“We must be calm” — all attention was now upon Cushman — “and we must treat with The Red Blot’s emissary. I shall be the spokesman. We have the money here; we can rightfully demand the release of Selfridge Woodstock and—”
Cushman paused to stare at Dobson Pringle. The president of the association was staring beyond Cushman’s shoulder, his face aghast. Other directors saw his look; they swung in the same direction — toward the entrance from the anteroom. An evil laugh greeted them.
FOUR men, each holding a heavy revolver, had entered the conference room! The leader, who stood a pace ahead of the others, was a pudgy-nosed, ugly-jawed individual, whose roughened cheeks made his appearance more formidable.
“Stick ‘em up!” came the man’s growl.
A thrust of the revolver caused all hands to raise. Gasps came from trembling directors; another growl silenced these audible expressions.
“No noise, get me?” said the rough-faced man. “If there’s going to be noise, I’ll make it, with this gat! I’m the guy you’re expecting. Socks Mallory — working for The Red Blot. Shove over that kale!”
Before any of the astounded men could respond, Socks acted for himself. He stepped forward and upset the box; his big paw spread out treasury certificates of thousand-dollar denominations.
“We’ll count it later,” laughed Socks. “If there’s any short of five million, you birds will pay the difference. You’ll pay hard, too.”
He beckoned to his men; as they approached, Socks replaced the stacks of bills that he had disturbed. He pocketed his revolver, closed the box, and hoisted it under his arm. With an ugly leer, Socks sidled away from the table, carrying his burden of wealth.
“If you stick where you are,” warned Socks, “nobody’s going to get hurt. We’ve got the dough — that’s all we want. But we’re going to blast our way out of here — and we don’t want trouble from the inside. Get me?”
Socks reached the little anteroom. His men, retreating as a protecting cordon, followed. The light switch was at the door of the conference room. A growl came from Socks. One of the mobsters extinguished the lights.
Then came shots.
Bullets ricocheted against the walls. The outer door was opened. Heavy fire was breaking loose. Of the directors, Felix Cushman was the only one who kept his nerve, while the others dived for the shelter of the table. In the darkness, Cushman leaped to his feet, pulled out a revolver, and blazed away blindly through the darkness, hoping to hit any of the robbers who might be forced to retreat.
Cushman reached the door of the anteroom. Beyond, he could hear the shots of the detectives as they took up the fire.
Lights came on in the outer office. Cushman saw them as he opened the door. Out at the entrance to the corridor, Detective Morton Hembroke was firing his revolver. Answering shots reechoed from the distance.
“Come on, men!” shouted Hembroke. “They’ve got to double back this way! We’ll hold it here!”
The other detectives joined Hembroke. Cushman stood grim, while Pringle and the directors came crowding up in back of him as their protector. Shots outside; then came the swarthy face of Joe Cardona, in from the corridor.
“Did you get them?” came his question.
“Get them?” echoed Hembroke. “They broke through this way—”
“Up toward the other end of the corridor then!” exclaimed Cardona.
Lights were on in the corridor now; detectives came around the turn at the opposite end. They stopped in amazement as Cardona approached them on the run.
“Where did they go, Joe?” came the demand.
“Your way!” cried the ace detective.
“Not this direction!” returned a detective.
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston appeared suddenly from an office doorway. He saw the signs of confusion, and put forth an angry question.
“What is this?” he demanded. “A false alarm?”
SHOULDERING his way through the detectives, Weston reached the office of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Hembroke was standing there; he joined the commissioner as Weston strode up to Felix Cushman.
“What started it?” he questioned. “What began all this shooting at nothing?”
“What started it?” Cushman raised his voice to a snarl. “I’ll tell you what started it! Four men marched into this conference room and grabbed five million dollars! What’s the matter with your crowd of flatfeet! Where’s the gang that took our money?”
Weston stared incredulously. He could see by the expressions of the other directors that Felix Cushman was stating simple facts. The commissioner turned to Hembroke.
“What happened out here?” he queried.
“They came out this way,” returned Hembroke. “We were way up at the end — pretty far, but the only place we could be. They must have suspected we were there. They started shooting toward us. What about it, boys?”
“Right,” agreed the men who had been in the other offices.
“I hopped out,” asserted Hembroke. “Dropped behind a desk — had it all picked — and fired back. The crooks fired wild, and I shouted to the boys to pile out.”
“Then what?” questioned Weston.
“I figured they’d head for the corridors,” resumed Hembroke. “If they doubled back into the conference room, we’d have them sure. So we came up to cut them off — expecting Cardona would be on the job outside. I saw some figures in the light from the window. I kept on firing — so did my men.”
“They didn’t double back!” exclaimed Cushman.
“Not a bit of it,” added Hembroke. “I knew that when I saw you at the door.”
“They left the conference room,” asserted one of the directors. “They did not come back.”
His companions nodded their absolute conviction of that statement.
Weston wheeled to Cardona.
“There was a lot of fireworks in the hall,” said the commissioner coldly. “It looks as though Hembroke drove the crooks right into your hands, Cardona. What about it?”
“They didn’t come my way,” returned Cardona. “I had good men posted at the other end of the hallway.”
“This has been a big mistake,” said Commissioner Weston sadly. “Four bandits run out into a corridor. They are blocked from both directions, and they make a getaway.”
“It’s not the first time The Red Blot’s men have pulled a slip like that,” declared Cardona. “I don’t know how they do it — but they have a way of sliding into nowhere—”
“Except the time when Hembroke got two of them in the pawnshop,” broke in Weston furiously. “I put the wrong man on the outside; that’s all. Hembroke should have had that job — not you, Cardona! Get going, men! Through the building! Search everywhere! You’re in charge from now on, Hembroke. You stay here, Cardona!”
Four armed bandits. Five million dollars. The Red Blot. Such were the thoughts that flashed through Joe Cardona’s brain as he dejectedly heard Commissioner Weston argue the situation with Felix Cushman.
Well did Joe Cardona know what the result of this episode would be. Once again, he had been totally tricked by the cunning of The Red Blot. This would be the end of Joe Cardona’s career as a detective.
There were other times when Cardona had experienced failure. But never before had a rival such as Merton Hembroke shown superior craft. Hembroke had gained some credit tonight. He had done all that could have been expected. Cardona was the one who had failed.
The Red Blot!
Cardona felt that he was helpless before the machinations of that supermind of crime. Failure tonight. Tomorrow, his resignation from the force. It would be expected.
How could one cope with amazing mobsters who vanished within the tightness of a cordon? Cardona heard Cushman giving Weston the name of Socks Mallory. So that murderer was in again — and Cardona had failed to find a single clew to his whereabouts!