“Inspector,” ordered Weston, “post men here, and keep them on duty. Quiz every waiter; every one who might know anything. That includes the orchestra and the entertainers.”
“Socks Mallory is the murderer — so Loretti said when he was dying — but The Red Blot is in back of this crime!”
Outside the Club Janeiro, Lamont Cranston, in evening clothes, was strolling along the side street. In leisurely fashion, the millionaire flicked his cigarette over the curb; then stopped at a waiting taxicab. The driver grinned and opened the door.
“Keep the ten dollars that I gave you,” remarked Cranston quietly. “It will cover the ride uptown and the time that you have been waiting.”
“But there’s more than five dollars comin’ back to you—” The cab driver, hesitating, realized that mention of the money might cause him to lose the handsome tip.
“Never mind the change,” smiled Cranston. “Drive me to Forty-ninth and Broadway; then turn west, and continue to Ninth Avenue. The ten-spot will be yours.”
The driver nodded. Cranston entered the cab.
While the vehicle rolled down Broadway, the passenger undertook a surprising transformation. Lifting the rear seat of the cab, he drew out black folds of cloth and the crushed shape of a slouch hat. The cloth became a cloak as it slipped over Cranston’s shoulders. The hat, implanted upon the millionaire’s head, completely concealed the rider’s features.
Black gloves completed the metamorphosis. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. The tall form rested in darkness; the cab appeared to be empty. It was empty, shortly after the driver swerved west on Forty-ninth Street.
As the cab slowed for traffic, the door on the right opened softly. A fleeting figure moved through darkness and dropped free of the cab as an invisible hand closed the door.
A coupe was parked on the side street. With three long strides, The Shadow gained it unseen; a few moments later, he was behind the wheel of the automobile.
WHEN the cab driver stopped at Ninth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, he was amazed to discover that his passenger was gone. Meanwhile, a trim coupe was wending its way southward down Eighth Avenue.
A whispered laugh came from the unseen lips of the personage who drove that car. An echo of the past, The Shadow’s mirth carried a strange foreboding. It might have been a warning for those who dealt in crime.
The Shadow knew what Commissioner Weston did not know; that the crimes of The Red Blot must be dependent upon some plan of action that was unknown in the annals of New York police experience.
There was purpose behind each crime; this mysterious killing of Tony Loretti was more than a mere feud. How was Socks Mallory evading the police so successfully? Where was Moocher Gleetz? The Shadow wanted the answers to these questions.
Working in darkness, The Shadow had ignored The Red Blot in order to search for Spider Carew’s hiding place. He had found that spot too late. Once again, The Shadow would take up the trail of one who would lead him to the source.
Socks Mallory! He was The Shadow’s quarry now. His trail had ended at the Club Janeiro; from that spot, The Shadow would take it up once the police surveillance had lifted.
New crimes might occur in the meantime, but The Shadow would not abandon this definite quest.
Again The Red Blot! That supercrook had become a colossus of the underworld. His identity was unknown, even to The Shadow; but his hand could be detected.
The Shadow, past master in the war against crime, was ready to deliver a counterthrust!
CHAPTER XII
THE RED BLOT SPREADS
THE menace of The Red Blot had become a hideous reality. The next day’s newspapers were filled with accounts of the slaying in the subway and the murder of Tony Loretti.
The two crimes had been linked; and the appearance of The Red Blot’s crimson symbol at the Club Janeiro was sufficient proof that the master crook had ordained the death of Spider Carew. For in each instance the police knew the identity of the killer — Socks Mallory.
Public opinion seemed to grasp the very thought that Lamont Cranston had expressed to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The crimes of The Red Blot had merely passed the preliminary stage. Some great outrage was due to occur soon.
The methods of The Red Blot were modern. Established as the most insidious criminal that New York had ever known, he had spread a pall of terror throughout Manhattan. His crimes had been swift and varied; none knew where he might strike next.
Speculation was rife. Men of important affairs felt unsafe. Some great crime was brewing, and the versatility of The Red Blot was a pressing threat. Wherever people discussed current events, mention of The Red Blot was made.
“Read about de Red Blot! Tony Loretti moidered by de Red Blot! Police still hunting for de killer!”
A newsboy’s cry came to the ears of two men who were riding up Broadway in a taxicab. One of the hearers — an elderly, gray-haired gentleman, turned to his young companion and asked a question:
“What is The Red Blot, Crozer? That is the second newsboy who has been shouting about it.”
“The Red Blot is a criminal, sir,” responded Crozer. “The New York newspapers have been filled with accounts of his activities. I was reading the latest news while we were coming in on the Limited this afternoon.”
“I have not looked at today’s newspapers,” remarked the elderly gentleman. “But I do not recall any mention of The Red Blot in the Chicago journals that I read yesterday.”
“That is readily explainable, Mr. Woodstock,” rejoined the young man. “There were two bold murders committed last night by a man believed to be in The Red Blot’s service. It is sensational news today, sir.”
The elderly man nodded; then his thoughts drifted to more important matters. Yet he could not help but draw a contrast between what the newspapers accepted as news, and the factors which they ignored.
While an unknown criminal — The Red Blot — was receiving tremendous headlines, Selfridge Woodstock, leading financier of the Middle West, had arrived unannounced in Manhattan, accompanied by his secretary, to arrange a series of building operations that would involve one hundred million dollars.
Selfridge Woodstock smiled. Long after The Red Blot had been forgotten, the people of Manhattan would stare in admiration at the tremendous structures created through the financial genius of this builder from the Middle West.
IT was evening on Broadway. Early lights were blazing at Times Square when the taxicab turned right and rolled toward a massive building which occupied an entire block. Crozer, the secretary, spoke to his employer.
“This is the Hotel Gigantic, Mr. Woodstock,” remarked the young man. “It is the latest building erected by the Amalgamated Builders.”
“An excellent place to hold our meeting,” smiled Woodstock, as he alighted from the cab.
Within the gorgeous lobby of the Gigantic, Crozer made an inquiry at the desk; then announced to Woodstock that the meeting was being held on the twenty-fourth floor. The two men entered an elevator and rode swiftly upward.
On the twenty-fourth floor, they turned along a corridor and followed it until Crozer stopped at a door near the end. A knock; the door opened; and the visitors walked in to receive a welcome.
A tall, gray-haired man in a gray suit gave Selfridge Woodstock a friendly smile and handclasp. Woodstock had met this chap before. Dobson Pringle, the virile president of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Pringle introduced Woodstock to a group of directors.
There was only one who impressed the Chicago man. That was Felix Cushman, chairman of the directors. Cushman was a stocky, black-haired man with quick eyes and a protruding lower lip.
There was a large table in the center of the room. Pringle and Cushman together ushered Selfridge Woodstock to the principal chair, and the rest of the group seated themselves.