“I know it, Bart,” agreed Rook. “That’s why I’m ready for it. I’m only waiting till I hear from Ping. If he sent Durmsted on that ride tonight the night club racket will be sweet. Inside of a week all the proprietors will be listening to Louie Caparani. Business will be running so big that even The Shadow won’t have a chance to gum it. If Ping—”
An interruption came. It was a telephone bell, ringing in the dressing room. Bart watched Rook rise and go to answer the call.
Three seconds later, the big shot was back in the living room.
“Ping got his!” informed Rook, tensely. “Up at Durmsted’s. He took the bump along with a couple of gorillas who were working as bouncers at the Casino Rouge.”
“Who got him?” questioned Bart.
“They don’t know,” returned Rook. “The guy that just called me up was one of the torpedoes that Ping had waiting outside. He says some mob queered Ping’s game. The trouble started in Durmsted’s office; then a bunch of musclers started shooting things up outside.”
“Do you think it was The Shadow?” demanded Bart anxiously.
“That’s just what I do think,” snapped Rook. “That settles it, Bart. This means the finger is on me and it’s pointing straight. Get busy with the gag of yours and do it quick. Meanwhile, I’m going to call up some of the guys that have it in for me and stall them off long enough. I can bluff them for a few days anyway.” Rook came to his feet. Bart did likewise. The big shot ushered the private dick to the secret elevator.
Bart entered the car; the light went out as soon as he closed the door. Descending, the dick reached the garage and made his exit to the street.
FIVE minutes after Bart’s departure, strange blackness showed on the concrete floor behind the row of stored cars. An uncanny shape came into the light of the air chamber. The Shadow, spectral in the glow, began an examination of the tin-sheathed wall.
Gloved fingers found a catch. The sheathed barrier slid upward. The Shadow saw the darkened car in the elevator shaft. He laughed soft-toned mirth as he lowered the barrier. A gliding form, The Shadow departed to the street.
The master sleuth had come here to check on Hawkeye’s findings. He had found the secret entrance to Rook Hollister’s apartment but he had not chosen to use it for the present. The Shadow knew that the big shot had learned that the finger was pointing in his direction. It would be Rook’s cue — thanks to Trip Burley’s information — to keep secluded in his bulletproof apartment.
A soft laugh sounded from the darkness beneath the elevated structure as The Shadow glided across the nearest avenue. The mirth arose with sudden loudness as a roaring train sped above and drowned its tones. The Shadow’s present campaign had reached its conclusion.
But The Shadow, though he could foresee a future trend in crime, had missed one point that was to hold a most important bearing in events to come. He had gained no inkling of the alliance between Rook Hollister and Bart Koplin.
Unbeknown to The Shadow, big shot and private dick had produced a coming scheme that was destined to tax the master fighter to the limit. The Shadow was on the verge of new adventure that would force him into strategies that even he had never used before.
CHAPTER V. CARDONA TAKES ORDERS
“OUR troubles have ended, inspector.”
“And we’re due for new ones, commissioner.”
Both speakers were emphatic as they faced each other across a polished desk top. Challenge and rebuke were apparent in their tones; and their use of titles was an evidence of mutually veiled sarcasm.
Deputy Commissioner Wainwright Barth was in conference with Detective Joe Cardona. This was the third day following The Shadow’s battle at the Casino Rouge. Cardona had come to Barth’s office to discuss methods of new crime prevention.
The actual police commissioner, Ralph Weston, was at present absent from New York. Wainwright Barth, once commissioner and now a deputy, was acting in Weston’s place. Barth had addressed Joe Cardona as “inspector” because Joe had been made acting inspector by Weston. Barth’s emphasis on the word “inspector” indicated that Joe’s acting capacity might soon be ended.
So Cardona had given his dig in return. Addressing Barth as “commissioner,” Joe had given intimation that be hoped Ralph Weston’s absence would not be a prolonged one. Cardona liked to work with Weston; he was counting on the real commissioner’s return.
“Why speak folderol, inspector?” queried Barth, in testy fashion. “You are presenting a hypothesis that has no ground for assumption. Why should the cessation of crime indicate a new beginning of it? I can see no facts that warrant a resumption.”
“It’s simply this, commissioner,” argued Joe. “One lucky break don’t mean we’re going to get another. Instead, the chances are we won’t land another. Look at it that way and you’ll see where I’m right.
“Ever since Commissioner Weston started on that long vacation of his, the racketeers have been trying to start up again. I’ve wanted to step in and smear them every time they’ve begun. When mouthpieces showed up at the docks; when they tried to sew up the milk business, I recommended grabbing them. But you said hands off.”
“Agreed,” chuckled Barth. “But in each of the cases that you have mentioned, the rackets have broken because of jealousy among the criminals themselves. The same was true of the attempt to begin a laundry racket. To top it off, three nights ago crooks themselves ruined their own chances of dominating the night clubs.
“Hands off should be our policy, Cardona. Let the criminals continue to wage war among themselves. Should they fail to spoil their own games, the law can then take action. But I shall always be reluctant to intervene until we have positive proof that a specific racket is in the making.”
CARDONA shook his head. The detective was annoyed. Time and again he had tried to press this point with Barth. Always, the deputy commissioner had been adamant.
“Take the laundry racket,” suggested Cardona, suddenly. “A bird named Blitz Schumbert was in back of it. He had it greased. A dozen laundry owners had put in a complaint. A blowoff was due. The only question was who was going to take it.
“An actual crew of pineapple men went out on a job, commissioner. They were headed to wreck a laundry, to destroy property and maybe lives. They got stopped by what looked like a gang fight. Blitz Schumbert’s racket went sour. But it wasn’t thanks to us.”
“Why be perturbed?” smiled Barth. “The laundry racket died, did it not?”
“It did,” snorted Joe, “but it died hard! Then the night club racket showed up. Louie Caparani was promoting it. Three nights ago, a strongarm mobleader named Ping Gradley went around to murder Karl Durmsted, proprietor of the Casino Rouge—”
“And again,” interposed Barth, “a mob war prevented the act. Gradley was slain. The teeth were extracted from Caparnai’s game. The night club racket died at birth.”
“But there will be others,” assured Cardona. “What’s more, some of those that failed to start will bob up again.”
“Let them materialize. Then we shall offset them.”
“Yes — after they have begun. With property destruction. With murder. I tell you, commissioner, each new one is coming closer. All the underworld is organized. So well that although we know who’s back of it, we can’t pin it on him. Rook Hollister holds the underworld like that.” Cardona made a gesture with his fist.
“An odd theory, Cardona,” rebuked Barth. “If Hollister is actually a big shot, controlling an invisible empire, how do you account for these numerous mob battles? It is obvious that no one man controls the underworld. Otherwise this fierce factionalism would not be existent.”