The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  The newcomer’s face was one well known in the underworld of New York, although it had not been seen there for a long time. The visitor was Moocher Gleetz, the cracksman.

  Socks Mallory closed the steel door and conducted Moocher into the little office. The visitor spied the newspaper and emitted an eager grunt.

  “Say,” be exclaimed, “where’d you get this? The gang has all been wanting to lamp a paper - ever since last night -“

  “Let them wait a while,” growled Socks. “Look it over, Moocher. It’s got good news.”

  “How’d you get it?” inquired Moocher, as he picked up the sheet. “You been talking with The Blot?”

  “What do you think I’m doing in here?” queried Socks, with a rough laugh. “Playing solitaire? Sure, I’ve seen The Blot. Tell the gang that everything is O.K.”

  Moocher read the headlines and began to devour the story beneath them. He chuckled as he perused the details of the unsolved mystery at the Hotel Gigantic.

  “Five million bucks!” he exclaimed. “The news hounds got that part of it, didn’t they? But look here, Socks; there’s nothing here about the delivery of the dough. You told me that was fixed -“

  “The police managed to keep that part out,” grinned Socks. “Weston thinks he’s going to pull a fast one on us. Don’t worry. I’ll pick up that dough, in person - tonight! I just need a couple of the gang to help me, that’s all.”

  “O.K., Socks. That’s all I want to know.”

  “Five million tonight, Moocher. The other big job comes tomorrow night. After that, we can blow.”

  “How’s the big boy from Chicago?”

  “Resting nice, up at the other end of the hall. But he’s not going home, just yet. He knows too much of the game, now.”

  A TICKING clock on the desk showed eleven. This was indication that it was the morning following the episode at the Hotel Gigantic. Moocher Gleetz finished his study of the newspaper, and turned to Socks Mallory.

  “Say,” he questioned, “am I going with you tonight? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have me along.”

  “Not you, Moocher,” interrupted Socks. “I want you to watch the Club Janeiro.”

  “The bulls have left there,” objected Moocher. “They didn’t find anything.”

  “I know that. They moved out this morning. But I got a note from Juanita - and if she’s got the right dope, we’d better keep watching that place.”

  “You mean the bulls may be wise?”

  “No. They’re dumb. But there was a guy in the place last night who may be smart. You know that the police commissioner was there two nights ago, when I knocked off Tony Loretti. Well” - a sneer appeared upon Mallory’s ugly face - “he had a friend with him - a high-hat guy named Cranston. He’s the bird we’re watching. He was at the Club Janeiro last night.”

  “I get you. One of those smart babies that thinks he’s an amateur dick, eh? Going to wise up to something that fooled the commissioner.”

  “Right. That’s the way we figure him. Just the sort of bird who might fall into something. Well, we’re not taking any chances, Moocher. The place is clear now; and if he snoops around tonight, we’ll get him sure.”

  “I’m to watch for the signal?”

  “From the inside. Dynamite Hoskins is coming through tonight. We’ll need him for the big job. He’s got three gorillas with him, and they’re going to join up - but they’ll follow him. They’ll hold back; and if this bird Cranston snoops, you’ll get the signal from Juanita.”

  “Which will put the smart Aleck in between.”

  “You guessed it.”

  Moocher Gleetz strolled toward the door; then paused to light a cigarette.

  “Say, Socks,” he remarked, “maybe you pulled a boner knocking off Tony Loretti.”

  “Yeah?” queried Socks. “That’s my business, Moocher. What would you have done?”

  “Let him ride for a while.”

  “That shows just how much you don’t know. Loretti was a wise guy, Moocher. He had Juanita worried. She was afraid he’d find out the lay. That’s why The Blot said I could bump him. I wanted to get him, anyway.”

  “O.K.; but it brought the bulls to the Club Janeiro, didn’t it?”

  “What of it? They’ve gone away, haven’t they? They’re thinking about the Hotel Gigantic instead. Don’t be dumb, Moocher. When I started this racket with The Blot, the Club Janeiro was our best bet. It was the joint where we could get the gang to make the dive under cover when we needed them.

  “Along comes Loretti. Muscles in on my nightclub racket - I was going easy on it, too, because it was only a blind - and he grabs off the Club Janeiro. Then I got into trouble.”

  “Here, tonight, we’re waiting for Dynamite Hoskins. He had the date all set, long ago. He’s been out of New York. His orders were to come to the Club Janeiro and get the instructions there. I can’t give them to him - but Juanita can. Suppose Tony Loretti was there tonight? How would we tip off Dynamite?”

  “I get you now, Socks.”

  “It’s time you did. I handled things right when I gave Loretti the works. Slide along, Moocher. Tell the mob I’ll be out there soon. We’ve got them in a good humor. Let’s keep them that way.”

  “No trouble about that, Socks. There’s nowhere for them to go, Say - this is a great racket. Wouldn’t Joe Cardona and Mert Hembroke go goofy if they knew our lay?”

  “Slide along, Moocher. I’ll be seeing you.”

  AFTER Moocher had departed, Socks Mallory went to the left end of the corridor and opened the steel door that was located there. The gap revealed a passage that led to the right; also, a steep flight of steps that led downward until they disappeared in blackness. Socks followed the steps. He returned several minutes later, closed the corridor door, and went into the stonewalled office.

  From a drawer in the desk, Socks produced a folded sheet of paper. He spread it out before him. It was a large map of Manhattan; upon it were traced lines in inks of different colors. Socks gave a satisfied grunt as he surveyed this chart. Finally, he replaced the map in the drawer, a satisfied look on his features.

  A buzzer sounded; its note was different from the one which had announced Moocher Gleetz. Socks picked up a telephone from beside the desk. He was eager as he placed the receiver to his ear.

  “Hello,” he said. “Yes… Sure, I was just talking to Moocher… Yeah - he’ll take care of the Club Janeiro tonight… Right. I’ll stick here all day - any time I go out, I won’t be gone more than three or four minutes… Yeah, I can count on Moocher. He was O.K. the time we got the lay on Spider Carew. He passed the word to me quick that time.”

  Socks Mallory hung up the receiver. He leaned back in the chair, and grinned as he lighted a cigarette. This was the call he had been awaiting word from The Red Blot - the master mind whose identity Socks Mallory knew.

  All set for tonight. That had been the message. Much might happen between now and then, yet Socks felt no alarm. Success had been the watchword for The Red Blot’s crimes; once only, during the raid on the East Side Bank, had the schemes of the supercrook been offset.

  There was only one person who could have been responsible for that partial failure - The Shadow. Since then, however, there had been no further intervention. At last - Socks Mallory relished the thought - crime had been devised that was too much for even The Shadow to fathom!

  Moocher Gleetz, a squad of wanted men, all able criminals - they were The Red Blot’s mob. Under the direction of Socks, they had proven themselves a scourge. “Dynamite” Hoskins was joining them tonight, as another of Socks Mallory’s subordinates.

  Socks enjoyed a laugh as he thought of how little these mobsmen knew. To them, Socks Mallory was the leader, although they understood that an unknown chief - The Red Blot - stood above.

  Socks Mallory - The Red Blot’s right arm! But The Red Blot was not one-handed in his strokes against the law. He had a left arm also - another aid, whose identity was not even suspected.

  So
cks relished that thought, also. While he delivered the open blows, the man who served as left hand was used for secret thrusts. Therein lay The Red Blot’s might!

  Right and left - they had worked together. They would do so again, tonight. Should emergency arise before them, those aids of The Red Blot would cooperate whenever their services were required.

  Socks Mallory was wearing an air of gloating triumph when he left the little office and headed for the door at the right of the corridor. Satisfaction dominated his malicious mind. He was thinking again of the only menace whom the underworld feared - yet one who had failed to thwart The Red Blot.

  Socks Mallory was thinking of The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE SHADOW PREPARES

  AT the very time that Socks Mallory was thinking of such important personages as Ralph Weston and The Shadow, a visitor was being ushered into the office of the New York police commissioner. Weston, seated behind the huge glass-topped desk in his downtown office, was looking up to meet the keen eyes of Lamont Cranston. The millionaire was an unexpected caller.

  “Hello, Cranston,” greeted Weston briskly. “You caught me at a very busy time. What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing, since you are busy,” returned the millionaire, with a quiet smile. “I merely dropped in to learn if you could lunch with me at the Cobalt Club. I have not forgotten” - Cranston’s voice had a reflective monotone - “the interesting events of our last meeting.”

  “At the Club Janeiro,” responded Weston, “Quite a difference between that place and the Cobalt Club. If you crave the unusual, Cranston, I should advise you to choose a more likely spot than an exclusive meeting place such as the Cobalt Club.”

  “The Hotel Gigantic, for instance?” queried Cranston.

  Weston smiled grimly, Cranston had given a keen refutation to the commissioner’s suggestion. The reputation of the Hotel Gigantic allied it more closely with the Cobalt Club than with the Club Janeiro.

  From a man other than Lamont Cranston, Weston might have resented the inference. The police commissioner, however, had a respect for Cranston; and also recalled the aid which the millionaire had given him only two nights ago.

  “You have me this time,” admitted Weston. “Frankly, Cranston, this matter of The Red Blot is one which may crop out anywhere. Nevertheless -“

  Weston paused. He was on the point of discussing affairs with Cranston. The police commissioner had just returned from a visit to the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He had warned all concerned to preserve absolute secrecy regarding tonight’s arrangements.

  Lamont Cranston was lighting a cigarette. His keen eyes, peering past the illuminated lighter in his hand, were reading a penciled notation that lay upon the commissioner’s desk. A clever ruse, this. With the flame between himself and Cranston’s face, the commissioner could not detect the direction of the millionaire’s gaze.

  “We may be getting somewhere,” remarked Weston, in a noncommittal tone. “Doubtless, you have read of the latest outrage perpetrated by The Red Blot. This time, we are awaiting a definite follow-up on the part of the criminal.”

  “Collection of the five-million-dollar ransom?”

  “Exactly. That in itself, will be another crime - if The Red Blot attempts it. Until then - whenever it may be - I am too tied up to arrange luncheon engagements. Thanks for the invitation, Cranston -“

  “Don’t mention it,” interposed the millionaire, rising and extending his hand. “The invitation remains open, Weston. Let us set it for the day after The Red Blot has been brought to justice - and let us hope that the day will be soon.”

  LAMONT CRANSTON betrayed no smile when he descended in the elevator. The brain behind that impassive, masklike face was considering the very definite facts which this casual visit had revealed.

  To an ordinary person, the notations on Commissioner Weston’s pad might have meant nothing. To The Shadow - guised as Lamont Cranston - they had supplied all missing information needed in this case.

  Abbreviated references to “conference room,” “Amalgamated Building,” a time notation of nine thirty, the names of Hembroke and Cardona - these were clews to the very matter which The Shadow wished to learn at this time.

  Taking a cab, Lamont Cranston rode to the vicinity of the Amalgamated Building. This was the skyscraper which housed the offices of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Of recent construction, the building was modernistic in design. Its mighty mass pyramided from the street, in tapering, set-back fashion, which was capped by a tower-like succession of topmost floors.

  Leaving the cab, the millionaire entered the building and rode up to the fifth floor. He entered the anteroom of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. He inquired for Dobson Pringle. The girl informed him that the president had gone out to lunch. It was now twelve fifteen, and he had gone out at noon.

  The observant eyes of Lamont Cranston were busy as the girl spoke. Peering through the glass partition that separated the anteroom from the office itself, Cranston noted the simple arrangements.

  There were many desks upon the floor, and the farther end of the room was divided into smaller offices, which served for the chief officials of the organization. In the corner directly opposite the anteroom was the solid wall of a room which cut a square chunk from the floor space. There was a single door to this apartment. Upon it were the words:

  Conference Room.

  Lamont Cranston idled toward the elevators after remarking that he would call to see Dobson Pringle at some other time. He rode down to the street and strolled along for half a block, before he turned to study the pyramided structure from this distance.

  He noted the exact location of the office which he had left. A thin, wan smile rested upon his lips. Lamont Cranston suddenly joined the throng of people who were passing. From then on, his course was untraceable.

  SOME time afterward, a light clicked and darkness was dispelled from a solemn, hushed abode. Blue rays flickered upon a polished table top. White hands appeared beneath the focused glare. The brilliance of the sparkling girasol threw off constant color-changing flashes.

  The Shadow was in his sanctum. The clock was not upon the table this afternoon. There was time for deliberation. Envelopes opened; clippings and reports fell beneath The Shadow’s hands.

  Most of the latest data dealt with the mystery that had occurred in the Hotel Gigantic. The Shadow laid these clippings aside. They told the same story - an amazing abduction; a demand for five million dollars. They cried out the name of The Red Blot, and shouted for the capture of the supercrook.

  But not one report carried the essential information regarding tonight’s meeting at the Amalgamated Building. That had been suppressed by Commissioner Weston.

  The Shadow laughed. His hand began to inscribe words in bluish ink upon a blank sheet of paper. These notations were a summary of his conclusions.

  The Red Blot will send his emissary to collect the ransom. Nine

  thirty tonight, in the conference room of the Amalgamated Building

  Association. Police will be there to seize the agent.

  They will not succeed. The Red Blot has planned too well. The

  emissary will leave - with or without the five million. In either

  case, no injury will be done. To thwart that arrangement would prove

  futile. The Red Blot will not appear in person.

  To the police will go the task of following that emissary.

  Their work will be unsuccessful. The only way to reach The Red Blot

  is to find his headquarters secretly. There, his arrival must be

  awaited. His plans must be foiled at their inception.

  The words remained in view for a short while; then, like fleeting thoughts, they began to disappear. One by one, in the order of their writing, the words vanished and left the pure blank sheet. Again, the whispered laugh of The Shadow sounded ominously in that black-walled room.

  The hand inscribed a ne
w paragraph:

  The Red Blot has many henchmen. Their ways are hidden. There are

  avenues of escape which they can follow. These must be discovered.

  Lives are at stake; villains are at large. The innocent must be

  protected; the guilty must pay the penalty.

  The words vanished as The Shadow again indulged in a burst of sinister mockery that came back in vague echoes from the weird hangings of the walls.

  Another envelope was opened by the hands. It contained a report sheet, written in coded words. The Shadow read the message as quickly as if it had been in ordinary writing. The blue-inked inscription disappeared.

  That was the way with The Shadow’s messages. By use of a special fluid, the ink, after drying, vanished from contact with the air. This was a note from Harry Vincent, one of The Shadow’s agents.

  OLD clippings were handy with the message. They referred to one event: the strange disappearance of Hubert Craft, prominent architect, whose upset boat had been discovered in Long Island Sound some weeks ago.

  Harry Vincent, investigating, had learned nothing. Craft frequently went to his Long Island boathouse and set forth upon the Sound. One night the boat had gone out. It had not returned. Craft had been in New York during the evening. He had not been seen since that time.

  What had become of Hubert Craft?

  The Shadow answered the question in enigmatic fashion. His hand appeared with a pen, and the fingers, with a quick shake, sent a blob of crimson ink upon a blank sheet of paper. The ominous fluid spread in grotesque form, and shone amid the light from above.

  The Red Blot!

  The disappearance of Hubert Craft had preceded the appearance of that insidious symbol. The discovery of The Red Blot, himself, would answer the other question. Hubert Craft and The Red Blot! There was an indelible link between them!

  What did The Shadow intend to do?

  Mystery had thickened; five million dollars was at stake. Two men had been abducted: Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary, Crozer. This meeting at the conference room of the Amalgamated Builders might hold the secret of the riddle. Would The Shadow be there?