Turk nodded. He was calculating, and his dark face showed a gleam that matched Gyp’s evil leer.
“Listen, Turk,” stated Gyp. “There’s just one reason why I’ve laid off of Cuyler Willington. That’s because he’s supposed to be a society guy. I figured that if I tried to bump him, I’d have The Shadow on my neck,”
“Maybe you would,” agreed Turk. “They say The Shadow keeps an eye on people who have dough, just because he knows they’re the ones that crooks will go after.”
“That’s right. But I learned something last night that changes all that. Skeeter wised up that The Shadow was with Driller’s mob under the name of Tonk Ringo.”
“Acting as a gorilla?”
“Yeah. And he knew about it when Driller bumped Reds Parrock. He didn’t bust the game. See what that means? If a crook gets a crook, The Shadow lets it ride.”
“I get it. You’re figuring on the same thing if you go after Willington. But maybe The Shadow don’t know that Wilmington’s crooked.”
“I don’t think he does. But suppose we give Willington the works. What’ll the police do about it?”
“They’ll investigate Willington’s affairs.”
“Sure. And The Shadow?”
“He’ll do the same.”
“Right. And they’ll find out that Willington was a phony. He goes in for blackmail, Turk. As soon as he’s bumped, a lot of saps are going to spill what they know about him. People who are keeping their traps shut right at present.”
“I’m getting it now.”
“Sure you are. When The Shadow gets the real dope about what Willington was, he’s going to laugh about it. A crook bumped by crooks. He won’t worry who did it.”
“And then—”
“We’ll wait a while. Sit tight and look gentle. Then we’ll bust loose. One job after another. Places I learned about while I was working with Willington. And he won’t be around to crimp the game.”
Turk thrust out a hand. Gyp received it. The two crooks grinned as they formed their pact. Then came a click at the door; a key turned in the lock. Nicky Donarth entered.
THE night club proprietor chatted pleasantly as he went to the safe and opened it. Nicky removed a stack of bank notes, closed the safe and went out.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Gyp turned to Turk.
“What about Nicky?” questioned Gyp. “You know him pretty well, don’t you, Turk?”
“Sure,” grinned Turk. “He and I are pals. You wouldn’t find him leaving me alone in this office if we wasn’t.”
“He’d give you an alibi if you needed it?”
“Sure, he would. Want me to talk to him?”
“Yeah. But don’t tell him too much, Turk. You’ve got some torpedoes you can count on?”
“Any time I want them. Not a bunch of bum gorillas, either. Smart guys.”
“Use them. Tail Willington. Have Nicky fixed to give you an alibi. But don’t tell him what for until after you’ve rubbed out Willington. Get it?”
“Every bit. Leave it to me, Gyp.”
Gyp Tangoli leered. He strolled to the door, turned the latch and went out, closing the door behind him.
Turk Berchler sat down behind Nicky Donarth’s desk and began to drum with his fingers. A grin appeared upon his dark face.
But that grin was nothing to the gleaming leer that Gyp Tangoli wore when he entered a taxicab outside the Club Cadiz. For Gyp Tangoli, thwarted by The Shadow, was looking forward to bigger and more profitable crime.
CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST THRUST
Two nights later, the pretentious lobby of the Hotel Royal was thronged with guests. An elevator arrived at the ground floor. Its doors clanged open. The last person to step forth was a man attired in evening clothes.
There was something debonair about this guest’s appearance. He looked like a member of the elite. His attire was perfect. His face was handsome, except for a slight paleness that was accentuated by the near-whiteness of his hair.
Approaching the desk, the tall man inquired if any mail had come for him. The clerk gave a negative response, addressing the tall man as “Mr. Willington.” Leaving his key, Willington strolled from the lobby and hailed a taxicab. He ordered the driver to take him to an address on Ninety-sixth Street.
As he rode along, Cuyler Willington adjusted a cigarette in a long holder. He lighted the cigarette, tossed the match from the window and looked out through the back of the cab. He noted a green cab close behind his taxi. He spotted the license number.
Willington’s cab entered Central Park. The tall man looked back again. He saw the same cab still close behind. He rapped at the driver s window.
“Take a long way through the park,” he ordered. “Drive around a bit. I like the air.”
The driver nodded and changed course. Willington looked back. The same cab was still tailing. It kept on the trail as the curving course continued.
Willington lighted another cigarette. A puzzled frown appeared upon his forehead.
The driver finally decided that he had tacked enough unnecessary fare on the meter. He ended the meandering course and came back to a direct route. The cab left Central Park and finally arrived at the address that Willington had given. The place was a restaurant.
As Willington finished paying the driver, the green cab pulled up to the curb.
Willington spied it, turned quickly and entered the restaurant. He chose a table near the back. As he ordered from the menu, he looked sidelong to the front. He spied a darkish face peering through the plate-glass window.
The waiter brought soup. Willington finished the course, then arose suddenly. Close by was a door that formed an exit to a service entrance. Willington swung swiftly in that direction, cut through a passage and stepped out into the darkness of Ninety-fifth Street.
His pace became a jogging run for half a block. Then Willington darted into the entrance of an apartment house. Panting slightly, he pressed a button on the wall-board holding the names of the building tenants; then gave a quick ring to the bell button beneath. He picked up a hanging receiver, expecting a response from above. Instead, the front door buzzed. Willington leaped for the barrier, dashed through and closed the door behind him. He made for the automatic elevator.
Thirty seconds later, a hard-faced man entered the front of the apartment building. He had spotted Wilmington’s flight. The fellow took a look at the wall-board. He was sure that Willington had not gained time to press another button. He noted the connection button pressed at 3 B. The name on the card was “H. Mollin”.
The spy ducked out into the street. He found a man awaiting him. It was Turk Berchler. The spy reported.
“H. Mollin”, chuckled Turk. “Say — that’s a hot one! That guy is Congo Mollin! I knew him before he took a rap over at the Island. Been playing softy since then. I’ve been up to this apartment of his. Good work, Terry. Come along.”
The two men walked down the street to where others awaited them. Turk Berchler held confab with his torpedoes. One of them was a long-haired fellow who looked like a musician. He was carrying a guitar case. The crew moved toward a corner.
Up in Apartment 3 B. Cuyler Wellington was lighting a cigarette as he talked to a tall, solemn-faced man.
This was “Congo” Mollin. He looked like a butler; in fact, he had been one, prior to serving time at Welfare Island.
This was not the first time that Cuyler Willington had been to Congo’s apartment. Yet tonight, the gentleman crook was evidencing a new interest in the place. He and Congo were seated in a plainly-furnished living room. Congo was pouring his guest a drink from a decanter that he had taken from the top of a radio cabinet.