The head waiter of the Club Janeiro was not far from where Weston stood. The commissioner moved over and spoke to him.
“Do you see the man who has just entered?” questioned Weston. “His name is Lamont Cranston. Go quickly. Bring him to my table.”
“Yes, sir,” returned the head waiter.
Weston took a seat at a vacant table and waited. A few minutes later, he saw Cranston approaching. The millionaire betrayed no expression of surprise. He merely came to Weston’s table, drew back a chair, and sat down, as though he had been expected.
“Good evening, Cranston,” said the commissioner.
“Good evening,” responded the calm-faced millionaire.
Cranston was immaculate in evening clothes. He picked up a menu, gave an order to a waiter, and looked quizzically at Weston.
The police commissioner smiled and picked up a card himself. He gave an order, also. He looked around, saw that no one was close by, and spoke in an admiring tone.
“You’re a cool one, Cranston,” declared the commissioner. “How did you know that I didn’t want you to show a lot of enthusiasm over meeting me here?”
“I seldom express enthusiasm,” responded Cranston quietly. “Moreover, I knew that the police commissioner would not care to appear conspicuous at the Club Janeiro. What has brought you here, Weston?”
“Cranston,” returned the commissioner, in a low whisper. “we are looking for a murderer tonight. A man called Socks Mallory. He is scheduled to make an attempt upon Tony Loretti, the big shot of the night clubs.”
“Interesting,” commented Cranston. “Where is Loretti at present?”
“In his office,” answered Weston, “past that screen. I have four men posted in side corridors. That man four tables away from us is another detective. He and I are watching this end. There may be trouble. I could use another man.”
“Meaning—”
“Yourself.”
A faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips. The millionaire bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“I have two automatics with me,” whispered the commissioner. “If you care to assist, one is ready for you. Under the table—”
“Pass it,” said Cranston calmly.
The automatic changed hands. Commissioner Weston sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The waiter came with the order. Weston and Cranston began to eat, conversing quietly while they watched the screen.
New confidence held the commissioner. He felt that he could rely upon Lamont Cranston. There was something about Cranston’s manner that made Ralph Weston realize that he had chosen an intrepid aid.
THERE was cause for the impression. Had Commissioner Ralph Weston known the identity of this person who had agreed to aid him, he would have been amazed beyond recall. Had he known Lamont Cranston’s purpose here tonight, he would have been doubly astonished.
This calm-faced personage had come to the Club Janeiro for the same purpose as Commissioner Weston and his band of sleuths. He was here to encounter Socks Mallory. The features of Lamont Cranston were a guise that he had adopted to serve him for the occasion.
Beneath that full-dress coat were two automatics, compared to which Weston’s guns were puny weapons. The police commissioner was dining with The Shadow!
Again, the mysterious warrior had been forced to change his plans. Alone, he could have watched Tony Loretti, unseen. But with police on hand, with Commissioner Weston calling upon him for aid, The Shadow found it necessary to bide his time.
In the guise of Lamont Cranston, he waited. He, The Shadow, was the aid of Commissioner Ralph Weston — the police official who believed The Shadow to be a myth!
CHAPTER XI
AGAIN THE BLOT
IN the center office of his suite, Tony Loretti was serene. A quarter of an hour had passed since Police Commissioner Weston had left. The strains of music were coming in muffled tones from beyond the door. The floor show was on.
Strolling into his own private office, Loretti opened a desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. He handled the shining weapon with a smile, then replaced it, but left the drawer open.
Tony Loretti recalled that he was under police protection tonight. Officers of the law might question his possession of a revolver, should they enter unexpectedly.
Commissioner Weston’s statement that Socks Mallory was in Manhattan was not a cause of great alarm to Tony Loretti. Some months ago, Mallory had started the nightclub protective racket, beginning with the Club Janeiro as his headquarters. Loretti had appropriated the idea; his power had driven Mallory out of the game.
Attempting retaliation, Socks had encountered gangsters secretly employed by Loretti. After a short fight, Socks had fled in a taxi. He had killed the driver at the end of the ride; and was now wanted for murder while Tony Loretti dwelt in security.
Loretti had henchmen in the Club Janeiro tonight. He could have summoned them to stay on watch for Socks Mallory. But, since the police commissioner had chosen to interfere, it would be discreet to rely upon the law. Afterward, Socks might still be a menace. He could be dealt with then.
Tony Loretti laughed. He was positive that Socks Mallory would make no attempt tonight. Socks was shrewd enough to spot the presence of the police commissioner and five headquarters detectives.
Nevertheless, Tony Loretti was a rascal who played safe. The revolver in the opened drawer gave him a feeling of complete assurance.
Consulting a large sheet of paper, Tony read over the figures that told of the present week’s receipts. Night clubs were doing well. Those under Loretti’s wing were managing best of all.
Tony’s cut was a moderate one, considering the power that this racketeer possessed. That was the part of wisdom. It kept the nightclub proprietors from becoming antagonistic. They were getting off cheap.
Engrossed in his study of the figures, Tony Loretti did not hear the creeping sound that came from the central office. When he looked up, in sudden startlement, he acted too late. Loretti’s hand stopped on its way to the desk drawer. Just within the door were three men!
HARDENED ruffians they were; and the leader, a few paces in front of the others, was grinning as he covered Loretti with a large revolver. A gasp of recognition came from the big shot’s lips.
“Socks Mallory!”
“Glad to see me, eh, Tony?” snarled Socks. “Get up out of that chair! Back to the wall. Come on — move!”
Loretti complied. Socks grumbled orders to his men. With pale face, Loretti was standing across the room, his hands up beside his head, his eyes staring beadily as Socks Mallory advanced.
“Thought I couldn’t get you, eh?” grinned Socks. “Well, I’m here. I’ve got you. Let’s see you take it!”
Fiendishly, Socks pressed the trigger. The revolver boomed quick, successive shots.
With the first discharge, Tony Loretti tumbled. Socks Mallory, driving the muzzle downward after each recoil, pumped lead into the big shot’s body.
Six bullets — each delivered with equal venom. They were not directed with careful aim. Socks Mallory knew well enough that Tony Loretti would not survive this cannonade. As the final report echoed through the little office, Socks Mallory’s men switched out the lights.
Total darkness persisted through the suite, until one man opened the door that led to the corridor, and fired wild shots like a paean of triumph. This was by Socks Mallory’s design. He wanted the world to know that he had given Tony Loretti the works.
Music ended in the night club. Screams of women sounded from the big dining room. Then came shouts in the darkened corridors. Answering gun shots, delivered by detectives, came in response to the challenge which Socks Mallory had ordered.