Stacks recalled measures that the big shot had adopted in the past. He had made his victims squeal; double-cross their friends; stoop to any foul measures to meet their gaming debts.
The telephone bell rang while Stacks Lodi was engaged in this soliloquy. With an easy sweep of his hand, Hub Rowley plucked the double-ended instrument from its hook and quietly spoke into the mouthpiece. Stacks listened intently.
“Hello… Yes…” Rowley’s voice was unperturbed. “Yes, I thought so… Nothing developed tonight, eh?… The old man looks bad, you say… His son is coming back?… When?… Where is…”
Consternation sudden came upon Hub Rowley’s thick brow. The big shot did not like this news concerning Carter Boswick’s return. Stacks Lodi had assumed — logically and correctly — that the term “old man” referred to Houston Boswick.
“All right….” Rowley was speaking again… “Don’t worry… You just play the game… I’m holding those I O Us until the pudding’s baked, that’s all… Sure, I understand. If the son gets the tip-off the old man talked about, it leaves you in a hole…. Well — there’s ways of handling that…. Left Montevideo, eh? What boat? Yes… Steamship Southern Star…. Havana… Say, just keep mum. Leave it to me…”
Hub Rowley finished his conversation and laid the phone in the cradle. He studied Stacks Lodi thoughtfully; then asked a pointed question.
“How would you like to play the boats again, Stacks?”
“I wouldn’t care for it,” said Stacks suavely.
“That’s where you got your name, wasn’t it?” purred Hub. “Stacks Lodi — the smoothest card sharper in the business. You can stack a full house, deal bottoms and seconds—”
“But on the boats no more, Hub.”
The big shot smiled.
“They made it pretty hot for you, didn’t they, Stacks?” he questioned. “Got to know you too well. Faro dealing in a gambling joint became a healthier job.”
“They knew me on every first-class ship between here and Europe. They’ve got nothing on me, you understand; but the name “Stacks” has stuck. They called me that because of the way I handled the pasteboards, and it’s suicide for me to try that racket any longer—”
“How about the South American boats?” interposed Hub.
“No gravy on them,” was Stacks Lodi’s verdict.
“But do they know you?” questioned Hub.
“No,” responded Stacks. “I’d be as safe as a person aboard one of those packets. But there’d be nobody to trim unless a Paraguayan ambassador or some such bird showed up to be plucked.”
“I think a boat trip would do you good,” nodded Hub Rowley, with a quiet smile. “Just a little tester — that’s all. Suppose, Stacks, that you hop down to Havana by air. Spend a few days around the casino. Pick a few friends there and invite them to travel up to New York with you by steamship.”
“On any boat?” Stacks was wondering at Hub’s purpose.
“No,” responded the big shot. “Not any boat, Stacks. A particular boat— the Southern Star of the Panorama Line.”
Hub Rowley continued to smile as a sudden light appeared on Stacks Lodi’s face. The suave henchman was connecting this suggestion with the big shot’s telephone conversation.
THE smile faded, and Hub Rowley became suddenly grim and emphatic.
“Listen, Stacks,” he said, in a firm tone, “I’ve got an important job for you. I’m counting on you to do it — and I’m giving you enough reason for it. Keep mum about what I’m telling you.”
“Big rackets are my business. I don’t go in for small stuff. Whatever I do, I do right. Savvy? That’s enough to let you know that I’m not playing old Houston Boswick for lunch money. I’m after plenty, and I don’t mind you knowing it.
“I had things the way I wanted them. The old man away at first — ready to kick in now that he’s back — young Westling sewed up so he can’t move. But I haven’t been able to locate what I’m after. I wanted to grab the gravy right away, and let the howl follow, if there is one. I’ve seen too many good lays spoiled by a bad break.
“Right now, the bad break is coming. It just shows that my hunch was right. I’ve got dope that Carter Boswick — the old man’s son — is coming back to America. He’d been gone so long, it looked like he might be dead. If he gets here, Westling will be out. No money — no pay — no chance for me to pick up the dough without a fight on my hands.
“Carter Boswick. That’s his name. Coming north on the steamship Southern Star. It’s due in New York on the twentieth, and it comes by way of Havana, with a lay-over. You’re coming in on that boat” — Hub Rowley’s voice became low and deliberate — “and Carter Boswick is not. Do you get me now?”
“Sure thing,” nodded Stacks slowly. “But you know my limit, Hub. I’m all right at the card table.”
“But not with the rod, eh?”
“I’m O. K. there, too,” asserted Stacks, now hasty in his tone, “but I may not be one hundred per cent — and, besides, on board a boat—”
Hub Rowley was leaning forward in his chair, eyes agleam.
“You heard what I told you, Stacks,” he insisted. “Find yourselves some friends. Invite them aboard. Play your own part — the lone gambler. Even if you get watched, it will be all the better. It leaves you out of what may happen.”
“You mean the others—”
“Certainly. But I want you there to make sure. You can handle Scully and other gorillas like him, can’t you? Well — this is the same thing in a different way.”
“Sure enough, Hub,” agreed Stacks, in a relieved tone. “Say — this won’t be hard at all. I’ll need dough—”
“I’m giving you twenty grand—”
“And I’ll have to hustle for Havana so—”
“By air, to-morrow morning. Pick your gorillas down there. The town is full of them. They’re getting ideas from Chicago, those people. Bumped off a big political friend of the president with machine guns.”
“Leave it to me, Hub.”
The big shot smiled, broadly this time. The smirk showed his glittering gold teeth. Hub pulled a thick wallet from his pocket and counted off a mass of bills which he handed to Stacks Lodi.
The former card shark knew that the interview was ended. He rose, donned his hat and coat; then departed toward the anteroom, followed by Hub Rowley’s shrewd gaze.
MINUTES drifted by. The big shot finished his drink and arose from his chair. He walked across the room to a door opposite the hanging curtains. He went into a next room; then called loudly for Twister Edmonds.
The bodyguard appeared from the outside room and came to join his chief.
The way to the outer door was clear. The blackness below the hanging curtains seemed to move. As if by wizardry, it transformed itself into an upright shape — the tall figure of a weird being clad in black.
As silently as he had entered, The Shadow made his departure, crossing the reception room, and entering the outer chamber that gave him access to the outside door. Stacks Lodi had gone; again, The Shadow had followed.
The aftermath to this strange scene occurred an hour later at an agency where air travelers made their reservations. The man who was going off duty made a chance comment to the one who relieved him.
“Funny how they come in at the last minute sometimes,” he observed. “Take that Havana plane, for instance. Here we figured she would run light on this trip. Now, within a half hour of each other, two men book transportation.”
The new man looked at the list. He saw the names inscribed there. One was Antonio Lodi; the other was Lamont Cranston. Those names meant nothing to the agent. He shrugged his shoulders and went about his duty.