Socks relished that thought, also. While he delivered the open blows, the man who served as left hand was used for secret thrusts. Therein lay The Red Blot’s might!
Right and left — they had worked together. They would do so again, tonight. Should emergency arise before them, those aids of The Red Blot would cooperate whenever their services were required.
Socks Mallory was wearing an air of gloating triumph when he left the little office and headed for the door at the right of the corridor. Satisfaction dominated his malicious mind. He was thinking again of the only menace whom the underworld feared — yet one who had failed to thwart The Red Blot.
Socks Mallory was thinking of The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVI
THE SHADOW PREPARES
AT the very time that Socks Mallory was thinking of such important personages as Ralph Weston and The Shadow, a visitor was being ushered into the office of the New York police commissioner. Weston, seated behind the huge glass-topped desk in his downtown office, was looking up to meet the keen eyes of Lamont Cranston. The millionaire was an unexpected caller.
“Hello, Cranston,” greeted Weston briskly. “You caught me at a very busy time. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, since you are busy,” returned the millionaire, with a quiet smile. “I merely dropped in to learn if you could lunch with me at the Cobalt Club. I have not forgotten” — Cranston’s voice had a reflective monotone — “the interesting events of our last meeting.”
“At the Club Janeiro,” responded Weston, “Quite a difference between that place and the Cobalt Club. If you crave the unusual, Cranston, I should advise you to choose a more likely spot than an exclusive meeting place such as the Cobalt Club.”
“The Hotel Gigantic, for instance?” queried Cranston.
Weston smiled grimly, Cranston had given a keen refutation to the commissioner’s suggestion. The reputation of the Hotel Gigantic allied it more closely with the Cobalt Club than with the Club Janeiro.
From a man other than Lamont Cranston, Weston might have resented the inference. The police commissioner, however, had a respect for Cranston; and also recalled the aid which the millionaire had given him only two nights ago.
“You have me this time,” admitted Weston. “Frankly, Cranston, this matter of The Red Blot is one which may crop out anywhere. Nevertheless—”
Weston paused. He was on the point of discussing affairs with Cranston. The police commissioner had just returned from a visit to the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He had warned all concerned to preserve absolute secrecy regarding tonight’s arrangements.
Lamont Cranston was lighting a cigarette. His keen eyes, peering past the illuminated lighter in his hand, were reading a penciled notation that lay upon the commissioner’s desk. A clever ruse, this. With the flame between himself and Cranston’s face, the commissioner could not detect the direction of the millionaire’s gaze.
“We may be getting somewhere,” remarked Weston, in a noncommittal tone. “Doubtless, you have read of the latest outrage perpetrated by The Red Blot. This time, we are awaiting a definite follow-up on the part of the criminal.”
“Collection of the five-million-dollar ransom?”
“Exactly. That in itself, will be another crime — if The Red Blot attempts it. Until then — whenever it may be — I am too tied up to arrange luncheon engagements. Thanks for the invitation, Cranston—”
“Don’t mention it,” interposed the millionaire, rising and extending his hand. “The invitation remains open, Weston. Let us set it for the day after The Red Blot has been brought to justice — and let us hope that the day will be soon.”
LAMONT CRANSTON betrayed no smile when he descended in the elevator. The brain behind that impassive, masklike face was considering the very definite facts which this casual visit had revealed.
To an ordinary person, the notations on Commissioner Weston’s pad might have meant nothing. To The Shadow — guised as Lamont Cranston — they had supplied all missing information needed in this case.
Abbreviated references to “conference room,” “Amalgamated Building,” a time notation of nine thirty, the names of Hembroke and Cardona — these were clews to the very matter which The Shadow wished to learn at this time.
Taking a cab, Lamont Cranston rode to the vicinity of the Amalgamated Building. This was the skyscraper which housed the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Of recent construction, the building was modernistic in design. Its mighty mass pyramided from the street, in tapering, set-back fashion, which was capped by a tower-like succession of topmost floors.
Leaving the cab, the millionaire entered the building and rode up to the fifth floor. He entered the anteroom of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He inquired for Dobson Pringle. The girl informed him that the president had gone out to lunch. It was now twelve fifteen, and he had gone out at noon.
The observant eyes of Lamont Cranston were busy as the girl spoke. Peering through the glass partition that separated the anteroom from the office itself, Cranston noted the simple arrangements.
There were many desks upon the floor, and the farther end of the room was divided into smaller offices, which served for the chief officials of the organization. In the corner directly opposite the anteroom was the solid wall of a room which cut a square chunk from the floor space. There was a single door to this apartment. Upon it were the words:
Conference Room.
Lamont Cranston idled toward the elevators after remarking that he would call to see Dobson Pringle at some other time. He rode down to the street and strolled along for half a block, before he turned to study the pyramided structure from this distance.
He noted the exact location of the office which he had left. A thin, wan smile rested upon his lips. Lamont Cranston suddenly joined the throng of people who were passing. From then on, his course was untraceable.
SOME time afterward, a light clicked and darkness was dispelled from a solemn, hushed abode. Blue rays flickered upon a polished table top. White hands appeared beneath the focused glare. The brilliance of the sparkling girasol threw off constant color-changing flashes.
The Shadow was in his sanctum. The clock was not upon the table this afternoon. There was time for deliberation. Envelopes opened; clippings and reports fell beneath The Shadow’s hands.
Most of the latest data dealt with the mystery that had occurred in the Hotel Gigantic. The Shadow laid these clippings aside. They told the same story — an amazing abduction; a demand for five million dollars. They cried out the name of The Red Blot, and shouted for the capture of the supercrook.
But not one report carried the essential information regarding tonight’s meeting at the Amalgamated Building. That had been suppressed by Commissioner Weston.
The Shadow laughed. His hand began to inscribe words in bluish ink upon a blank sheet of paper. These notations were a summary of his conclusions.
The Red Blot will send his emissary to collect the ransom. Nine
thirty tonight, in the conference room of the Amalgamated Building
Association. Police will be there to seize the agent.
They will not succeed. The Red Blot has planned too well. The
emissary will leave — with or without the five million. In either
case, no injury will be done. To thwart that arrangement would prove
futile. The Red Blot will not appear in person.
To the police will go the task of following that emissary.