Anyway, whatever we pull, there won't be nobody around to get wise."
Slick, the hunch producer, agreed with every word that Pinkey uttered; and, thereby, both were totally wrong. Matters were to take a twist that neither believed possible. They were to find that everything could turn out as they wanted it, more effectively than they could have planned.
They were mistaken also, on their second conjecture; namely; that whatever
they did would remain unwitnessed. There was one being whose ability was unwisely discounted by both Pinkey and Slick.
That personage was The Shadow.
CHAPTER XIII
MISTAKEN MURDER
LEWIS BRON had actually started for Parrington's apartment. That had been the burden of Parrington's phone call - that he had to talk with Bron right away, regarding a matter of vital importance to both of them.
But Bron had been a long while getting to his destination; precisely as Pinky had calculated. That fact was worrying Roy Parrington, as he paced the living room of his little apartment. It didn't occur to the promoter that traffic might have delayed Bron.
Parrington's face was haggard; his lips had an increasing twitch. The gradual strain became too much for him. When his nerves finally broke, he showed it by pouncing for the telephone. Within a few minutes, the haggard man was talking to police headquarters.
Across the wire, he heard a gruff voice that announced the speaker to be Inspector Joe Cardona.
It took Parrington a few gulps, before he could talk. When he found control of his vocal cords, he was loath to explain matters fully. At last, he decided to take the line of least resistance: to blame the one man whose name would make Cardona eager to listen.
"Listen, inspector," gulped Parrington, "I want to tell you, something about a man I met tonight - a fellow who says he's a detective. His name is Bill Quaine."
"What's that?" Cardona's query was sharp. "You saw Bill Quaine tonight?
You couldn't have. He's away on a vacation. Say - who is this calling, anyway?"
Parrington gave his own name and address. He insisted that he had seen Quaine, and began to describe the detective. Parrington's memory was good; his description graphic. The sketch that he gave of Slick Thurley was a thorough one.
Cardona, totally ignorant of the fact that Quaine had a crooked double, was soon convinced that Parrington had actually met the vacationing dick.
"Funny thing, Quaine being here in town," gruffed the inspector. "Just what did
he have to say to you?"
"He threatened to arrest me," returned Parrington, "for something that I didn't do! If you come up here, inspector, I'll give you all the details."
"You bet I'll be up there!"
Parrington hung up the receiver, highly pleased with himself. He resumed his pacing of the living room, to be interrupted by a hard rap at the door.
Thinking that it was Bron, Parrington went to the door. As he turned the knob, he asked, hoarsely:
"Is that you, Mr. Bron?"
For reply, the door itself came banging inward, so hard that it staggered Parrington across the room. By the time the haggard man had stopped against a chair, a hard-faced arrival was upon him.
A revolver jabbed Parrington's ribs; he stared into the face of Bugs Hopton! He recognized the revolver as the one that had been recently planted on
Parrington. With it, Bugs started Parrington toward the door. Reaching it, Bugs
halted, simply closing the door with one hand, until it was almost latched.
"So you called Bron, huh?" Bugs plodded harder with the gun. "Well, I got an idea maybe you would, so I came up here instead of going down to his office.
The boys seemed to have got an idea that I ain't smart. They'll think differently after this!"
Leaving the door as it was, Bugs backed Parrington toward the center of the living room. Frightened, Parrington began to plead. He swore that he had told Bron nothing, and Bugs began to believe him.
It was mere coincidence that changed Parrington's tune. His hand brushed a
table; his knuckles slid past the base of a heavy lamp. Eye to eye with Bugs, Parrington suddenly had the thought that his tormentor hadn't noticed the lamp,
which stood unlighted.
A frantic scream came from Parrington's lips as he grabbed the lamp and swung it toward the other man's head. He tried to twist away from the gun muzzle at the same moment, but Bugs shoved his hand forward to prevent the victim's escape.
The dodge that Bugs gave saved him from the swing made by Parrington.
Simultaneously, Bugs pulled the revolver trigger. Parrington was spinning as the lamp crashed the floor. Clamping his hands to his side, the haggard man slumped to a chair.
Bugs pounced toward him, flourishing the revolver under Parrington's nose.
"Want another dose of it?" he taunted. "You're going to get it, whether you want it or not! I came here to croak you, Parrington -"
Bugs was interrupted by the victim's sudden move. Shooting his hands forward, Parrington made a frenzied clutch for the gun. He was mortally wounded, but he didn't know it, and the pain drove him to a show of strength that took Bugs totally of guard.
Bugs tried to twist away. His move merely hauled Parrington from the chair. They reeled across the floor together, and by the time they jounced the wall, the gun was in Parrington's possession.
During the next stagger, it would have been doom for Bugs, if they hadn't encountered a chair just as Parrington was shoving the revolver against the mobleader's temple. The two took a long spill; it caused Parrington to lose the
gun. But Bugs didn't wait to snatch up the weapon.
The door to an inner room was open. Bugs dived through, slammed the door behind him. Parrington found the gun; came to his feet unsteadily.
He had heard the slam, but couldn't locate the door. The room was going black. All that Parrington could think of was the hallway, the natural exit that Bugs would have chosen. Parrington reeled toward the outer door.
SOME one was knocking when he arrived there, but Parrington didn't hear it. The knocks sent the loose door inward; staggering sideways, Parrington almost fell into the arms of a man who had arrived outside.
He didn't recognize Lewis Bron. Parrington was thinking in terms of one man alone: Bugs Hopton.
With a strength that would have suited a death-grip. Parrington pointed the gun toward Bron. All Bron could do was shove the weapon upward, while he threw his weight against the attacker. He didn't realize that Parrington was badly wounded. Bron was wrestling for us own life.
The pair rolled into the living room. From the hall stairway came a figure
in black. Though he hadn't kept to close to Bron's trail, The Shadow was near enough to witness the struggle at the doorway and his expert eye had noted something of Parrington's plight.
Ready to intervene from the doorway, The Shadow suddenly whipped back into
the hall as a gun muzzle came pushing over Bron's shoulder. With a final burst of strength, Parrington pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled through the space where The Shadow had been. There was a thump; a groan; the dull clank of a gun against the carpet. Peering into the apartment, The Shadow saw Lewis Bron
rising slowly from beside the body of Roy Parrington.
It took Bron a few minutes to recuperate from his daze. Once his wits were
gathered, he was horror-struck.
He saw a broad bloodstain upon Parrington's shirt front. The fellow was dead; and Bron thought himself responsible, supposing that the gunshot had occurred while the muzzle was pressed toward Parrington.
The Shadow waited for Bron to recover his nerve; meanwhile he looked for signs of the man who actually shot Parrington.
The Shadow saw the door to the inner bedroom. It had evidently been slammed, for a key was out of the lock and lying near the middle of the living room floor. However, the murderer, if actually in the other room, seemed to have no intention of showing himself.