“What did you do?”
“We stayed away. Separated. That’s when I came to New York. We decided to meet later on and spring a surprise on the old double-crosser.”
“Why didn’t you gang the place?”
“That joint?” Luke snorted as he pointed to the photograph. “Say — old Culeth was too smart for that. He had three strong-arm boys in the house. A lot of dogs around the place. There was a secret tunnel we used to use. We figured he’d plugged that after Jimmy — after the one guy went in to call for a show-down.
“No. We decided to lay low for a while. We knew Culeth for what he was. A miser. We knew he’d be hanging on to the dough. But he was foxier than we thought — Culeth was.”
“How?”
“HE found out where two of us was. Tipped off the bulls to both of us. That’s how they happened to grab me here in New York. Judge Claris sent me to the big house. Ten years — it got cut to six.”
“And the other guy?”
“He got a worse deal than I did. They nabbed him for murder. He’s doing life out in Joliet.”
“But you said there was three.”
“Yeah” Luke Zoman leered. “Three of us left. Two of us went in stir. But the third guy didn’t. He was sitting pretty. Culeth couldn’t get him.”
“Why not?”
“Because Culeth didn’t know him!” Luke’s voice rang with triumph. “He belonged to the outfit, but he had never been in to see Culeth. He was our ace in the hole.”
“Did he go after the dough?”
“No. That was where he was foxy.” Again Luke crinkled the letter. “Here’s how he figured it, Squeezer. There was two of us left to split. Me and this one guy Culeth didn’t know. So this fellow — the ace — decides to wait a while.
“He was counting on me coming out of the big house. But he was counting on something else. Thaddeus Culeth was an old gazebo. He wasn’t due to live many years more. So this boy waits. He doesn’t show his hand. That keeps Culeth worried. Then this comes along.”
Luke picked up the first clipping. It was an item from a small-town paper stating that Thaddeus Culeth, well-known citizen, had been stricken with paralysis. The next clipping spoke of Culeth’s grave condition.
The third stated that Thaddeus Culeth had died.
Luke took the clippings and tore them to pieces. He dropped them in an ash tray and applied a match.
While the bits of newspaper were burning, the ex-convict opened the letter that he had been holding.
“This was waiting for me,” he stated. “General delivery; I got it this afternoon. It had the picture and the clippings along with it.”
“From the ace?”
“Yeah. He’s in the town of Rensdale, where the old house is located. They’ve been going over Thaddeus Culeth’s estate. Only the house and a few thousand bucks. That’s all.”
“Then the dough is still safe?”
“You bet it is. In the old house. Now you see why this old pal of mine — the ace — was smart. He’s been playing straight for the last six years. He’s an educated guy — and he knows how to make the most of it. All he’s got to do is step in and pick up the gravy.”
“Are you going to help him?”
“Me?” Luke laughed. “Say — I ain’t showing my map nowhere near the town of Rensdale. Do you think I want to queer the game? This fellow is a real ace — a square shooter — and when he grabs that million, I’ll get my half.”
“I get you. Nobody knows the ace is a crook, eh?”
“And nobody suspects it. He could get away with anything — murder included. Maybe he’ll have to; but he’ll get that dough.”
“But if somebody wises up that there’s dough in the old house—”
“He’ll beat them to it. He’ll be on the ground. Listen, Squeezer: Thaddeus Culeth never talked to anybody — not even to his servants. There was a guy named Twindell worked for him; maybe Twindell suspected that Culeth was pulling some funny business, but it’s a sure bet that he didn’t have the real low-down.
“Twindell could be bought, maybe. Or maybe he’s just as dumb as he looks. There won’t be much trouble from him. If he knows nothing, all right. If he knows something, he’ll be scared to talk.”
“What about relatives?”
“The only one was Culeth’s son — young Austin. He and the old man had a fight, back before Thaddeus Culeth double-crossed us. The kid cleared out. Went abroad. Died in Africa of the fever. The guy that’s coming in for the estate is a distant relative — young fellow named Hector Lundig — who never saw Thaddeus Culeth.”
“Where did you get this dope?”
“Here in the letter.” With these words, Luke tore the message and dropped the pieces in the ash tray. He set fire to them as he had the clippings. He watched the letter burn to ashes.
The conversation between the two crooks had been a brisk one. The pause that followed seemed long.
Luke Zoman crumpled the ashes that had represented clippings and letter. He shook them into a wastebasket and wiped his hands with a grimy handkerchief.
LUKE ZOMAN had drawn the shade at the window. The act had seemed an unnecessary precaution at the time. Yet events outside of the Hotel Spartan were proving that the deed was one of some importance.
The window of Room 306 opened on the rear alleyway. From the darkness below, a strange, squidgy sound was marking the ascent of a living form.
A blackened shape loomed beside the locked window. It clung batlike to the surface of the brick. A hand freed itself from a rubber suction cup. Deft fingers pressed against the window sash — upward. The sash did not move.
A blackened wedge of thin steel was thrust between the portions of the sash. The lock gave noiselessly.
The steel disappeared; the hand pressed the sash silently upward. No breeze was stirring; the strange hand from the darkness raised the window to its full extent.
Fingers lifted the bottom of the shade the fraction of an inch. Burning eyes peered into the lighted room.
Keen ears listened. The Shadow had arrived; knowing the location of every room in this old hotel, he had chosen the window of Room 306.
“One million dollars,” Luke Zoman was saying. “Half of it mine. I can count on the guy that’s getting it. One hundred grand to you, Squeezer, if you help me rub out Judge Claris. Are you on?”
Squeezer was staring at the photograph on the desk. There was something about Thaddeus Culeth’s old house that impressed him. Luke Zoman’s story sounded good.
“I’m on,” spoke Squeezer. “Ready when you say the word.”
“To-night, then,” returned Luke. “Your mob is here. Pick the guys you want. Pay ‘em off on the way.”
Squeezer considered. He was standing near the table. Again, he glanced at the picture of the old house in which Thaddeus Culeth had lived.
“One hundred grand,” prompted Luke. “You’ve got the dough to pay your mob. I know you don’t keep no bank account. Those gorillas of yours don’t know where Judge Claris lives. They’ll think we’re busting into some millionaire’s house.”
“But the get-away—”
“Every body scrams. You and me together. We can get to Mexico before they trace us.”
“You’re sure about this pal of yours?”
“Say — I told you he was an ace. What do you think he sent me the letter for? He’s been waiting for me to get out of stir.”
“All right.” Squeezer’s tone was firm. “Stick here, Luke. I’ll call the mob. They’re just down the hall.”
Squeezer stepped toward the door. He placed his hand on the knob. Luke was watching him with eager, gleaming eyes. Ten seconds more and this room would be thronged with mobsmen, ready for orders.