“You did look good in a dress suit, Congo. If you hadn’t, they wouldn’t have mistaken you for me. I thought that garage roof would be the spot they would choose. I guessed right again, Congo.”
With that final comment, Willington tossed down his drink and replaced the glass beside the decanter. He left the apartment and descended in the automatic elevator. Three minutes later, he was hailing a cab on the avenue near Ninety-fifth Street.
But the address that he gave the driver was neither the Club Cadiz nor the Hotel Royal. Cuyler Willington had decided that it would not be healthy to return to either of those haunts.
From now on, he intended to remain at some obscure hotel as long as he might be in Manhattan. For this thrust from Gyp Tangoli had come through Turk Berchler. Those fellows meant business.
Cuyler Willington was pondering deeply as he adjusted a cigarette in the long holder. His thoughts concerned his future actions as a suave gentleman of crime.
CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW LISTENS
“HELLO, Fritz.”
Detective Joe Cardona gave the greeting from behind his battered desk at headquarters. He was speaking to a tall, dull-faced janitor. Clad in overalls, the fellow had entered with mop and bucket.
“Yah,” responded Fritz.
A smile showed on Joe Cardona’s swarthy face. Fritz, the janitor, was a card. His vocabulary seemed limited to that single expression, “yah.”
Fritz began to work with mop and bucket. That was his policy when Joe Cardona stayed overtime in his office. Fritz mopped up when he was ready. Joe had to like it. So Joe always managed to get a laugh out of the situation.
A man stepped into the office. It was Detective Sergeant Markham. Joe Cardona had been waiting for him. As acting inspector, Joe had sent Markham out to gather facts.
“Anything new on that Congo Mollin killing?” questioned Joe.
“Not a thing,” replied Markham. “They had the machine gun on the garage roof; but they must have made an easy get-away while everybody was running around in the alley.”
“And it was half an hour before anybody found Congo,” mused Joe. “Well, there’s another crook gone. What I can’t figure is why anybody wanted to get Congo.”
“Maybe they thought he was playing stool pigeon,” put in Markham. “He’d been behaving himself ever since he came back from the Island.”
“That’s just it,” declared Cardona. “He was behaving too well. Keeping away from tough spots. Nobody would have figured him as a stoolie. Particularly since he wasn’t one.”
“Have you checked up on him?”
“Yes. But it looks like he’s been on the level. The people up at the apartment house say he was quiet and orderly. Minded his own business.”
“How about the guys with the typewriter, Joe? Have you figured who they might be?”
“Not yet. I thought of half a dozen. They all have alibis. Take Turk Berchler, for instance. I figured he might have been capable of the job. But he was up at the Club Cadiz all evening. Nicky Donarth said so.”
“Nicky’s reliable, too. Say — he’s running a little strong with that gambling joint of his.”
“It wasn’t operating when I was in there. But that was in the afternoon. I told Nicky that he’d better watch himself, though. If we found any gambling equipment, we’d crack down on him.”
“What did he say?”
“Told me to pay a visit any time I wanted. Said if I found a roulette wheel there I could pinch the place. He’s got one, though. But I guess it’s only temporary. It wasn’t there this afternoon. But let’s get back to Congo Mollin.”
“All right.”
MARKHAM drew a list from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona. Joe read it and shook his head.
“Places he worked at before he went to the Island,” said Joe. “Those don’t mean anything. I’ll keep the list though.”
He tucked it in a desk drawer.
“There’s just one thing that puzzles me,” observed Cardona, “I looked Congo’s body over at the morgue. What I want to know is why that guy was wearing a dress suit.”
“He must have had a date.”
“Where? Why the glad rags? Congo didn’t play the gentleman. Anyway, he hadn’t worn that dress suit for a long time. It smelled so strong of camphor that you couldn’t smell the formaldehyde in the morgue.
“That’s odd, all right.”
“I’ll say it is.” Joe got up from his desk. “A crook that’s doing nothing but minding his own business. Dolled up in a dress suit for the first time in months. Plugged by machine gunners who went out of their way to get him. It beats me.”
“Do you think anybody was up there with him?” questioned Markham.
“No,” replied Cardona. “There was some liquor gone from a decanter; but only one glass had been used. Congo might have taken a drink for himself.”
“Did the doc say he’d been drinking?”
“No. But he might have taken one drink an hour or two before he was bumped. It doesn’t mean anything, Markham. Well, just between us, nobody’s going to lose any sleep over the murder of Congo Mollin. We’ll keep on the case; but you know what the commissioner thinks.”
“Good riddance?”
“Right.”
Cardona and Markham went out, leaving Fritz mopping by the wall. A strange shadow flickered across the floor as the tall, stooped janitor turned toward the desk. A sudden gleam appeared in Fritz’s listless eyes.
The janitor plucked the list from the drawer. He read Markham’s notations. As he replaced the list, he indulged in a soft, whispered laugh. Fritz, the janitor, was The Shadow!
CARRYING mop and bucket, The Shadow left Cardona’s office and shuffled off to an obscure locker.
He set down the objects that he carried. He drew black garments from a shelf and donned them. The overalls slipped from beneath the dark cloak. The Shadow hung them in the locker. He stepped away.
His cloaked figure faded suddenly beyond the locker.
Footsteps. A scrawny, stooping man came into view. It was the real Fritz. The fellow opened the locker, donned his overalls and picked up mop and bucket. He departed. Again, The Shadow laughed softly.
He had arrived ahead of Fritz. He had played the role of the janitor and had ended the clever part just before Fritz reached headquarters. With Fritz gone, the way was clear.
Finding a deserted corridor, The Shadow glided out into the night.
LATER, a tiny flashlight glimmered in a room where dull illumination came from three windows. The Shadow was in the living room of Congo Mollin’s apartment.
The room was exactly as the police had found it. The Shadow knew this through a report from Clyde Burke, who had covered the story for the Classic. Every detail fitted Clyde’s description. But the reporter had mentioned something beside the decanter and the glass. He had noted several cigarette stumps, all of the same brand.
The Shadow found them. Four in an ash tray in the living room. Three in the bedroom. Like the single glass beside the decanter, these apparently meant nothing. Congo Mollin could have smoked the seven cigarettes himself. But The Shadow noted something that gave a different indication.
Of the four cigarettes in the living room, two were slightly ragged at the end. They had been held between moistened lips. The other two had a twisted crimp; furthermore, they had been smoked a half inch further.
The three cigarette stumps in the bedroom also had twisted ends. They had been smoked close to their limit. The Shadow turned his tiny flashlight on the bureau. Its glow showed odds and ends that Cardona had found in the pockets of Congo’s discarded suit. The Shadow looked for a cigarette holder. None was present.