“Yes. He came to and babbled in English. Saw me and gave me his chatter. Said his name was Nabu. Cousin of Bundha. The man who was killed by the gun. Then he began to curse another Hindu called Mahmud. Said Bundha died because he listened to Mahmud. Said he was dying because he was going to work for Mahmud.”
“Who was Mahmud?”
“From the way this Nabu talked, I got it clear that Bundha wasn’t the only Hindu there at Gyp Tangoli’s. Mahmud was there, too. Both of them working for Gyp. Bundha got bumped. So Mahmud got hold of this cousin, Nabu, and offered him a job.”
“To take Bundha’s place.”
“Sounds like it. And Nabu was on the way to work when the truck hit him. So Nabu figured it was fate. Guess he wanted me to warn all Hindus to stay clear of this guy Mahmud.”
“Where was Nabu going?”
“He said to a house of a wise man. The new mahatma that the newspapers told about. So I looked through the Classic on the way down here. I spotted this.”
MARKHAM pulled the tabloid from his pocket. He handed it to Cardona and pointed out the same ad that Cuyler Willington had shown Rami Zaka on the night before. Cardona studied it.
“Swami Marabout Bey,” he read. “Did this fellow Nabu mention him by name?”
“No. He said he was going to the house of a wise man. But I sort of figured that might be where Gyp is hiding out.”
“And he said he was going to work for Mahmud?”
“Yes.”
Cardona looked at the newspaper again; then thrust it in his pocket. The address on Fifty-eighth Street was firmly implanted in his mind. Joe turned to Markham.
“A company of Hindu mystics,” he quoted, from the ad. “That means a bunch of stooges — Hindus dressed up — working for this Swami Marabout Bey.”
“And Mahmud will be the chief guy of the Hindus, eh?”
“Yes. But what I’m wondering is who the swami is.”
“Some faker, I guess, that just blew into town.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. He may be someone we’re after.”
“Who?”
“Think it over, Markham. You brought in the clue.”
Joe was reaching for the telephone. Markham stood scratching his head. Suddenly the answer burst upon him.
“Gyp Tangoli!”
Cardona nodded as he heard Markham’s ejaculation. Then, over the telephone, he began to give orders.
Cardona was arranging a raiding squad. He was taking up Markham’s lead, planning a swoop upon the headquarters of Swami Marabout Bey.
HAWKEYE had gone on duty opposite the house on Fifty-eighth Street. Standing in his sheltered alleyway, the little spotter heard a hiss like the one that had reached his ears on a previous night.
“Report.”
“Nothing new,” whispered Hawkeye. “The joint’s on the second floor front. Lights showing out from the shutters. The swami’s up there. I think he’s Gyp Tangoli.”
“Other entrances?”
“One at the back of the apartment house. Sort of a fire escape. Looks like it opens into a back hall.”
“Off duty.”
Hawkeye moved away. This time he did not look back. He would have seen nothing had he done so.
The Shadow’s departure across the gloomy street was too stealthy to be discerned by human eyes.
Through a passage beside the old house, The Shadow reached the rear. He found the fire escape; his long arms drew down the hinged steps. The Shadow ascended. He entered a darkened window at the rear of the second floor. It brought him into a back hall.
The interior arrangement of the old house was odd. To the right of the rear hall was the entrance to a small apartment. Past that, the hall turned and ran clear across the house. The front apartment was to the left of the front hall.
Reaching that point, The Shadow observed a stairway; he also saw the door of the front apartment.
On the way, he had noted a door leading from the portion of the hall that ran across. Unless it should prove to be the entrance to a clothes closet, that door would turn out to he a rear entrance to the front apartment.
The Shadow returned to that point. He found the door locked. He opened it with his pick and stepped into a small room where the only illumination came from the window. Across the room was another door, white in the gloom.
Approaching this barrier, The Shadow tested it. The door was locked; more than that. The Shadow’s pressure along the edge of the door told him that it was held by a high bolt on the other side.
The Shadow’s fingers tapped the edge of the door; not audibly, but in a fashion that indicated a dependence upon the sense of touch. It was as if The Shadow were feeling through the woodwork, picking the exact spot where the hidden bolt lay.
The tiny flashlight glimmered, its disk-like ray no larger than a silver dollar. Into that sphere of light came The Shadow’s other hand, bringing a tool shaped like a bradawl. The little instrument dug into the woodwork. The Shadow was probing for the bolt.
A slow but steady task. The awl, as it entered, furrowed from side to side. Once through the thick woodwork, that tool would press the bolt; slowly, indiscernibly, it would draw back the metal fastening.
Silently, careful to the extreme, The Shadow was seeking this mode of entry into the abode of Swami Marabout Bey.
Perhaps this process would lead to an encounter; possibly it would mean the opposite. The Shadow, knowing that retirement might prove the best plan, was painstaking in his work, so that he could cover it up afterward.
For it was not his purpose to deal alone with Gyp Tangoli, alias Swami Marabout Bey. Murderer though Gyp Tangoli was, The Shadow still wanted him as bait for a greater fiend. Until Gyp had managed to lure Cuyler Willington to this abode, The Shadow’s work must remain hidden from the knowledge of the false Swami Marabout Bey.
CHAPTER XIX. FACE TO FACE
GYP TANGOLI was standing in a large room near the rear of his apartment. The place was bedecked with curtains. It was a seance room deluxe, befitting the new character that the dark-visaged crook had adopted.
At the rear of the room was a massive, thronelike chair that rested in front of heavy velvet drapes. Those particular curtains covered a door that lay behind them. In the center of the room, occupying the place of honor, was the elephant table that Gyp had purchased from Rami Zaka.
Gyp himself was scarcely recognizable in the garb of Swami Marabout Bey. His silken garments would have looked well upon a maharajah. Crimson and gold, they matched the turban that the pretender wore upon his head. The turban was an adornment that belonged to Hindus of the highest caste. A golden plume rose from its crimson folds.
At his side, the false Swami Bey carried a golden scimitar in a sheath of the same metal. His trappings, like his surroundings and the rug on which he stood, were gorgeous — except for the smell of camphor.
Gyp Tangoli had brought the whole outfit from storage.
Two Hindus appeared from the curtained archway at the front of the seance room. They were bringing incense burners. A pungent odor filled the room. Gyp sniffed and smiled, his gold teeth gleaming in the mellow light. The incense would rid the room of camphor.
As the Hindus took their positions at the side of the room, Gyp stroked his chin. He had adorned his face with a light cluster of false hair. The beard-like floss looked genuine. A glance at the costumes of the Hindu servitors convinced Gyp that they were ready for their part. Then the fake swami looked at the elephant table.
Gold with jet black lines, that table fitted well with the arrangement of the room. Gyp was pleased that he had bought it from Rami Zaka.
Mahmud entered, attired in a costume almost as resplendent as Gyp’s. The chief Hindu was carrying a large crystal ball. Gyp took the sphere and rested it upon the stand that stood atop the elephant table.