The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  Lamont Cranston, millionaire adventurer, globe-trotter, whose travels had carried him to the wilds of Tibet; a man to whom big-game hunting in the African jungle was a mere pastime!

  The head waiter of the Club Janeiro was not far from where Weston stood. The commissioner moved over and spoke to him.

  “Do you see the man who has just entered?” questioned Weston. “His name is Lamont Cranston. Go quickly. Bring him to my table.”

  “Yes, sir,” returned the head waiter.

  Weston took a seat at a vacant table and waited. A few minutes later, he saw Cranston approaching. The millionaire betrayed no expression of surprise. He merely came to Weston’s table, drew back a chair, and sat down, as though he had been expected.

  “Good evening, Cranston,” said the commissioner.

  “Good evening,” responded the calm-faced millionaire.

  Cranston was immaculate in evening clothes. He picked up a menu, gave an order to a waiter, and looked quizzically at Weston.

  The police commissioner smiled and picked up a card himself. He gave an order, also. He looked around, saw that no one was close by, and spoke in an admiring tone.

  “You’re a cool one, Cranston,” declared the commissioner. “How did you know that I didn’t want you to show a lot of enthusiasm over meeting me here?”

  “I seldom express enthusiasm,” responded Cranston quietly. “Moreover, I knew that the police commissioner would not care to appear conspicuous at the Club Janeiro. What has brought you here, Weston?”

  “Cranston,” returned the commissioner, in a low whisper. “we are looking for a murderer tonight. A man called Socks Mallory. He is scheduled to make an attempt upon Tony Loretti, the big shot of the night clubs.”

  “Interesting,” commented Cranston. “Where is Loretti at present?”

  “In his office,” answered Weston, “past that screen. I have four men posted in side corridors. That man four tables away from us is another detective. He and I are watching this end. There may be trouble. I could use another man.”

  “Meaning -“

  “Yourself.”

  A faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips. The millionaire bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  “I have two automatics with me,” whispered the commissioner. “If you care to assist, one is ready for you. Under the table -“

  “Pass it,” said Cranston calmly.

  The automatic changed hands. Commissioner Weston sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The waiter came with the order. Weston and Cranston began to eat, conversing quietly while they watched the screen.

  New confidence held the commissioner. He felt that he could rely upon Lamont Cranston. There was something about Cranston’s manner that made Ralph Weston realize that he had chosen an intrepid aid.

  THERE was cause for the impression. Had Commissioner Ralph Weston known the identity of this person who had agreed to aid him, he would have been amazed beyond recall. Had he known Lamont Cranston’s purpose here tonight, he would have been doubly astonished.

  This calm-faced personage had come to the Club Janeiro for the same purpose as Commissioner Weston and his band of sleuths. He was here to encounter Socks Mallory. The features of Lamont Cranston were a guise that he had adopted to serve him for the occasion.

  Beneath that full-dress coat were two automatics, compared to which Weston’s guns were puny weapons. The police commissioner was dining with The Shadow!

  Again, the mysterious warrior had been forced to change his plans. Alone, he could have watched Tony Loretti, unseen. But with police on hand, with Commissioner Weston calling upon him for aid, The Shadow found it necessary to bide his time.

  In the guise of Lamont Cranston, he waited. He, The Shadow, was the aid of Commissioner Ralph Weston - the police official who believed The Shadow to be a myth!

  CHAPTER XI

  AGAIN THE BLOT

  IN the center office of his suite, Tony Loretti was serene. A quarter of an hour had passed since Police Commissioner Weston had left. The strains of music were coming in muffled tones from beyond the door. The floor show was on.

  Strolling into his own private office, Loretti opened a desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. He handled the shining weapon with a smile, then replaced it, but left the drawer open.

  Tony Loretti recalled that he was under police protection tonight. Officers of the law might question his possession of a revolver, should they enter unexpectedly.

  Commissioner Weston’s statement that Socks Mallory was in Manhattan was not a cause of great alarm to Tony Loretti. Some months ago, Mallory had started the nightclub protective racket, beginning with the Club Janeiro as his headquarters. Loretti had appropriated the idea; his power had driven Mallory out of the game.

  Attempting retaliation, Socks had encountered gangsters secretly employed by Loretti. After a short fight, Socks had fled in a taxi. He had killed the driver at the end of the ride; and was now wanted for murder while Tony Loretti dwelt in security.

  Loretti had henchmen in the Club Janeiro tonight. He could have summoned them to stay on watch for Socks Mallory. But, since the police commissioner had chosen to interfere, it would be discreet to rely upon the law. Afterward, Socks might still be a menace. He could be dealt with then.

  Tony Loretti laughed. He was positive that Socks Mallory would make no attempt tonight. Socks was shrewd enough to spot the presence of the police commissioner and five headquarters detectives.

  Nevertheless, Tony Loretti was a rascal who played safe. The revolver in the opened drawer gave him a feeling of complete assurance.

  Consulting a large sheet of paper, Tony read over the figures that told of the present week’s receipts. Night clubs were doing well. Those under Loretti’s wing were managing best of all.

  Tony’s cut was a moderate one, considering the power that this racketeer possessed. That was the part of wisdom. It kept the nightclub proprietors from becoming antagonistic. They were getting off cheap.

  Engrossed in his study of the figures, Tony Loretti did not hear the creeping sound that came from the central office. When he looked up, in sudden startlement, he acted too late. Loretti’s hand stopped on its way to the desk drawer. Just within the door were three men!

  HARDENED ruffians they were; and the leader, a few paces in front of the others, was grinning as he covered Loretti with a large revolver. A gasp of recognition came from the big shot’s lips.

  “Socks Mallory!”

  “Glad to see me, eh, Tony?” snarled Socks. “Get up out of that chair! Back to the wall. Come on - move!”

  Loretti complied. Socks grumbled orders to his men. With pale face, Loretti was standing across the room, his hands up beside his head, his eyes staring beadily as Socks Mallory advanced.

  “Thought I couldn’t get you, eh?” grinned Socks. “Well, I’m here. I’ve got you. Let’s see you take it!”

  Fiendishly, Socks pressed the trigger. The revolver boomed quick, successive shots.

  With the first discharge, Tony Loretti tumbled. Socks Mallory, driving the muzzle downward after each recoil, pumped lead into the big shot’s body.

  Six bullets - each delivered with equal venom. They were not directed with careful aim. Socks Mallory knew well enough that Tony Loretti would not survive this cannonade. As the final report echoed through the little office, Socks Mallory’s men switched out the lights.

  Total darkness persisted through the suite, until one man opened the door that led to the corridor, and fired wild shots like a paean of triumph. This was by Socks Mallory’s design. He wanted the world to know that he had given Tony Loretti the works.

  Music ended in the night club. Screams of women sounded from the big dining room. Then came shouts in the darkened corridors. Answering gun shots, delivered by detectives, came in response to the challenge which Socks Mallory had ordered.

  Beyond the screen, Police Commissioner Weston had heard the first echoes of the cannonade. The official leaped
to his feet and watched as he drew his automatic.

  Weems, at the other table, also pulled a revolver and stood in readiness. Lamont Cranston, however, was the one who acted with most promptitude.

  Rising with easy swiftness, the millionaire swept toward the screen and hovered there; holding the gun which Weston had given him. His keen eyes peered down the corridor, where the new series of shots were now in progress. With a motion of his hand, Cranston beckoned the police commissioner forward. With Weems at his heels, Weston hurried to the spot.

  Detectives were in the corridor. The door of the suite was open; Merton Hembroke was standing in the central office. The detective had turned on the light. Looking back, he spied Weston and called to the commissioner.

  “It started in here!” was Hembroke’s cry. “They must have gotten Loretti! Come on!”

  Detectives flocked to Hembroke’s aid. Commissioner Weston, with Lamont Cranston beside him, entered the central office to find that the detectives had spread into the other rooms of the suite. Another call came from Loretti’s office. Weston headed in that direction.

  WITH Cranston still beside him, Weston found Hembroke leaning over the prone body of Tony Loretti. The big shot was still alive. His lips were moving.

  “Who got you?” demanded Hembroke.

  “Socks - Socks Mallory,” came Loretti’s gasping words, “He - he and - some others. They - they -“

  Choking, his dark face twisted, the big shot coughed out his life. His body shook with a final tremor.

  Tony Loretti was dead.

  “There’s nobody in here,” came a voice at the door. It was Weems. “Where did they go, Hembroke?”

  “Search everywhere!” ordered Weston. “The corridors - the dressing rooms. Spread, men!”

  Detectives hurried to do the commissioner’s bidding. Weston snatched up the telephone from Loretti’s desk. He put in a call for headquarters. Within two minutes, he was talking to Inspector Klein.

  “A squad of men up to the Club Janeiro,” ordered Weston. “Just a moment, Klein - what resulted in the subway? The search there… Yes… No results, eh? Well, the answer is here… Yes, here at the Club Janeiro… Socks Mallory came here after his getaway… He’s murdered Tony Loretti… Get the men up here! I have Hembroke in charge!”

  Hembroke had left the death room during the commissioner’s call to Klein. The detective returned to discover Weston still beside the telephone.

  Loretti’s body lay unwatched upon the floor. Lamont Cranston, calmly smoking a cigarette, was standing in a corner of the office.

  “It beats me, commissioner,” admitted Hembroke. “Socks and whoever was with him have made a clean getaway. I thought we had them sure!”

  “What happened in the corridors?” inquired Weston.

  “We were posted at the ends,” explained Hembroke. “Two of us one way; two the other, so we could keep tabs on the outside. We heard the shots. We headed down together; had everything covered right.”

  “I was the first one on the job; I saw someone at the point where the corridors cross. I fired; but I had to be careful not to hit my men coming from the other direction.”

  Commissioner Weston nodded.

  “I figured,” continued Hembroke, “that the killers were heading out into the night club. I ordered the others to go that way, while I came in here. Then I saw you and Weems - and this gentleman who was with you.”

  “We came in from the night club,” explained Weston. “No one got away in that direction.”

  “It beats me,” repeated Hembroke. “Socks Mallory got out of these offices. We covered every way out. He may have headed for the night club; then doubled back and taken one of the side passages. That’s the only explanation.”

  “But how did he get in?” questioned the commissioner. “We searched this place; you looked through the dressing rooms before you posted your men.”

  “I know it,” admitted Hembroke.

  “At the same time,” went on Weston, “this is no more startling than the subway mystery. Mallory was trapped there this evening; yet he came here and killed Loretti!”

  SILENCE followed. Cranston puffed his cigarette while Weston and Hembroke stood in puzzlement. The other detectives were still searching outside and trying to restore order in the night club. This room where death had struck was like an oasis in a desert of confusion.

  Weems came in to announce that the entertainers wanted to get back to the dressing rooms. Senorita Pasquales was anxious to learn what had happened, Weems said.

  “Let them into the dressing rooms,” ordered Weston. “You take charge outside, Hembroke. Keep the senorita out for a while. Wait for Klein and his men; they will be here any minute now.”

  Hembroke and Weems departed. Commissioner Weston turned to Lamont Cranston.

  “This is amazing!” exclaimed Weston.

  In reply, Cranston passed the extra automatic to the commissioner.

  “I shall not require this any longer,” remarked the millionaire.

  “An amazing mystery,” repeated Weston, as he took the automatic from Cranston’s hand. “Socks Mallory wanted revenge. He had a grudge against Tony Loretti. I wonder, though, if there could be a further motive -“

  “Perhaps,” interposed Cranston, “it would be wise to examine that sheet of paper which is lying beneath your left foot. You brushed it from the table when you seized the telephone.”

  Commissioner Weston looked in the direction indicated. He picked up what appeared to be a blank piece of paper. When he turned it over, he saw that it was a page of figured tabulations. But the cash receipts of Tony Loretti’s racketeering were not the cause of the startled cry which came from Weston.

  In the center of the sheet, the commissioner saw an inky, crimson blotch. It was the signature of new crime plotted by a supercrook.

  “The Red Blot!”

  Weston uttered the name with a gasp. The hand of the hidden fiend was in back of this new murder.

  Grimly, the commissioner recalled Spider Carew’s words across the wire. Socks Mallory was working for The Red Blot! Here was the proof of the dead informant’s statement!

  “Cranston,” declared Weston solemnly, as he turned the paper so the millionaire could see it, “I advise you to stick to big-game hunting. Things like this are severe blows to those connected with the law. This is the sign of a master crook, an unknown criminal who has been called The Red Blot.”

  “We must investigate this. It will mean long, hopeless work. You have probably read in the newspapers how The Red Blot has been working. He has reached his zenith, tonight.”

  “Interesting,” was Cranston’s quiet comment. “Of course, Weston, I would not dispute with one who knows crime as well as you. But if you asked for my opinion -“

  “It would be?”

  “- that any crook clever enough to have perpetrated tonight’s crime is merely at the beginning of his schemes. Keep that paper, Weston. See if I am right.”

  Lamont Cranston extended his hand as a friendly token of departure. During that final grasp, he repeated his cold opinion.

  “The Red Blot,” remarked the millionaire, “will strike again - soon - and his next stroke will he more formidable than this or any that has preceded tonight’s murder!”

  COMMISSIONER WESTON found himself nodding as Cranston departed. There was a firm conviction in the quiet tone to which Weston had listened. The words of Lamont Cranston awoke vague dread in the commissioner’s mind.

  When Inspector Timothy Klein strode into the room a few minutes later, he found Commissioner Ralph Weston still holding the ledger sheet which bore the mark of The Red Blot.

  “Inspector,” ordered Weston, “post men here, and keep them on duty. Quiz every waiter; every one who might know anything. That includes the orchestra and the entertainers.”

  “Socks Mallory is the murderer - so Loretti said when he was dying - but The Red Blot is in back of this crime!”

  Outside the Club Janeiro, Lamont Cransto
n, in evening clothes, was strolling along the side street. In leisurely fashion, the millionaire flicked his cigarette over the curb; then stopped at a waiting taxicab. The driver grinned and opened the door.

  “Keep the ten dollars that I gave you,” remarked Cranston quietly. “It will cover the ride uptown and the time that you have been waiting.”

  “But there’s more than five dollars comin’ back to you -” The cab driver, hesitating, realized that mention of the money might cause him to lose the handsome tip.

  “Never mind the change,” smiled Cranston. “Drive me to Forty-ninth and Broadway; then turn west, and continue to Ninth Avenue. The ten-spot will be yours.”

  The driver nodded. Cranston entered the cab.

  While the vehicle rolled down Broadway, the passenger undertook a surprising transformation. Lifting the rear seat of the cab, he drew out black folds of cloth and the crushed shape of a slouch hat. The cloth became a cloak as it slipped over Cranston’s shoulders. The hat, implanted upon the millionaire’s head, completely concealed the rider’s features.

  Black gloves completed the metamorphosis. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. The tall form rested in darkness; the cab appeared to be empty. It was empty, shortly after the driver swerved west on Forty-ninth Street.

  As the cab slowed for traffic, the door on the right opened softly. A fleeting figure moved through darkness and dropped free of the cab as an invisible hand closed the door.

  A coupe was parked on the side street. With three long strides, The Shadow gained it unseen; a few moments later, he was behind the wheel of the automobile.

  WHEN the cab driver stopped at Ninth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, he was amazed to discover that his passenger was gone. Meanwhile, a trim coupe was wending its way southward down Eighth Avenue.

  A whispered laugh came from the unseen lips of the personage who drove that car. An echo of the past, The Shadow’s mirth carried a strange foreboding. It might have been a warning for those who dealt in crime.