Carl gave a sign. He caught the answering wave of an arm from back along the Street. He headed for Andrew’s, knowing that Ring would follow. Near the front of the building, Carl paused. He looked up to see the light in the living room. Carl chuckled.
One thing alone troubled him; the possibility that Ring Stortzel had ordered henchmen to this vicinity. Carl knew that the big-shot might have passed word to Banjo, and that the go-between could have sent it along. Nevertheless, Carl felt secure. He had reasons.
Carl knew that Ring’s wrecking crew had been demolished in that fight where Duvale had figured. The police had traced unknown thugs to Algiers, across the river. It was unlikely that Ring would have another crew on hand; at least, such an outfit would be no closer than the town across the river. Ring would not have had time to summon them on such short notice.
There were no lurkers hereabouts; of that, Carl became certain. When Ring sloshed up to him, he was positive that the big-shot was alone. If he had arranged for men to cover him, they could not be close at hand. That was sufficient for Carl Randon. He had taken certain precautions of his own.
Unlocking the door at the archway, by using the key that Andrew had entrusted to him, Carl whispered to Ring. Stopped beside his fellow-conspirator, Ring grunted that he would follow.
They went through the passage and reached the courtyard. Under an increasing sprinkle, they ascended the stone steps and moved into the second-floor hall. Carl approached Andrew’s door; he glanced back at Ring and nodded. The big-shot came closer.
“Don’t flash your gat,” whispered Carl. “Just have your hand on your pocket. Come along. Right behind me. Ready to draw.”
Carl twisted the key. He shouldered straight into the living room, stepping aside as Ring followed. The door remained open behind them. Carl looked about. The living room was empty.
Carl stared in puzzled fashion. He strode across the room and looked into one bedroom; then into the other. He spoke, in low tone, as he turned slowly toward Ring Stortzel.
“I don’t get it,” began Carl. “Blouchet ought to be here—”
“Yeah?” Rings query was a rasp. “Well, I get it all right, you double-crosser! Make a move and I’ll drill you!”
CARL RANDON swung about. One hand on each coat pocket, he paused to stare into the muzzle of Ring’s big cannon. The Chicago crook had drawn his smoke-wagon. With a look of evil disdain, Ring spat contemptuous words.
“Keep your mitts where they are!” ordered the big-shot. “Don’t bother to shove them up. This lay looks phony. Plenty! Come on, you double-crosser! Give me the lowdown on this guy Blouchet. And spill where you fit into the racket.”
A streak of blackness had come upon the threshold of the apartment, blotting the dull glow from the hallway. That splotch seemed like the approach of some dread phantom — the token of a spectral visitor, encroaching from some unknown region of the night.
Ring Stortzel and Carl Randon were too intent to note that token on the floor. The aiming big-shot; his rooted antagonist — both were tense and staring. They formed a tableau. Ring, well in the room, was forward from the door, while Carl was just outside the rear bedroom. Neither was looking toward the hallway.
A shape had caused that long streak upon the floor. The splotch of darkness had moved slowly inward; it had taken on the pattern of a hawklike silhouette. Out in the hall loomed the shape itself, a tall, living figure of a personage in black. A cloaked form, with slouch hat above. A silent, slowly advancing being whose gloved hands gripped ready automatics.
The Shadow had arrived to view this rendezvous. Edging to the door, he loomed there, plainly in sight had eyes turned in his direction. Each .45 was tilted downward; but those weapons were ready for immediate aim at either Ring Stortzel or Carl Randon. Uncanny, weird, The Shadow could have been taken for a living ghost, except for the damp raindrops that glistened from his cloak and hat.
That moisture alone betokened that this figure was from an earthly plane, and not a being from outer blackness. Yet the eyes that burned from beneath the hat brim offset any comfort that a man of evil could have gained in facing this dread intruder.
The Shadow had come here to stand in judgment; to hear the reply that Carl Randon might give to Ring Stortzel’s insidious challenge. A showdown was due between this pair of plotters. The Shadow was prepared to view the outcome.
CHAPTER XVII. CHANCE TAKES CHARGE
TEN strained seconds had followed Ring Stortzel’s challenge. Carl Randon, rigid, still wore a puzzled look upon his face. He was acting as though the problem of Andrew’s absence worried him; as if it caused him greater concern than the sight of Ring’s leveled gun.
“So you tipped off Blouchet,” rasped Ring. “Told him to ease out, so you could stage a bluff. Figured you could trip me if you got me here alone. Thought I was a dumb cluck, eh?”
“Not exactly.” Randon spoke slowly, steadily. “In fact, Stortzel, I attributed you with more brains than you have shown. Frankly, I am surprised to find Blouchet missing.”
“So that’s it, huh? You were counting on him to be with you. Figuring a set-up — two against one?”
“Wrong again, Stortzel.” Carl spoke calmly. “Since you want to know my game, I’ll tell it. Two against one, you say? Yes, such should have been the odds. But the two should have been you and Blouchet — against —”
Ring snarled contemptuously.
“Figuring me and Blouchet together?” he jeered. “Say — that is a hot one—”
“Not together,” interposed Randon. “Two dupes, you and Blouchet. Well, Stortzel, you are more important. Since Blouchet is gone, I can take a chance on him. Maybe I won’t bother with him.”
“You mean you’re going to croak me?” snorted Ring. “Me, with a smoke-wagon in my mitt? While the gat I handed you is still in your pocket?”
“Why not?” queried Randon, his hands still motionless. “By the way, Stortzel, it happens that I have two guns. One of my own, in my other pocket.”
“You could carry a dozen,” jeered Ring. “Only one rod is going to talk tonight, Randon. That’s the one I’m holding. But go ahead, spill some more. This is funny!”
“I brought you here,” declared Randon, calmly, “in order that I might murder you along with Blouchet. I intended to draw both revolvers; to polish off the two of you, separately. Blouchet, I knew, would have no gun on him.”
“Which means that you’d have taken first crack at me.”
“Not necessarily. The idea, Stortzel, was to frame a first-class scene. That was why I wanted a revolver that could have been identified with you. I wanted to kill Blouchet with your gun — and finish you with mine.
“Picture the aftermath” — Randon was smiling wisely — “when police would arrive. They would believe that you had murdered Blouchet, for your stub-nosed gun would be planted on you. They would think that I had come armed, to save Blouchet; that I had slain you.” Ring Stortzel scoffed.
“What about this smoke-wagon?” he queried. “Where would it be all the while?”
“I would have hidden it,” responded Randon. “Remember, Stortzel, I once lived in this apartment. I could find a good hiding place for the big gun. Particularly since no one would be looking for it.”
“So you wanted to get rid of both of us, huh? Me and Blouchet? And you’ve got the nerve to spill it.”
“Blouchet knows more than is good for him,” remarked Randon. “Maybe there are others like yourself, Stortzel, who might be coming to New Orleans, looking for someone, as you did. It would be just as well to have them think that their man was dead.”