“You mean you’ll take my proposition?” queried the private dick eagerly. “The one I’ve been holding back for you? In case you wanted to duck from under?”
“That’s right, Bart — if the proposition is still good.”
“It’s good, all right. A cinch, too. Give me two days — maybe three — and I can spring it. All I’ve got to do is have Waylock scud out those telegrams he’s been holding. And hand him the five grand.”
“You’ll get the dough pronto, Bart. That is, if I have to go through with the deal.” Bart smiled bluffly. He seemed pleased at Rook’s decision. Then a look of puzzlement came upon the private dick’s thick face.
“Only one thing, Rook,” recalled Bart. “Last time I talked with you, you didn’t like the idea of ducking from under and hiding out. You said —”
“I’ve changed my mind,” snapped Rook. “And I’ve got a good reason for it, Bart. I told you. I didn’t worry about these birds like Schumbert and Caparani. I don’t worry about them and I never will. But it’s not them I’m thinking about.
“What’s biting me is the way every job has gone sour. It’s not a bunch of musclers that’s queered things. It’s somebody that’s worth worrying about.”
“Who?” queried Bart, puzzled.
“The Shadow!” resumed Rook, promptly.
BART’S hand stopped short as the dick was about to place a cigar between his lips. For an instant Bart’s heavy jaw quivered. His hand trembled. Then he steadied and tried to puff his cigar in casual fashion.
“The Shadow!” repeated Rook. He hissed the name venomously. “Nobody but him could have muscled in on my mobs. I’m tellin’ you this, Bart. Every racket will be blooey until we’ve got The Shadow. That’s why I’m ducking under if tonight’s job don’t come off.”
“I get it.” Bart nodded wisely. “If you slide out you can start from scratch. Somebody else will take your place — some dummy who will get lopped off — and you’ll be sitting where you can carve in on The Shadow himself.”
“That’s just it, Bart,” agreed Rook. “But I can’t turn yellow or take it on the lam. That would do so far as the mugs are concerned; but it would leave The Shadow still watching for me to stage a comeback. I’ve got to fool The Shadow, Bart.”
“My stunt will do it,” chuckled the dick, “and it will bluff the mugs at the same time.”