“I take it then,” observed Dorrington, mildly, “that you have come here to discuss certain activities of Whitey Calban’s.”
“You’ve got me right, Dorrington. Dead right. Listen; if I’m workin’ for a big shot and usin’ a bunch of gorillas to help me with the jobs, I ain’t goin’ to spill nothin’ to the heels in my mob, am I?
“You bet I’m not. Neither is any other guy that’s on the level. But Calban ain’t a straight shooter. He’s been blabbin’ to the crew, lettin’ his gorillas know who’s hirin’ him. That ain’t good policy, particularly when the work ain’t finished yet. Calban’s the mug who bumped Verbeck an’ Durton.”
“Quite interesting.”
“It ought to be — to you — since Calban’s spilled it to his mob that he croaked those lawyers because you told him to!”
Lester Dorrington sat rigid as a statue. Not a muscle twitched upon the lawyer’s cadaverous face. Dorrington’s eyes were fixed steadily upon Ace Feldon. The gangleader nodded sourly.
“Calban let it slip,” he insisted. “He yapped the facts to his gorillas last night, down at their hideout. Told ‘em last night was a lay-off but tonight there’d be another job. Then he got mouthy and spilled your name as the guy that’s backin’ him.”
“Quite odd,” observed Dorrington. “Quite odd, Feldon, that you should tell me this.”
“Tell you that Whitey Calban’s a double-crosser? Put you wise because you’re a friend of mine?”
“No. That part of your story is plain. What puzzles me is how you happen to know so much concerning Calban and his gang.”
“That ain’t no riddle,” snorted Feldon. “I ain’t never liked Whitey Calban; but that wasn’t no reason why I should try to make trouble for him. It was reason enough though, for me to want to watch the guy.
“There’s a fellow named Steve Quigg who used to work for me when I had my squad of gorillas. Calban never knew that Quigg was with my crew. When I busted up the outfit, he signed with Calban. But Quigg sees me right along. He knows that Calban is a louse. That’s why he tips me off to what Whitey’s mob is doin’.”
“So Quigg serves you as undercover man?”
“Right. But I ain’t never tried to pull nothin’ on Calban. Just keepin’ a line on him, that’s all. When Steve Quigg calls me up to-day an’ tells me that Calban’s told his mob about you, I figured it was time you knew it.
“Suppose that job goes sour tonight. Suppose the bulls grab Calban. He’s goin’ to blab, ain’t he? He’ll tell the bulls that you’re the guy that hired him. But he’ll never admit he squealed. He’ll lay it on some of the gorillas that he talked to.
“I’m tellin’ you — Calban’s a double crosser. You’ve got the proof of it right now. You’ve treated me good, Dorrington. I’m your friend an’ you know it. I’m puttin’ you wise.”
LESTER DORRINGTON was leaning upon his elbows. Staring squarely across the desk, he spoke firmly to Ace Feldon.
“Thank you for the information,” stated the poker-faced lawyer. “I can assure you, however, that it is unnecessary. Outside of the legal case in which I represented Whitey Calban, I have had nothing whatever to do with the man.”
A buzzer sounded as Lester Dorrington ceased speaking. The attorney waved his hand toward the closet. It was the sign for Ace Feldon to depart. Some one in the outer office required an interview with Dorrington.
“I ain’t askin’ nothin’,” declared Feldon as he rose from his chair and slapped his hat upon his head. “But I’m tellin’ you, Dorrington, it works both ways. If Whitey Calban is workin’ for you, he’s pulled a fast one, talkin’ to those loud-mouthed gorillas.
“If he ain’t workin’ for you, he’s a real double-crosser. A louse like him ain’t fit to live. You’re a real guy, Dorrington, an’ I’ll leave this with you: anythin’ that I may be doin’ will be on your account. Savvy?”
The gangleader had reached the closet. There were knocks at the panel of Dorrington’s office door. The lawyer had no time to reply. He shoved Ace Feldon through the panel and pulled down the shelf that locked the secret barrier. Closing the door of the closet, he went to answer the knock at the outer door.
Important clients were awaiting. Within five minutes after Ace Feldon’s departure, Lester Dorrington was engaged in prolonged conference. Afternoon waned, while the discussion continued. Dusk settled; lights were turned on; it was six o’clock when the conference was ended.
Alone, ready to leave his office, Lester Dorrington stood by his desk. He was recalling his interview with Ace Feldon; for once, doubt seemed to register itself upon Dorrington’s cadaverous countenance. The attorney was pondering upon the situation as Feldon had outlined it.
At last, a knowing smile traced itself faintly on Lester Dorrington’s lips. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, turned out the light and departed from his office. He told a secretary that he was going to his home on Long Island; that he could be reached there in case of urgent messages.
On his way to the Pennsylvania Station, Lester Dorrington was trailed by two of Cardona’s men. The lawyer did not appear to notice the stalking sleuths. Close-mouthed, crafty in every dealing, Lester Dorrington showed no concern regarding events that were to come.
CHAPTER XIII
CLUES IN THE DARK
“WHERE’S Cardona?”
“Out.”
Clyde Burke was the man who asked the question at headquarters. The one word answer was all that he received from a laconic detective who was sitting in the acting inspector’s office.
Something was in the wind, but Clyde could not uncover it. Cardona had been absent all afternoon. It was nine o’clock in the evening, still the acting inspector had not returned. Clyde strolled from headquarters, wondering where Cardona could be.
Clyde’s supposition that Cardona was engaged in special sleuthing was not an idle one. At the very moment when the reporter was leaving headquarters, Acting Inspector Joe Cardona was alighting from an elevated train at a station near the Bowery.
Descending the steps, Cardona assumed a shuffling gait. Coat collar up around his chin, the acting inspector headed toward a narrow street. He followed the thoroughfare for several blocks, turned his course and reached an alleyway. Here he paused to light a cigarette.
The night was windy. Each match that Cardona used seemed to flicker automatically. With a disgusted grunt, the ace sleuth stepped into an opening between two dilapidated buildings. When he had reached this vantage point, however, he made no new effort to light a match. He waited until a whispered voice came from behind a broken barrel by the house wall.
“Joe!”
“O.K., Gummy. What’ve you got?”
“Nothin’ much.” A hunched figure shifted in the darkness. “Whitey Calban is the guy you want; but I ain’t been able to spot his hideout.”
“Seen any of his gorillas?”
“No; but they’ve been around. Listen, Joe. Calban’s the only guy that could’ve pulled those jobs the way they was done. He wasn’t seen nowhere three nights ago; the next day the guys in his mob ducked out.”
“But they’ve been back—”
“Not enough for me to spot ‘em.”
“All right, Gummy. Scram.”
Joe Cardona waited until footsteps had shuffled back toward the barrel. Lighting his cigarette, the sleuth emerged from between the buildings and resumed his progress. He slouched past the entrance to an underworld dive known as the Pink Rat. Joe did not enter.
The acting inspector had no desire to be seen in this locality. He knew that “Gummy” had covered the Pink Rat. Of all the stool pigeons in Manhattan, Gummy was the most dependable. The man had been a find. Cardona had kept him under cover. When Gummy spilled information, it was always at meetings somewhere within the confines of scumland.