Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 111 - City of Crime

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CITY OF CRIME
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CROOKS IN AMBUSH
? CHAPTER II. SCATTERED HORDES
? CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES
? CHAPTER IV. INTO THE SNARE
? CHAPTER V. DEATH DELIVERED
? CHAPTER VI. CROOKS CONNIVE
? CHAPTER VII. THE FINGER POINTS
? CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAP REVERSED
? CHAPTER IX. THE LAW INVADES
? CHAPTER X. THE LOST TRAIL
? CHAPTER XI. WITHIN THE LAIR
? CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW'S CLUE
? CHAPTER XIII. DEATH'S FALSE TALE
? CHAPTER XIV. ON THE SCENE OF CRIME
? CHAPTER XV. FOILED HOUNDS
? CHAPTER XVI. NEW REFUGE
? CHAPTER XVII. THE BOMBSHELL
? CHAPTER XVIII. LANCE FINDS THE ANSWER
? CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW GAME
? CHAPTER XX. THE LAW'S TURN
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW'S EXIT
? CHAPTER XXII. ESTELLE'S DISCOVERY
? CHAPTER XXIII. AMENDED STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XXIV. DOUBLE BATTLE
? CHAPTER XXV. WITHIN THE DEN
CHAPTER I. CROOKS IN AMBUSH
IT was gala night in the city of Westford. Streets were strung with brilliant lines of colored electric lights.
Store fronts were illuminated, throwing their brightness upon festooned posts and displaying the elaborate
decorations of their own windows. Tourists, driving through the main streets, gained the impressions that
this city of two hundred thousand was engaged in celebration.
As the boosters phrased it, Westford was a "live town" that was definitely "on the map"; the city attracted
visitors from every town within a hundred miles. Business was booming in Westford; it was predicted that
good times were here to remain. Thanks for the prosperity belonged to Westford's "live wire mayor",
Elvin Marclot. His administration was hailed as the greatest in the history of the city.
There was one man who viewed all this dourly, as he sat in a small ground-floor office that gave him a
slanted view of the main street. He was a husky, square-jawed individual, with weather-beaten face and
short-clipped hair that was well streaked with gray. He was attired in a blue uniform, that stretched tight
as he sat erect. His insignia marked him as a lieutenant of police.
Nearly everyone in Westford knew James Maclare. A veteran police officer, he had gained a reputation
for honest and efficient service. His record was one of blunt, painstaking toil, rather than that of brilliant
exploit; yet no one had ever said that Lieutenant Maclare lacked brains.
Though slow to decision, Maclare invariably formed the right opinion. When matters perplexed him, he
thought them over and waited until he had the answer. During that process he kept silence; when the time
was ripe, he acted.
There was one man in whom Lieutenant Maclare placed confidence. That man was another officer, as
straightforward as Maclare himself. He was Sergeant Cassley, Maclare's chief subordinate. Together,
they had charge of the first precinct; and, of necessity, Maclare frequently told Cassley the trend of his
half-formed plans. Cassley was Maclare's man Friday; never did he pass along a single word that he had
heard from his superior.
TONIGHT, Cassley was sitting across the desk from Maclare, watching the lieutenant as he stared from
the window of the precinct office. Though slow of thought, Cassley was positive that opinions were due.
He was right. They came.
"This whole thing is the bunk!" announced Maclare suddenly, emphasizing his gruff statement with a
ponderous punch upon the desk. "Look at those lights; all that tinsel! What do they mean to Westford?
Nothing except trouble!"
Cassley looked puzzled. He was a bulky man; his wrinkled uniform made a contrast to Maclare's smooth
blue coat. His beefy, flat-featured face displayed its bewilderment. The sergeant needed more
statements, in order to grasp the full import of Maclare's objections. The lieutenant noted the fact and
formed a wry smile.
"I know what you're thinking, Cassley," he told the sergeant. "You've fallen for the talk of business
coming into town. Sure! Westford is prosperous. But what's come on with all this excitement? I'll tell you
- a lot of riffraff who think that Westford is the right spot for any crooked game they can cook up!"
Cassley nodded slowly. He was tabulating a list of recent crimes. Maclare was right; there were crooks
in Westford, plenty of them. But when Cassley thought further, his nod ended. He could not see just
where the law had failed to battle crime.
"What about the Flying Squadron?" queried the sergeant. "It's been moving fast, lieutenant, ever since
Director Borman organized it. They were on the job quick, those fellows, after that last bank robbery."
"But the crooks got away," reminded Maclare. "Don't forget that, Cassley."
"You can't blame Director Borman for it."
"I'm blaming Kirk Borman for nothing," returned Maclare, leaning across the desk. "You know what I
think of Kirk Borman. I say that he's the best police director this town ever had. Elvin Marclot, as mayor,
made the best choice anyone could have, when he picked Kirk Borman for the job.
"But Borman hasn't stopped the rackets. He can't, even though he's got full charge of that Flying
Squadron. The job rests with precincts, like ours here. We've got to raid the places where the crooks
hang out. Clean them up before they have a chance to make trouble."
Sergeant Cassley sat silent. Lieutenant Maclare began to strum his desk; then spoke in rueful tone.
"We've drawn a blank every time we've tackled the Club Adair," he admitted. "We know that Lance
Gillick runs it as a gambling joint; but when we blow in, it's always an innocent-looking night club. We're
going there again, though, Cassley. Only, first, I'm planning to hand Lance Gillick a jolt that he won't
forget."
"How will you manage that, lieutenant?"
MACLARE smiled at Cassley's question. Picking up a pencil, he indicated an inkwell that rested on his
desk; drew an imaginary circle around it.
"That's Lance Gillick," stated Maclare. "Working inside his circle, the Club Adair. We know what his
racket is, don't we?"
"Sure," nodded Cassley. "Gambling!"
"All right." Maclare began to tap all around the desk with his pencil. "Here's a lot of stores, pool rooms,
flop-houses - all through the city. They've got slot machines, punchboards; they're running the numbers
racket on the q.t. The State has legalized a lot of that stuff; neither Mayor Marclot nor Director Borman
can break it up. But it's gambling, isn't it?"
Cassley nodded.
"Agreed," added Maclare. "Therefore, it's a sure bet that Lance Gillick is behind it. He's the big-shot in
this town."
"Say!" exclaimed Cassley. "If you could hook all that on to Lance -"
"It wouldn't do a bit of good," interposed Maclare. "But I tell you what we can do. Since the rackets
belong to Lance, all those fellows who collect on the machines and numbers must be working for him."
"That's sure enough," agreed Cassley. "They stick together, too. They all hang out down at the old
Mississippi Hotel, near the railroad terminal. That hotel is running wide open, even though it's got no
license."
"That's just it," chuckled Maclare. "So we're going to raid it, tonight. We'll make a round-up and bring in
that whole bunch of hoodlums. The only fellow who could spring them will be Lance Gillick; and he won't
dare do it, because it would show that he was behind the rackets."
Sergeant Cassley arose, grinning broadly. He queried:
"How soon do we start?"
"Get the squad ready," ordered Maclare, briskly. "Have the wagons come along with us. We'll go out the
back way, keeping off the main streets. No one will know where we're bound until we get there."
As Cassley turned toward the door, Maclare picked up the telephone. He made a brief remark, before
he lifted the receiver.
"It's a straight precinct job," asserted Maclare; "but we mustn't forget standing orders. I'm calling Director
Borman, to let him know that we're starting out. He wants it that way, so he can have the Flying
Squadron cover up afterward."
SERGEANT CASSLEY went out into the patrol room, closing the lieutenant's door behind him. He
snapped orders to a group of bluecoats; paraded them and sent word to bring out the patrol wagons.
Lieutenant Maclare arrived from his office; surveyed the dozen men who were standing at attention.
"We're raiding the Mississippi Hotel," announced Maclare. "Sergeant Cassley will enter from the front,
with a detail of four men. We'll let them think it's a minor raid; whoever comes out by the back doors will
find our main force.
"We'll have the wagons with us, to gather up the lot of them when they reach the back street. I'll be in
charge of the main squad. Further orders when we're on the ground. All right, men. Ready for
inspection."
Soon the entire squad was marching from the station house; Maclare, at the head, was leading the
advance through dingy, poorly lighted alleys that had been neglected in Westford's campaign of bigger
and brighter lights. As they reached a corner, Maclare gave the command to halt. Sergeant Cassley told
of his four-man detail. Lieutenant Maclare gave him final orders.
"Don't get far inside the front door, Cassley," Maclare advised. "We want them to come through the
back. Director Borman is sending the Flying Squadron. They'll show up about ten minutes after we
strike. The Flying Squadron will roll up on the front street. After that, you can let anybody go out through
the front door. Remember: put up a big show. We've got a right to arrest anyone who comes out the
back while you're inside. We'll charge them with resisting arrest."
Cassley and his men marched away. Maclare moved the remainder through an alleyway; then along an
ill-paved street that was flanked on the right by coal yards, with the railway tracks beyond. As he and his
men stationed themselves in back of the decrepit Mississippi Hotel, two darkened patrol wagons coasted
into view. Officers opened the doors of the black Marias; stood beside them, ready for the surge that
was to come.
Tense minutes passed. A police whistle shrilled from the front street. Commotion began within the old
hotel. Until that moment, it had been a quiet-looking frame structure, its dim windows silent except for the
jerky music of an overloud player piano. But the whistle blast that marked the beginning of raid was like a
spark igniting dynamite.
Shouts burst from the hotel. Tables clattered; lights blinked on and off. Gunfire sounded; heavy footsteps
pounded. Doors ripped open at the back of the building; the vanguard of a horde of hoodlums appeared.
As three men leaped from rickety steps. Lieutenant Maclare snapped a command to his main squad:
"Take them as they hit the street!" The bluecoats spread, fanwise. With Maclare in the center, they
closed upon the back doors of the hotel. The first fugitives dropped against the steps, raising their arms in
surrender. Footsteps told that more were coming; Maclare and his men were ready to bag them the
instant that they arrived.
Then came the unexpected. From the low-roofed buildings of the coal yards, searchlights poured a
sudden glare that made the street like day. Huge beams of light showed the entire squad of police,
flat-footed on the sidewalk, against the paintless back wall of the hotel.
Maclare, swinging about, stood scowling from the center of his raiders.
Snarled oaths sounded from fences and roofs, delivered by thugs who were out of sight behind the
searchlights. A harsh voice barked an order. Revolvers crackled from the darkness. There was a sharp
rattle; the opening outburst of a machine gun. It ended almost instantly, for the trigger man had started it
too soon.
That warning sound told how hopelessly the police were trapped. Crooks had surprised the raiders.
Hidden in ambush, men of crime were equipped to wipe out Lieutenant Maclare and his entire squad at
an instant's notice.
CHAPTER II. SCATTERED HORDES
THE menace of the situation was but partially grasped by Lieutenant James Maclare. He and his men had
faced about; they were blinking at the blinding searchlights. None had been hit by the first revolver fire;
the machine gun had stopped without delivering death.
It occurred to Maclare that ambushed crooks had intended no more than a warning; that they were afraid
to deliver heavy fire because their own men were coming from the hotel. Looking about, Maclare saw
that a dozen fugitives had arrived; but they were no longer in flight. They were a leering, contemptuous
throng, massed upon the back steps of the hotel.
Like the thugs behind the searchlights, these crooks had the police covered. The inference seemed plain
to Maclare. If the police stood by and let the crooks from the hotel make their get-away, there would be
no massacre.
Maclare was partly right in this conclusion. He was to learn later just how far he was wrong. Sizing the
situation, the lieutenant realized that he could not count on aid from Sergeant Cassley; he knew also that
the Flying Squadron would not arrive for ten minutes. Much though he hated to see crooks gain their
way, Maclare could not forget the welfare of his men. He saw no use in allowing the slaughter of his
squad.
Scowling, the lieutenant lowered his revolver and stepped out into the middle of the street. His move was
an order for his men to spread away and let the armed men from the hotel make a calm departure.
It was not until he had detached himself from his squad, that Maclare realized another purpose behind the
ambush. Hardly was the lieutenant standing entirely alone before a rasped voice called from a low roof
top:
"Get Maclare!"
One man alone was marked to die; that was Maclare himself. Crooks wanted the raiding lieutenant dead;
they were contemptuous of the policemen who formed the squad. Maclare, by his own action, had
placed himself in the very spot that his enemies wanted.
Bluecoats, like crooks, heard the death order. The cry electrified them. They responded more quickly
than the gloating thugs. They were loyal to Maclare; the danger that threatened him was to be theirs.
Almost as one, the policemen raised their guns. Some aimed blindly for the coal yards, along with
Maclare; others wheeled about, to fire at men whom they could see. Their targets were the massed thugs
on the steps.
The scene was set for massacre. The street looked like the stage of a theater, beneath the glare of a
spotlight. All eyes were focused upon Maclare, with the bluecoats clustering about him. The patrol
wagons, standing deserted on either side, were like the wings of the stage. All was dim beyond those
vehicles.
DURING these tense moments, an event had occurred offstage. Unseen, a figure had come up to the far
side of a patrol wagon, almost beneath the shelter of a coal yard fence. Like an actor expecting his cue,
this silent arrival had risen on the running board of a black Maria. His head and shoulders projected
above the wagon top, where they were outlined dimly by the fringe of a searchlight's path.
That head was topped by a slouch hat. The shoulders were shrouded by a black cloak. Two
black-gloved fists projected from the cloak; each gripped the heavy handle of a .45 automatic. Those
guns were leveled at the instant the hidden crook shouted the word to get Maclare.
As policemen leaped to Maclare's side, ready to die with their leader, that strange marksman loosed the
fire of one gun from atop the black Maria. His target was a large one; he picked the glass front of a
blazing searchlight. As his trigger finger tugged, a bullet ripped to its mark. The searchlight vanished with
a clatter of glass.
Crooks gazed toward the patrol wagon. They saw no one, for the marksman had picked the nearer
searchlight and was no longer in the edge of the glare. But mobsters saw the next token that came from
the blotted wagon top. It was another stab of flame, loosed from the second automatic.
Another crash marked the finish of the second searchlight. The street looked black; feeble lamplights and
illumination from the hotel were pitiful at best. They were completely inadequate as an aftermath to the
glare that had been so promptly extinguished.
From the sheltering patrol wagon came a sudden sound that belonged with darkness. It was the strident
burst of a sinister, mocking laugh, that brought alarm to every thug who was straining his eyes to offset
the gloom.
Men of crime knew that taunt. It was the laugh of The Shadow!
Black-clad master who battled evil, The Shadow was here in Westford, covering the very spot where
slaughter had been ordered. His first coup had been to deprive crooks of their most important weapons:
those searchlights on the coal yard roofs. With two strategic shots, The Shadow had equalized the
battleground.
True, crooks outnumbered Maclare and his squad; they also had machine guns in readiness. But the law
had gained an ally whose strength could offset a score of foemen. The Shadow was on hand, prepared
for instant battle.
Again, the automatics spoke. From his vantage point, The Shadow fired along the fence top. Lieutenant
Maclare shouted an order. Policemen dived everywhere, firing as they took to cover. Revolvers spat
from the coal yard; machine guns began a hasty rattle. Thugs at the doorways of the Mississippi Hotel
came leaping down the steps, cutting loose with their revolvers.
Those mobsters in ambush fired for the area where Maclare and his men had clustered. They fired
uselessly, for the police had spread. Those coming from the hotel sizzled futile shots in the direction of the
patrol wagon. They, too, were late. The Shadow had sprung to the fence; come up to the top and
slugged down a lone thug who was stationed on the flank.
All that carried menace were the machine guns, for they began to spray their fire. There were two of
them, clicking like typewriters from a roof top midway along the fence. One rattling weapon ceased, as
The Shadow blasted a fusillade at the gunners behind it. He had picked them by the spurting fire.
CROOKS fired for The Shadow; but their shots were wide. He had come up to a roof top; there, he
ripped another barrage, that settled the men who handled the second machine gun. Both weapons were
silenced; everywhere, crooks were springing to the ground, to avoid the enfolding fire that The Shadow
had begun.
By outflanking the foe, The Shadow had routed all but a few; they were the ones upon the very roof top
where he had so suddenly arrived.
Three in number, those crooks leaped forward with swinging revolvers, hoping to beat down the fighter
whose shape was vague before their eyes. An automatic thudded against a skull; the other .45 spat its
singeing flame between the eyes of an attacker. The third crook dived for the ground as his companions
sprawled.
Meanwhile, Maclare and his squad had done gallant duty. Flattened in the street, some had aimed for the
fence and roof tops, while others had delivered quick fire toward the open doors of the hotel. This choice
had been a smart one; the officers who took it gained massed targets. Thugs who had wasted opening
shots at the patrol wagon were caught against the framed light of doorways. Four sagged in quick
succession.
Scattering crooks had paused to aim for the low roof where The Shadow had handled three foemen.
They blazed for that darkened spot, again to no avail. The Shadow had dropped from the back of the
roof; he was crossing the tracks of the railroad yard. His quick shots clipped two marksmen who were
firing at the roof.
A hoarse voice shouted from between two buildings. It was the same leader who had issued the
command to get Maclare. His new order was a command for flight. All thugs who were able, dashed for
the street, crossed it and made off through alleys toward the front. Others sprang back into the hotel.
Lieutenant Maclare shouted for pursuit. Two of his eight men had fallen in the fight; leaving a pair to care
for them, Maclare headed through the hotel, followed by the remaining four.
Inside, thugs were making for the front; Cassley and his detail let them go through. Loud-whining sirens
were announcing the arrival of the Flying Squadron.
Crooks should have found a new trap; but when Lieutenant Maclare reached the front door of the hotel,
he witnessed a wild get-away. The Flying Squadron, a score of men in pursuit cars and on motorcycles
were coming in from the left. Scattered crooks had converged to the right; there they were boarding an
assortment of automobiles that were parked beside an old brewery.
As the Flying Squadron pulled up, Maclare bellowed the news and pointed past the brewery. Promptly,
the picked squadron took up the chase.
The brief delay had served the crooks. Cutting through to another street, a dozen of them made a
get-away, in three cars that contained four men each. The three automobiles took different routes within
the next few blocks, to split the pursuing squadron. Maclare, fuming at the door of the raided hotel, heard
the sirens fade in the dim distance.
THERE was a fourth car that had fled; it had taken a route of its own. Rounding the brewery, this
machine had followed a street that led across the railroad tracks, a block away from the Mississippi
Hotel. Swinging past a freight siding, the crooks - three in number - were greeted by shots from the
shelter of a steel freight car.
Wildly, they fired in return. Their bullets flattened on the steel wall of the freight car. The driver, clipped
by a slug from darkness, lost control and swung from the crossing. His sedan jolted down a low
embankment, slewed sidewise and crashed against a signal tower.
There was no stir within the car, when it halted. Distant policemen heard the crash. Footsteps racing
upon sidewalks told that they were coming to witness the result. One car-load of fugitives had been
bagged, even though the other three had outraced the Flying Squadron.
Blackness moved from beside the freight car. The purple light of a switch signal glowed upward to show
a shrouded form, tall in its guise of black. Gloved hands dipped mammoth automatics beneath the front of
a flowing cloak. Unseen lips voiced a grim laugh from the muffling front of an upturned collar.
Weird, chilling tones betokened the final stroke of the night's victory. The sardonic mirth faded, as the
cloaked figure passed from the purplish glow. The battle was ended; The Shadow had left the field to the
law.
OUT of darkness, The Shadow had arrived to deal with crime in Westford. Into gloom, he had returned
- after his efforts had saved the life of Lieutenant Maclare and a squad of officers. Yet the chill of his
eerie laugh seemed to hover; for that spectral tone had carried a touch that seemed to concern the
future.
Like Lieutenant Maclare, The Shadow had recognized the significance of tonight's episode. Fierce though
the fray had been, it scarcely scratched the surface of the evil that lurked deep within this prosperous
city.
Crime and death would be due again in Westford. Here, evil was organized far beyond the extent that
Lieutenant Maclare had guessed. There would be need for more and greater effort before crime and
corruption could be banished.
The Shadow knew those facts. His appearance in tonight's battle was but proof that he had long been
present in Westford, investigating the iniquity which held the city in its grip.
CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES
HALF an hour after the raid on the Mississippi Hotel, Lieutenant James Maclare arrived back at the first
precinct station. Muffled oaths and dull clatter greeted Maclare when he crossed the patrol room. The
sounds came from the cell room, where policemen had housed an assortment of hoodlums unloaded from
the patrol wagons.
There had been many captures following the raid. Cornered riffraff had thrown away their guns, to
surrender, denying that they had carried weapons. Practically all of these were men who had been inside
the hotel at the beginning of the raid.
Lieutenant Maclare felt pleased as he took a seat at his desk and began to prepare a report. Armed
resistance had made the case against the prisoners a stronger one. Maclare could see jail terms awaiting
many of the participants. Maclare's pleasure increased, when Sergeant Cassley knocked at the door to
announce a visitor. The arrival was none other than Kirk Borman, the police director.
Maclare was on his feet when Borman entered. Tall, heavy of build, the police director was as much a
fighter as Maclare. Borman's face was sharp-featured; his lips showed a broad smile between his hooked
nose and his pointed chin. Advancing to Maclare's desk, Borman thrust a congratulating hand across the
top, to grip Maclare's hand in a solid shake.
"Fine work, Jim," commended Borman, in a short-clipped tone. "You cleaned out a nest of bad eggs.
Carry on with it. Go after the gilt-edged places in this precinct."
"You mean the Club Adair?" queried Maclare. "That's one place I'd like to get, Kirk. Lance Gillick has a
gambling joint somewhere in back of that fancy night club front."
"Go after it, tomorrow night," ordered Borman. "Telephone me first, though. I have two headquarters
men watching things over there. I'm going to drop in there this evening and look the place over for
myself."
"Lance Gillick will probably see you," remarked Maclare. "If he does, he'll pass you a lot of smooth
talk."
"All the better," decided Borman. "If he thinks I'm the man he has to deal with, he won't be expecting you
tomorrow."
Kirk Borman clapped his hand upon Lieutenant Maclare's shoulder; then turned about and strode from
the office. Policemen saluted, as the director passed through the patrol room. Outside the station house,
Borman stepped aboard an official limousine and told the chauffeur to take him to the Club Adair.
LOCATED just within the limits of the first precinct, the Club Adair fronted on one of Westford's main
streets. The club itself was on the second floor, over a row of shops.
Alighting from his car, Kirk Borman entered a pretentious doorway and ascended a broad flight of
thick-carpeted stairs. At the top, he left his hat and coat at a check room. Attired in tuxedo, the police
director entered a glittering night club, where tobacco smoke clouded a thick throng of dancers who
occupied the center of the floor.
An orchestra was producing strident music. Buzzed conversation, bursts of laughter sounded
everywhere. The place was doing capacity business; a bowing head waiter was apologetic when he
ushered the police director to an obscure table, behind a pillar. It was one of the few tables that remained
vacant.
A heavy-jowled man spied Borman immediately and came over to the director's table. He was one of the
headquarters men; he reported in an undertone:
"They've been going through that door over there, a lot of em. Looks like the gambling joint's on the
other side -"
Borman whispered an interruption. The headquarters man silenced as the head waiter approached the
table. Directly behind the head waiter came a man in full evening clothes. The arrival was Lance Gillick.
The night club proprietor was tall and long-limbed. His manner was polished; his speech was suave. His
features were handsome, despite their sallowness. His wavy black hair, his pointed mustache gave him a
debonair air.
"Good evening, Director Borman," greeted Gillick, with a bow. "It is not often that I have the pleasure of
meeting you here. I somewhat expected your arrival tonight" - Lance smiled, as he looked in the direction
of the headquarters man - "because I saw two of your advance agents. This gentleman and the other,
over by the wall."
Borman turned to the headquarters man.
"Go over there, Thompson," he ordered, "and bring Rhine here. I want both of you to come along with
me."
Lance Gillick arched his clipped eyebrows, as he heard Borman give the order. When the two
headquarters men arrived at the table, Borman snapped brisk words to Lance:
"We're going through that far door, Gillick! You can conduct us there!"
"With pleasure," said Lance, with a bow. "Come at once, director."
LANCE led the way to the door in question. He rapped a signal; the door opened. Borman and his men
followed through into a large room, where some twenty people were seated at tables, laughing as they
chatted and drank. All were well attired; the men in evening clothes, the women in evening gowns.
The room, itself, was magnificent. Its walls were adorned with huge oil paintings; the windows were
covered by expensive velvet draperies. Lance conducted Borman and the others to a far door; he
opened it, to show a small office with oak furniture and paneled walls to match.
"My private office," explained Lance. "The large room through which we came is simply an exclusive
dining room for my more important guests."
"It passes muster," decided Borman. Then, eyeing the office: "I suppose you are very careful in your
bookkeeping, Gillick?"
"I am," replied Lance, smoothly. "Perhaps you would like to see my books?"
"I would."
"Step into the office, director."
Borman hesitated; then turned to the headquarters men, with an order:
"Go back to the night club proper. Take my table. I'll join you there."
Thompson and Rhine departed, out through the door by which they had entered. Lance Gillick ushered
Kirk Borman into the oak-paneled office. Closing the door, the night club proprietor grinned. He pressed
a wall panel; it slid open, to reveal a darkened passage.
"Step in there, Kirk," chuckled Lance. "Take a look through the back of the big painting on the far wall."
Smiling, Borman followed directions. Looking through a peek hole, the director saw a quick
transformation in progress.
Waiters were lifting the top of a huge buffet; as they rolled the bulky object forward, its sides fell away
and it became a roulette table. Small tables were pushed in line; their covers whipped away. They
produced the green board upon which players could place their bets.
Other waiters were bringing boxes loaded with playing chips, serving them to guests in return for credit
slips. The chips began to click; a waiter took charge of the wheel and it began its spin. Director Borman
stepped back into Lance Gillick's office. Lance closed the panel.
"They think it's hot," laughed Lance. "As soon as you're ready to go out, they'll see the lights blink. It will
just be tables and drinks again, when you go through. A great set-up, eh, Kirk?"
KIRK BORMAN nodded. Lance caught a troubled look on the director's face. Quickly, Lance
questioned:
"Something went sour tonight?"
Borman nodded.
"What was it?" quizzed Lance. "Didn't they rub out Maclare?"
"Maclare made a clean-up," answered Borman. "He and his squad bumped off more than half dozen of
the mob. About the same number went to the hospital. Maclare hauled in pretty near twenty of the bunch
that were in the Mississippi Hotel."
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CITYOFCRIMEMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CROOKSINAMBUSH?CHAPTERII.SCATTEREDHORDES?CHAPTERIII.BEHINDTHESCENES?CHAPTERIV.INTOTHESNARE?CHAPTERV.DEATHDELIVERED?CHAPTERVI.CROOKSCONNIVE?CHAPTERVII.THEFINGERPOINTS?CHAPTERVIII.THETRAPREVERSED?CHAPTERIX.T...

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