“Hello, Silford?”
The inquiry came in the calm tones of Cranston. Harry acknowledged:
“Oh, hello, Cranston. Where are you?”
“Checking out at the Hotel Bontezan. Leaving for Pensacola.”
“But you promised me a loan—”
“I know. Don’t worry, Silford. Listen, old man, I was short on money myself. So I borrowed some last night. When I did, I arranged for you to do the same.”
“But I wanted money tonight—”
“You can get it. There’s a chap in town named Lester Hayd. Head of a big loan company. His name is in the telephone book. Last night I had only fifty dollars, except for bank draft for five hundred, I went out to see Hayd. He cashed the draft and gave me three thousand besides, on my own note.”
“But if he runs a loan company, what about the interest rate?”
“The same as regular bank rates.” The Shadow chuckled in Cranston’s dry fashion. “That is, to wealthy friends. I was one; you’ll be another.”
“But I wanted ten thousand—”
“You’ll get it. He has plenty of money, there at the house. He had stacks, all in bundles, and he simply drew off what I wanted. Fifties — hundreds — that’s where I stopped. He had bigger bills than those, in his safe.”
“You’re sure about the ten thousand then—”
“I tell you, Silford, he must have as much as a hundred thousand there. I’ll call him, old man, and tell him to expect you before ten-thirty. But don’t get there until ten-fifteen. Be casual. Don’t let him think you are anxious for a loan.”
The Shadow hung up. He dropped a dime in the post-payment box and clicked the receiver. He gave another number: Hayd’s. Getting the loan magnate on the wire, he told him that Silford would arrive before half past ten. After that, The Shadow went from the telephone booth, back to the porter’s office.
BANJO arrived at the desk. He spoke in a triumphant whisper to Bleek.
“Forget those calls. Hold them until later. After I hear from Ring. He’s due to call up any minute.” Bleek interrupted.
“Look! Cranston is leaving!”
“Let him go. He’s out of it. The switchboard’s buzzing, Swifty. See if it’s Ring.”
Bleek hopped to the switchboard and answered. He nodded to Banjo. The go-between headed for the telephone booth. The Shadow saw the move from the door. Reaching the street, The Shadow entered a cab with his bags.
“L.&N. Depot,” he told the driver. “I’m checking these suitcases there. Wait. I have somewhere else to go.”
In the hotel telephone booth, Banjo was spilling the news to Ring Stortzel. The big-shot was growling his approval of the go-between’s conclusions.
“We should have spotted it,” came Ring’s voice across the wire. “Remember? We talked about the loan company? But they didn’t pass out the mazuma. That was because Hayd had it at his house.”
“He must have been the bird who spent some at the Delta Club.”
“Sure. And he let some go to Blouchet, on a loan. We don’t want Blouchet. We want Hayd; he’s the fellow Randon was working for. Meet me in fifteen minutes, Banjo. You know the place. We’re going out to Hayd’s. What did you say the guy’s name was? Silford?”
“That’s it. I get you, Ring. Hayd has never met him. What’ll I tell Bleek to do?”
“Call in everybody that can come. Have them meet up with Frankie Larth, so he’ll have a full outfit. I’ll call Frankie and have him hold back until the right time. Ten o’clock for us, or earlier. Ten-fifteen for them. They’ll take care of this boob Silford.”
OVER at the Hotel Southern, Harry Vincent had put in a telephone call of his own. He was through with the part of the mythical Silford. He was calling Andrew Blouchet, at police headquarters. Harry gained a connection with Lieutenant Wayson’s office.
“Harry!” Andrew’s exclamation came across the wire. “Hurry out here! I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“Is Carl Randon there?”
“No. Listen, Harry: Carl has been shot! Killed, in my apartment—”
“Murdered?”
“Maybe yes; maybe no. We’ve found out some facts about Carl, Wayson and I have. Get out here in a hurry; tell the cab driver to roll. We’re going places!”
Harry smiled tensely as he left the telephone booth. He knew what Andrew had learned; and from what source the information had come. He understood, also, something of what lay ahead. Once again, a grim game was in the making, as on that night at Andrew Blouchet’s.
Another snare, perhaps, with many persons involved. One in which odds would seem strangely one-sided, against those who did not realize the full game. But of one thing, Harry was certain. There would be measures to offset the foe.
For this game was of The Shadow’s making. The pay-off was due. The Shadow had planned; and Harry was confident that his chief would win.
CHAPTER XIX. CROOKS PLAY THEIR PARTS
IT was quarter of ten when a taxicab pulled up near the home of Lester Hayd. The vehicle stopped amid dripping rain. The driver received his fare and a tip. He heard the door close as his passenger alighted.
The driver headed back to town.
Only darkness remained at the spot where the cab had stopped. The only sound from that sector was the patter of the raindrops. Whoever had alighted remained invisible in the heavy night.
Yet the cab’s passenger must have moved in the direction of the house, for no one appeared within the range of two street lamps that cast their rays upon sidewalk and street.
Moreover, two pedestrians walked by a few minutes later. They encountered no one in the darkened patch. Besides, there was a sequel that occurred a short while later. It came close to the looming wall of Hayd’s mansion, where unlighted windows marked an empty room. A swish in darkness; the slight click of metal, working at a window catch. Then the almost noiseless raising of a sash.
Those trifling sounds took place just as a taxicab rolled into Hayd’s driveway. The headlights of the taxi gleamed upon the window where the sound had occurred. The passing rays showed blackness, only. A blackness which glistened, more like moistened shrouding cloth than the glittery glass of a windowpane.
But neither the driver nor his passengers noted the odd phenomenon.
Two men alighted. One paid the driver. They ascended the steps and a light flashed on to greet them.
The glow showed their faces. One was Ring Stortzel; the other was Banjo Lobot. Their arrival had been heard. Ring nudged Banjo as they waited at the door.
“Remember,” whispered the big-shot, gruffly, “you’re Silford. I’m just a friend; I’ll sit down and wait for you. The first chance I get, though, I’ll barge in.”
The door opened. The butler bowed to the visitor and looked from one to the other. He seemed surprised to observe two persons.
“I am Mr. Silford,” stated Banjo. “This gentleman is with me. Mr. Hayd is expecting us.”
“Of course.” Craylon conducted the pair into the hallway and closed the door behind them. “Right this way, gentlemen.”
They went through the living room; there, Banjo stopped Craylon, the butler. Turning, Banjo spoke to Ring.
“I have to see Mr. Hayd privately,” he explained. “You wait here for me.”
“All right, Silford,” rejoined Ring.
Craylon ushered Banjo into Hayd’s study. Banjo introduced himself as Silford to Hayd, and mentioned the name of Lamont Cranston. He took off his hat and coat, shook hands, and sat down.
Craylon went from the study. He closed the door and continued through the living room.