Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 075 - Lingo

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LINGO
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. COUNCIL OF WAR
? CHAPTER II. THE SECOND TRAIL
? CHAPTER III. THE DEATH WARRANT
? CHAPTER IV. THE BIG SHOT PLANS
? CHAPTER V. CARDONA TAKES ORDERS
? CHAPTER VI. THE MISSED TRAIL
? CHAPTER VII. THE PLANT
? CHAPTER VIII. GANGDOM'S DEAL
? CHAPTER IX. DOUBLE DEATH
? CHAPTER X. THE NEW KING
? CHAPTER XI. THE NEW CAMPAIGN
? CHAPTER XII. VILLAINS DEDUCT
? CHAPTER XIII. UNDER COVER
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW'S PLANTS
? CHAPTER XV. STALEMATE
? CHAPTER XVI. AN AGENT BLUNDERS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE SECOND VICTIM
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW'S STRATEGY
? CHAPTER XIX. BUZZ SWINGS A DEAL
? CHAPTER XX. THE TRAP SPRINGS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHOWDOWN
? CHAPTER XXII. THE SWIFT BLOCKADE
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE RECKONING
CHAPTER I. COUNCIL OF WAR
DRIZZLY night had gripped Manhattan. Swirling tentacles of gathering fog were suppressing the glow of
the city's lights. In districts of lesser brilliance, an insidious gloom seemed creeping in to smother the
artificial illumination that counteracted night. In places where lights were ordinarily feeble, this evening had
brought an even heavier blanket of oppressiveness.
Such spots were prevalent on the lower East Side. There, one particular thoroughfare was heavily
enshrouded. Moist sidewalks lay black beneath the sullen walls of unlighted buildings. An elevated
railway, wedged within the confines of the narrow street, provided an overbearing pall.
Occasional stragglers appeared within the feebly lighted areas of infrequent street lamps. These were
shambling denizens of the underworld—dips, hopheads and other small fry—who used this thoroughfare
in their shifty travels. But none lingered in this secluded block.
The reason became apparent when a flashlight appeared with intermittent blinks, coming southward from
the spot where the elevated curved into view. A patrolman was covering his beat; he was inspecting
isolated doorways and other lurking places.
The police had long since classed this block as a haven for suspicious characters. The law's policy was to
keep it clear.
Approaching wayfarers spied the blinking light. Skulkers ducked off to other streets, choosing new
courses for their travels. The bluecoat's inspection would be a double one: down one side of the street
and up the other. While it was on, slinkers would stay away.
There was an exception. As the patrolman passed the mid-point of the block, a hunched figure chanced
to arrive from a narrow alley. Quick eyes spied the blink of the flashlight. The stoop-shouldered owner of
those optics crouched against the dingy front of an old building. He was on the near side of the street; the
patrolman was across the way. Craftily, the newcomer waited.
The cop moved further down. The watching man shifted forward. Sliding through the drizzle, he reached
an elevated pillar and lurked there. Then he made further progress, slinking over to the further curb. He
was heading for another alleyway, opposite. He could make it, now that the flatfoot had passed.
The crafty wayfarer suppressed a chuckle as he lingered by a final pillar. Dodging patrolmen was a cinch
for him. For this prowler was one who had a reputation in the bad lands. Many mobsters would have
recognized the pasty, wizened face that showed against the blackness of the “el” pillar. Known as
“Hawkeye” to his companions, this hunch-shouldered fellow was recognized as one of the smartest
trailers in the underworld.
THE patrolman was crossing the street at the lower corner. The absence of flashlight blinks gave
Hawkeye that cue. Quickly, the little man completed the last stage of his maneuver. Gaining the sidewalk,
he did a perfect slink toward the yawning blackness of the alley.
Hawkeye stopped abruptly at his goal. With catlike speed, he flattened himself against a brick wall.
Huddled in the edge of darkness, he cocked his head to one side and listened. His ear had caught the
low buzz of voices. They were coming from a doorway only a few feet from where Hawkeye stood.
“All right, Dunny,” came a gruff order, “spill it fast. What's come along the grapevine?”
“Nothin' much, Joe,” was the whiny response, “'cept that it looks worser for Rook Hollister. It's goin'
aroun' that Rook's due to be rubbed out.”
“How soon?”
“No tellin'.”
A pause. Hawkeye grinned in darkness. He knew the owners of those voices. One of the men within the
set-in doorway was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York headquarters. The other was “Dunny”
Sukes, a supposed hophead whom Hawkeye had long since branded as a stool pigeon.
Dunny had come down this street and sneaked into the doorway. The patrolman had purposely passed
up that hiding place in making his inspection. For the harness bull had known that Dunny would be there.
Traveling in the bluecoat's wake was Joe Cardona, on his way to a meeting with the stoolie.
The cleverness of the gag was the reason for Hawkeye's grin. The patrolman's inspection had driven
prowlers from this terrain. None would return until after the bluecoat had finished.
Right now, the patrolman was dawdling across the street, prolonging his inspection. By the time he had
concluded it, Cardona would be gone. Afterward, Dunny would slink away, coming from this block like
any other chance prowler.
“SO the finger's on Rook, eh?” Cardona's question caused Hawkeye to strain and listen further. “They
want to chop him down like they did with the others that tried to be big shots?”
“That's the idea, Joe,” agreed Dunny. “Rook wants to be a big guy —head man. You know what he
promised 'em. Said that when he got to the top he was goin' to bring back the rackets. End this business
of one mob musclin' in on another. Well—he ain't doin' it. Somethin' went flooie when he tried to hook
up with the dock wallopers. Then he flivved when he was supposed to get a new milk racket started.”
“And now he's gone sour with the laundry racket?”
“That's it, Joe. They say that Blitz Schumbert was all ready to start it. Had it as good as swung. Rook,
bein' the big shot, sent a mob over to wreck that Brooklyn laundry. But they never got no chanct to
heave their pineapples.
“Some other mob knocked 'em off on the way there. The job wasn't pulled. An' the laundry owners
handed Blitz the Bronx cheer. On account of him tellin' 'em trouble was comin' when it didn't.”
Hawkeye heard Joe Cardona deliver a grunt of understanding. This was no news to the ace sleuth.
Dunny must have recognized it, for he put another statement in a hurry.
“Listen, Joe”—the stoolie's voice was half a whisper—“there's some mugs say it wasn't no ordinary outfit
that queered that job. They've been talkin' about it, sayin' maybe The Shadow was behind it.”
“Yeah?” Cardona's gruff question struck Hawkeye as a feeler for further information. It came.
“That's what they're sayin', Joe,” persisted Dunny. “But mostly, it's figured as a bum guess. It ain't The
Shadow's way to go aroun' with a mob. An' this ain't the first time that some smart guys have knocked
off Rook's torpedoes. When he sent that crew of gorillas out on the bank job—”
“I know all about it,” put in Cardona, impatiently. “It was queered by another mob. But we never pinned
the evidence on Rook, about sending the crew out to rob the bank. Forget that, Dunny. Tell me what
they're saying about The Shadow.”
“That's what I'm gettin' at, Joe. The bank job—the docks—the milk racket—now, this laundry
job—well, it's all bad for Rook, if he wants to rule the city. But who's stoppin' him? The mobs that are
doin' it ain't big. That's why the smart boys think they ain't no mobs at all.
“They figure The Shadow's crossin' the dope, see? Workin' with a picked crew. Makin' it look like Rook
ain't got the mobs lined up, like he says he has. Makin' Rook a palooka instead of a big shot.”
“Which means that Rook's lieutenants want to get rid of him?”
“Sure! So they can put in a new big shot an' start all over again. An' the new guy will be another softy for
The Shadow. The new guy won't get nowhere either.
“But listen, Joe. I ain't sayin' all this is so, I'm only tellin' what a few birds think. Most of 'em figure that
Rook just ain't got the hold he says he has. That's all.”
THE patrolman's light was blinking from the opposite side of the street, near the upper corner. Cardona
was noting its movements through the drizzle. He knew that the cop had stalled as long as he could.
“All right, Dunny,” commented Joe. “Keep finding out whatever else you can. It's time for me to leave.”
Hawkeye shrank into the alleyway, as the broad-shouldered figure of the detective came in view.
Cardona started up the street, keeping close to the shelter of the blackened elevated. Hawkeye had
heard all that was to be said. He edged through the alley.
Tensely, the little man repressed a chuckle as he continued on his course. Reaching the end of the
alleyway, Hawkeye picked a new thoroughfare and headed deeper into darkened districts. All the while,
he was thinking of the conversation that he had heard.
What Dunny had told Cardona concerning The Shadow was, as yet, no more than rumor. That was the
way with affairs that concerned The Shadow. A master fighter, his identity unknown, The Shadow was a
mystery to the underworld itself. Criminals dreaded his might; they shuddered when his name was
mentioned. Rumors were ever rife concerning The Shadow.
This rumor, like others, failed to gain full credence; but it happened—so Hawkeye knew—to be a
correct one. For Hawkeye, himself, was a member of the small but chosen crew that The Shadow was at
present using to confuse the underworld and bring disaster to the aims of “Rook” Hollister.
After a period of enforced inactivity, men of crime had banded in hope of reviving obliterated rackets.
Strong mobleaders had sought a suitable overlord. One after another, the czars whom they had chosen
had failed. Now Rook Hollister was attempting to become the big shot —the overlord of all crime.
Though Hawkeye prided himself on his knowledge of the underworld and its ways, he knew that his own
ability at spotting crime movements was trivial compared with that of The Shadow. Somehow,
somewhere, The Shadow was managing to spot the coming activities of Rook and his lieutenants. So far,
The Shadow had balked all of Rook's best schemes.
More than that, The Shadow had found out something that Dunny, the stool pigeon, had done no more
than suspect. The grapevine inkled that Rook's lieutenants were chafing under the big shot's regime. The
Shadow, however, had learned that they were actually ready to end it.
Hawkeye, tonight, was on his way to do spy duty for The Shadow. His mysterious chief had learned of a
most secluded rendezvous wherein lieutenants of crime were to hold secret cabal. The Shadow had
ordered Hawkeye to look in on that meeting and had also discovered a way whereby the spying could
be done with ease.
How The Shadow had managed this was a total mystery to Hawkeye, and the little agent was eager to
reach his destination.
Quickening his footsteps, Hawkeye turned into a narrow, curving street that extended away from an
elevated structure. He continued on through blackness; then as the street took a final angle, he slowed his
pace.
Half a minute later Hawkeye reached a corner from which he could see a lurid, misty glow that pierced
the drizzle.
HAWKEYE had reached the fringe of Chinatown. Thirty yards down this street, in the direction of the
brilliance, were the quaint signs of Oriental shops that marked the beginning of the Chinese business
district.
Peering craftily as he moved in that direction, Hawkeye noted one placard that bore a silver dragon. He
edged to the brick front of a building and stopped just before he reached the shop.
A secluded doorway was on the right. Hawkeye slipped into it and tried the barrier. It opened; The
Shadow's agent stepped into a passage and closed the door behind him. The place was deserted; and
Hawkeye found another door at the end of the passage. Looking about in the dim light of a single
incandescent, Hawkeye made sure that no one was present, watching.
He pressed the lower hinge of the door. It jogged upward. He did the same with the other hinge. Then he
tried the knob. The door opened; Hawkeye found a dim stone stairway and pulled the door shut behind
him. He heard clicks as the hinges automatically relocked.
Descending the stairway, Hawkeye found a short passage that extended for a dozen yards. A single light
guided him to the end, where he reached a narrow spiral stairway that seemed to spread upward like the
leaves of a fan. These steps were blackened and Hawkeye had not taken a dozen upward before he was
in complete gloom. The spiral shape of the stairway cut off the light from below.
Hawkeye was moving with the utmost caution, for this was to be his journey's end. He groped along the
wall feeling his way through the darkness until he discerned thin, slitted lines of light.
Hands extended, Hawkeye reached the topmost step and stopped against a solid wall. He peered
eagerly through two slits. He became tense at the sight before him.
Hawkeye was looking down into an oddly paneled room wherein bizarre hangings adorned the walls.
The chamber was square and formed a perfect Oriental setting with its curious taborets that served as
chairs and the carved teakwood table that occupied the center of the room.
A group was assembled in this rendezvous. But the members of the gathering were not Celestials.
Hawkeye saw hardened faces that he recognized. The Shadow's agent was looking in on the meeting of
Rook Hollister's lieutenants.
CHAPTER II. THE SECOND TRAIL
THERE were half a dozen men in the group which Hawkeye surveyed. Racketeers and mobleaders, The
Shadow's agent knew the identity of every man present. Certain ones, however, impressed Hawkeye as
being more important; yet all represented discontented elements in Rook Hollister's wavering underworld
empire.
“Blitz” Schumbert was present. Staring through the slitted loopholes, Hawkeye viewed the rogue
side-face and recognized Blitz's pug-nosed, sharp-jawed profile. Hawkeye had expected to find Blitz at
this meeting. Blitz's budding laundry racket had been the latest to suffer by Rook Hollister's inability to
back it up.
Opposite Blitz was a chunky square-faced rowdy whose face was expressionless but whose eyes were
shifting constantly. Hawkeye knew this fellow as a toughened mobleader who commanded a picked
corps of gorillas. His name was “Ping” Gradley; he and his mob had long been recognized as strongarm
workers for Rook Hollister.
Directly facing Hawkeye was Louie Caparani, a wise-faced, dark-complexioned individual who was
reputed to be linked with big-time gamblers. The other three members of the group were crooks whom
Hawkeye regarded as of lesser importance.
Evidently the group expected arrivals. No business was under discussion; the six were joking while they
waited. This was pleasing to Hawkeye because of a very definite reason; one that had considerable
bearing on his mission.
Hawkeye had been tipped to this meeting through a telephone call from Burbank, The Shadow's contact
agent, who forwarded all instructions to active workers. Briefly, Burbank had informed Hawkeye that
The Shadow had learned of a rendezvous in the house of a Chinese named Koy Dow, which could be
reached through the Chinese shop known as the “Silver Dragon.”
The Shadow, acquainted with many of the secrets of the strange Chinese district, also knew that a secret
passage existed in back of the meeting room. This was the route which Hawkeye had been instructed to
follow; it was a varied course that had brought the little spotter to his present lookout.
Obviously, The Shadow had some business afoot that prevented him from taking this post which
Hawkeye now occupied. The Shadow had delegated the duty to his agent, confident that the secret
observation post would not be in use. It was Hawkeye's job to watch what went on at the meeting, and
the agent had also been delegated to a further task.
He was to keep a special eye upon a mobleader named “Trip” Burley, whom, Burbank had assured,
would be at the meeting. Trip Burley was the only crook whom Burbank had named.
The contact man had instructed Hawkeye to be ready to sneak from his lookout post whenever Trip left
the meeting room. It would then be Hawkeye's job to pick up Trip's trail when the mobleader appeared
outside the entrance to the Silver Dragon.
Evidently Trip Burley was playing some double part; a fact which The Shadow must have suspected. For
Trip Burley, as an underworld character, could not be regarded as either important or formidable.
The fact that Trip was not in the meeting room was simply proof to Hawkeye that others might be
expected. Looking across the room, Hawkeye noted what appeared to be a doorway between two
hanging banners. As he watched, Hawkeye saw a panel move up; the man who stepped into view was
Trip Burley.
THERE was something about Trip Burley that made him look suspicious. As hard-faced as the others, he
had an air of affability that seemed at variance with the toughness. Trip's eyes were beady; his puffy lips
carried a leering grin. The newcomer waved a greeting to the group about the table and seated himself
upon a vacant taboret.
Hawkeye noticed that the paneled door remained up. Half a minute later, two more men entered. Both
were attired in American clothes, but one was a Chinese. Hawkeye decided that the bland-faced
Oriental must be Koy Dow.
The other was an individual whose presence puzzled Hawkeye; for although he was recognized in the
underworld, he was not reputed to be a lieutenant of Rook Hollister's. Koy Dow's companion was
named “Lingo" Queed. He was a tall, lanky fellow who walked in loose-limbed fashion.
Lingo Queed's face was recognizable by two predominant features. One was a flattened nose that spread
over the whole center of his physiognomy. Apparently it had always been over-large; and its present
appearance looked like the result of a powerful punch that Lingo had once failed to stop.
Lingo's chin was his other characteristic. He carried it with an outward thrust that looked like an invitation
for future battlers to use it for a target instead of his crippled nose.
Standing within the doorway, Lingo looked around the group as though inquiring if all were present. He
received a nod from Blitz Schumbert. Turning, Lingo babbled words of Chinese to Koy Dow. The
Celestial went out through the door and closed the panel behind him.
The incident explained the situation to Hawkeye. Lingo Queed's nickname, like so many underworld
monikers, was a deserved one. He was called “Lingo” because of his ability to handle various languages.
It was easy to see that Rook Hollister's lieutenants had wanted complete secrecy in their meeting.
Chinatown had been a good bet. Lingo, familiar with the Chinese tongue, and therefore friendly with
Celestials such as Koy Dow, had fixed the meeting place for them.
This had obviously worked excellently for The Shadow. He was as familiar with Chinatown as was Lingo
Queed. Hawkeye figured that The Shadow must have learned of this meeting during one of his visits to
Chinatown. That explained the tip that had come through Burbank.
Lingo Queed, as fixer, rated with Rook's lieutenants. He sat down with the others. It was Blitz
Schumbert who started the proceedings. His opening comments came in a snarling basso that Hawkeye
heard clearly.
“You birds know why we're here,” commenced Blitz. “We've all been working straight with Rook
Hollister. But we've been waiting for him to deliver, and he hasn't. My racket is queered because he
muffed the deal. That hits the rest of you, because we're all supposed to be working together.”
Blitz paused, his statement almost unfinished, in order that he might see the effect of his opening remarks.
He was waiting for comments, and one came. From Louie Caparani.
“The way I look at it, Blitz,” purred Louie. “You've got a good reason to want the skids greased for
Rook—”
“I'm not saying that,” interrupted Blitz quickly. “I'm not the guy to beef just because one bet goes sour.
But I'm tellin' you this: Rook muffed a couple of good bets before this one; and he told me that when the
racket was ripe he'd guarantee the pineapple mob would do their stuff. Well, they didn't, and my racket
is shot. I'm just tellin' what happened, that's all.”
“I know all that, Blitz”—Louie Caparani's purr was even more convincing than before—“and I'm sticking
to what I just said. You've got a good reason to want the skids greased; and since you've got it, we've
got it too.”
“Then you're for greasing them?”
“More than that, Blitz.”
“A rubout, Louie?”
“You've guessed it.”
TENSE silence followed. This meeting had come to its point more quickly than even Blitz Schumbert, its
instigator, had expected. Blitz himself was staring steadily at the group. Louie Caparani was extracting a
cigarette from his pocket, a half smile on his thin dark lips.
Hawkeye studied the others. Ping Gradley's eyes were no longer on the move. They were fixed toward
Louie. Lingo Queed appeared almost disinterested, as though the matter did not concern him.
Trip Burley, however, had shown a marked change of expression. His smirking grin was gone. His beady
eyes were blinking as he leaned forward, fists half clenched upon the table. There was something in his
attitude that renewed Hawkeye's suspicion that Trip was here with a conniving purpose.
“All right, Louie,” affirmed Blitz suddenly, “you've put the proposition. Looks like we're all with you.
We'll listen some more. The finger's on Rook. How soon will we press it?”
“In a little while,” returned Louie. “After the next time we come here. We'll have a chance to talk it over
then.”
“What's the good of stalling,” queried Queed, in a harsh growl. “We've put the finger on Rook. The job
is to rub him out.”
“Unless we lift the finger,” remarked Louie, still holding his half smile. “We might want to do that, Blitz.”
“On account of what?”
“On account of my racket, Blitz. It's ripe. Rook Hollister is getting his chance to help it along tonight. If I
let it ride until after we put Rook on the spot, I may lose out on a good bet.”
“I get you, Louie. You're for giving Rook another break?”
“Yes; but get me straight. It's not on Rook's account. It's on my own. Listen, Blitz”—Louie leaned
forward upon the table and wagged a wise finger—“I've got the night club bimbos sewed up the way I
want them. Ready for a swell payoff—”
“You mean, if Rook comes through and makes them know you mean business?”
“That's right. Wait a minute, Blitz.” Louie held up a hand as Blitz started to speak. “I know what you're
going to say. Rook didn't swing it for you. But that's no reason he isn't going to swing it for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know the guy he's sending out on tonight's job!”
“Yeah? Who?”
Louie made a nudge with his thumb. Blitz's eyes followed the direction. Louie was indicating Ping
Gradley, whose eyes were still steady. Blitz met Ping's gaze; Ping nodded.
“Louie's right, Blitz,” assured Ping. “I'm working for Rook tonight. And it's no hooey this time. Rook's
picked the spot that counts. You know Karl Durmsted? Fellow that runs the Casino Rouge?”
Blitz nodded.
“Well, I'm slated to talk business with Durmsted tonight.” Ping laughed roughly. “And if Durmsted don't
listen to me, he won't be listening to nobody about nothing else!”
“Rook's told you to bump him?”
“You bet he has! What's more, he's picked the best way to do it. No fireworks around the night club.
Durmsted goes out by his own private exit, with nobody knowing he's left. After that, he takes a ride.”
“And listen to this, Blitz,” added Louie Caparani. “I'm telling you that if Durmsted gets his one-way trip,
I'll have every other night club owner begging for the proposition that I've offered them. We'll mop up the
softest big dough that we've counted on yet!”
Grunts of agreement came from listeners. This crowd knew something about Caparani's racket. The
man's persuasive argument had done the rest. Cold-bloodedly, Louie had first recommended death for
Rook Hollister. Still as cold as before, he was advocating a respite. His whole attitude was one of
business.
“Sounds good, Louie,” decided Blitz. Eyes were fixed on him as he spoke. “I'm for holding off, the way
you've put it. We've got to have a guy at the head of the works. Rook's as good as anybody. I've got
nothing against him, so long as he delivers.
“What's more, we can count on Ping here.” Blitz turned to Gradley. “If things gum up tonight, Ping, we
won't be blaming you. We'll take it out on Rook. All right, that's settled.”
Blitz arose. The others followed suit. The meeting had ended in short order. The plotters had completed
their plans. Hawkeye saw Lingo stroll over and tap at the paneled door. A signal to bring Koy Dow.
While the group was waiting, Blitz beckoned to Lingo.
“I'll tip you off, Lingo,” informed Blitz, “when we're ready to pull in here again. Then you can come down
and fix it with the chink. This is a swell spot. We'll keep it.”
Lingo nodded.
Louie Caparani entered the conversation. Hawkeye heard him speak to Lingo. Louie wanted to know if
Lingo spoke Greek, adding that he thought certain restaurant proprietors would listen to offers of
“protection,” if persuaded in their native tongue.
Lingo nodded again; this time a broad grin appeared between his flattened nose and his projecting chin.
Lingo could talk Greek; he could speak Italian also, as he proceeded to demonstrate, by using that
language in a voluble reply to Louie.
But Hawkeye had no desire to linger, listening to a new conversation in a language that he did not
understand. The panel had risen; Koy Dow was standing beyond it, beckoning to the exit. Only Blitz,
Louie and Lingo were remaining. The others were on their way out; with them was Trip Burley.
HAWKEYE had not forgotten his second mission. Quickly, The Shadow's agent slid back from his
lookout post. He moved down the spiral stairway, used the passage to the next building and reached the
door at the head of the stairs. It opened at his touch; the tricky knob was not latched on the inside.
Hawkeye gained the street. Huddled in the shelter of his doorway, he watched figures coming from the
Silver Dragon. He recognized Ping Gradley leaving the shop. The mobleader was heading forth to
prepare for tonight's job at the Casino Rouge.
Then came two others; following them was Trip Burley. They separated as soon as they reached the
street. As luck had it, Trip took a course that led him into the darkened area in front of Hawkeye's
doorway.
Hawkeye gave Trip a thirty-yard start. Then the little trailer ventured forth. With sharp eyes peering
through the drizzle, Hawkeye took up the trail. Five minutes later, he was following Trip up the steps of
an elevated station.
He saw Trip leave the train at Forty-second Street. Hawkeye stepped off and resumed his trail. Trip was
continuing afoot, threading his way through West Side streets and avenues, on a course that would have
baffled an ordinary trailer.
At times, the drizzle hampered Hawkeye; again, it aided him when he used its blurred covering to close in
and check up on his quarry. In fact, it was that very process that helped Hawkeye at the final point of the
trail.
Hawkeye was close to Trip when they reached an isolated street. Closing in, Hawkeye saw a fringe of
lamplight. He stopped short, watching. He saw Trip shift his pace to the right. Then the man was gone.
Hurrying up, Hawkeye found himself by a doorway that led into a garage. He entered, knowing that Trip
must have taken that direction.
Along in back of a row of stored cars, Hawkeye spied Trip turning into an inner doorway. Moving up,
Hawkeye expected to find a stairway. Instead, he stepped into a dimly lighted space that looked like
nothing more than an airshaft.
Listening, Hawkeye caught a slight sound from the wall ahead. Advancing toward the sound, he stopped
at a tin-sheathed barrier that looked like a fireproof lining of the compartment. But Hawkeye knew the
cause of the sound that he could barely hear.
That rough wall was actually the doorway to a small elevator shaft. Trip had entered the elevator and was
ascending to some destination above.
The slight rumble ceased. Hawkeye knew that it would be dangerous to follow further. He had at least
learned the vicinity of Trip's goal.
SNEAKING from the compartment, Hawkeye noticed a closer exit at the rear of the garage. He went
through it and came into an alleyway that led him into the next street.
This was a quiet, secluded thoroughfare; but among older buildings were some modern ones. The nearest
was an apartment house. Upon the drizzle-soaked awning that served as a marquee, Hawkeye read the
name:
HOTEL THURMONT
The Hotel Thurmont backed against the old garage in which Hawkeye had last seen Trip Burley. It was
quite possible that the elevator which Trip had taken could have carried him to some spot in that hotel.
Furthermore, there was every reason to suppose that such was actually the case. For Hawkeye—like
many others concerned in underworld affairs —knew that the Hotel Thurmont was the apartment house
where Rook Hollister lived.
Hawkeye's second trail had told him why The Shadow had wanted him to follow Trip Burley. Of those
lieutenants who had met in Chinatown tonight, one had been a traitor to the plotters themselves. That one
was Trip Burley.
Hawkeye was positive that Trip had gone back to Rook; that already the tool was telling the big shot that
his lieutenants had slated him for death. Hawkeye had learned more than facts concerning coming crime.
He had gained the proof that confirmed The Shadow's suspicions of an understanding between Trip
Burley and Rook Hollister.
And while Hawkeye was checking, The Shadow would be looking for more higher types of evidence.
CHAPTER III. THE DEATH WARRANT
PING GRADLEY had announced his plans at the Chinatown meeting. In so doing, he had let out
information which he had hitherto confined to the members of his own mob. But since Ping was working
under orders from Rook Hollister, he had deemed it wise to spill the news to the lieutenants who had
accepted him as a fellow plotter.
Louie Caparani, of course, had known beforehand that Ping was scheduled to command a strong-arm
摘要：

LINGObyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.COUNCILOFWAR?CHAPTERII.THESECONDTRAIL?CHAPTERIII.THEDEATHWARRANT?CHAPTERIV.THEBIGSHOTPLANS?CHAPTERV.CARDONATAKESORDERS?CHAPTERVI.THEMISSEDTRAIL?CHAPTERVII.THEPLANT?CHAPTERVIII.GANGDOM'SDEAL?CHAPTERIX.DOUBLEDEA...

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