The Red Blot s-31

by Maxwell Grant

  Cushman paused to stare at Dobson Pringle. The president of the association was staring beyond Cushman’s shoulder, his face aghast. Other directors saw his look; they swung in the same direction - toward the entrance from the anteroom. An evil laugh greeted them.

  FOUR men, each holding a heavy revolver, had entered the conference room! The leader, who stood a pace ahead of the others, was a pudgy-nosed, ugly-jawed individual, whose roughened cheeks made his appearance more formidable.

  “Stick ‘em up!” came the man’s growl.

  A thrust of the revolver caused all hands to raise. Gasps came from trembling directors; another growl silenced these audible expressions.

  “No noise, get me?” said the rough-faced man. “If there’s going to be noise, I’ll make it, with this gat! I’m the guy you’re expecting. Socks Mallory - working for The Red Blot. Shove over that kale!”

  Before any of the astounded men could respond, Socks acted for himself. He stepped forward and upset the box; his big paw spread out treasury certificates of thousand-dollar denominations.

  “We’ll count it later,” laughed Socks. “If there’s any short of five million, you birds will pay the difference. You’ll pay hard, too.”

  He beckoned to his men; as they approached, Socks replaced the stacks of bills that he had disturbed. He pocketed his revolver, closed the box, and hoisted it under his arm. With an ugly leer, Socks sidled away from the table, carrying his burden of wealth.

  “If you stick where you are,” warned Socks, “nobody’s going to get hurt. We’ve got the dough - that’s all we want. But we’re going to blast our way out of here - and we don’t want trouble from the inside. Get me?”

  Socks reached the little anteroom. His men, retreating as a protecting cordon, followed. The light switch was at the door of the conference room. A growl came from Socks. One of the mobsters extinguished the lights.

  Then came shots.

  Bullets ricocheted against the walls. The outer door was opened. Heavy fire was breaking loose. Of the directors, Felix Cushman was the only one who kept his nerve, while the others dived for the shelter of the table. In the darkness, Cushman leaped to his feet, pulled out a revolver, and blazed away blindly through the darkness, hoping to hit any of the robbers who might be forced to retreat.

  Cushman reached the door of the anteroom. Beyond, he could hear the shots of the detectives as they took up the fire.

  Lights came on in the outer office. Cushman saw them as he opened the door. Out at the entrance to the corridor, Detective Morton Hembroke was firing his revolver. Answering shots reechoed from the distance.

  “Come on, men!” shouted Hembroke. “They’ve got to double back this way! We’ll hold it here!”

  The other detectives joined Hembroke. Cushman stood grim, while Pringle and the directors came crowding up in back of him as their protector. Shots outside; then came the swarthy face of Joe Cardona, in from the corridor.

  “Did you get them?” came his question.

  “Get them?” echoed Hembroke. “They broke through this way -“

  “Up toward the other end of the corridor then!” exclaimed Cardona.

  Lights were on in the corridor now; detectives came around the turn at the opposite end. They stopped in amazement as Cardona approached them on the run.

  “Where did they go, Joe?” came the demand.

  “Your way!” cried the ace detective.

  “Not this direction!” returned a detective.

  Police Commissioner Ralph Weston appeared suddenly from an office doorway. He saw the signs of confusion, and put forth an angry question.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “A false alarm?”

  SHOULDERING his way through the detectives, Weston reached the office of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Hembroke was standing there; he joined the commissioner as Weston strode up to Felix Cushman.

  “What started it?” he questioned. “What began all this shooting at nothing?”

  “What started it?” Cushman raised his voice to a snarl. “I’ll tell you what started it! Four men marched into this conference room and grabbed five million dollars! What’s the matter with your crowd of flatfeet! Where’s the gang that took our money?”

  Weston stared incredulously. He could see by the expressions of the other directors that Felix Cushman was stating simple facts. The commissioner turned to Hembroke.

  “What happened out here?” he queried.

  “They came out this way,” returned Hembroke. “We were way up at the end - pretty far, but the only place we could be. They must have suspected we were there. They started shooting toward us. What about it, boys?”

  “Right,” agreed the men who had been in the other offices.

  “I hopped out,” asserted Hembroke. “Dropped behind a desk - had it all picked - and fired back. The crooks fired wild, and I shouted to the boys to pile out.”

  “Then what?” questioned Weston.

  “I figured they’d head for the corridors,” resumed Hembroke. “If they doubled back into the conference room, we’d have them sure. So we came up to cut them off - expecting Cardona would be on the job outside. I saw some figures in the light from the window. I kept on firing - so did my men.”

  “They didn’t double back!” exclaimed Cushman.

  “Not a bit of it,” added Hembroke. “I knew that when I saw you at the door.”

  “They left the conference room,” asserted one of the directors. “They did not come back.”

  His companions nodded their absolute conviction of that statement.

  Weston wheeled to Cardona.

  “There was a lot of fireworks in the hall,” said the commissioner coldly. “It looks as though Hembroke drove the crooks right into your hands, Cardona. What about it?”

  “They didn’t come my way,” returned Cardona. “I had good men posted at the other end of the hallway.”

  “This has been a big mistake,” said Commissioner Weston sadly. “Four bandits run out into a corridor. They are blocked from both directions, and they make a getaway.”

  “It’s not the first time The Red Blot’s men have pulled a slip like that,” declared Cardona. “I don’t know how they do it - but they have a way of sliding into nowhere -“

  “Except the time when Hembroke got two of them in the pawnshop,” broke in Weston furiously. “I put the wrong man on the outside; that’s all. Hembroke should have had that job - not you, Cardona! Get going, men! Through the building! Search everywhere! You’re in charge from now on, Hembroke. You stay here, Cardona!”

  Four armed bandits. Five million dollars. The Red Blot. Such were the thoughts that flashed through Joe Cardona’s brain as he dejectedly heard Commissioner Weston argue the situation with Felix Cushman.

  Well did Joe Cardona know what the result of this episode would be. Once again, he had been totally tricked by the cunning of The Red Blot. This would be the end of Joe Cardona’s career as a detective.

  There were other times when Cardona had experienced failure. But never before had a rival such as Merton Hembroke shown superior craft. Hembroke had gained some credit tonight. He had done all that could have been expected. Cardona was the one who had failed.

  The Red Blot!

  Cardona felt that he was helpless before the machinations of that supermind of crime. Failure tonight. Tomorrow, his resignation from the force. It would be expected.

  How could one cope with amazing mobsters who vanished within the tightness of a cordon? Cardona heard Cushman giving Weston the name of Socks Mallory. So that murderer was in again - and Cardona had failed to find a single clew to his whereabouts!

  Dully, Cardona knew that he was beaten. There were times when aid had come for him from a strange source - from a personage in whom Commissioner Weston expressed disbelief, but whom Cardona knew to be real - The Shadow.

  This time, there had been no such aid; could be no such help. The Red Blot was a master crook beyond all credible belief. Even The Shadow,
Cardona decided, could not salvage the hopeless cause that now existed!

  CHAPTER XX

  FINAL PLANS

  A DOOR opened at the end of a stonewalled corridor. An ugly laugh sounded as Socks Mallory, chuckling to men whom he had just left, entered and closed the heavy door behind him. The Red Blot’s mob leader was back in the passage that led from door to door with the stonewalled office at the side.

  Under his arm, Socks was lugging the box that contained five million dollars. He strode into the underground office, and plunked the container upon the desk. Then, pushing that article of furniture aside, he drew a steel blade from his pocket, and pressed it into a crevice of the stone flooring.

  A click; Socks gripped a slab with his fingers, and raised the blocking stone. A large cavity lay beneath; into it, Socks dropped the box of wealth. The murderer chuckled as he replaced the closely fitting slab.

  Something was creeping along the floor; something that Socks did not see. It was not a solid object, although it moved as though imbued with life. It was a spreading black blotch that came from the door to the stonewalled corridor.

  That patch of darkness was the token of a living presence. It told that The Shadow was close by! Socks, unsuspecting, arose and pushed the desk back into its place. He sat down in the chair and indulged in an evil chuckle.

  A buzzer sounded. It was the signal from the outer door. Socks arose. Before he had turned, that long stretch of blackness faded with magical speed. It withdrew not only to the corridor; it continued clear to the end.

  Socks, stepping through the doorway, headed in the opposite direction. He admitted two men: Moocher Gleetz and Dynamite Hoskins. They followed him into the office.

  “Everything went great, eh, Socks?” was Moocher’s first question.

  “Yeah,” returned Socks. “It always goes great with me, Moocher. How about you?”

  Moocher Gleetz hesitated. Socks eyed him narrowly. Both men were intent; so was Dynamite Hoskins, who looked on without fully understanding.

  None of the trio noted the phenomenon which had occurred before; the approaching blackness of a silhouette that crept in from the doorway. “Well,” declared Moocher, “here’s Dynamite Hoskins.”

  “I can see that,” retorted Socks. “What about the guy you were supposed to finish?”

  “Not so good, Socks.”

  “What! You didn’t get him?”

  “Maybe - maybe not. I couldn’t wait to see -“

  “Come on - quit stalling! What happened?”

  “I went up to the Club Janeiro,” stated Moocher. “I had two gorillas with me. Dynamite came through. I sent him on ahead. Then came the buzzer. Juanita’s signal. I knew that Cranston was snooping, and that Dynamite’s gorillas were on his trail. So I sent my men in.”

  “Somehow, that guy must have cornered Dynamite’s mob. That’s the only way I could figure it. First thing I knew - I was back in the corner - my two men pile through the door, and this guy Cranston shoots them down. I didn’t see him do it. I just saw the lights go out - heard the old gat do its work. Saw them flop, too!”

  “Everything broke loose. Some guy made a getaway out through the door of that middle office. I hopped out there and started to open the door. People were coming in from the night club. I dived back to the corner and came through with Dynamite.”

  “Fine stuff,” ejaculated Socks. “Five gorillas against one silk hat. Say - the way you talk, you’d think that guy Cranston was The Shadow!”

  “I’m not saying he got away,” retorted Moocher. “I’m just saying I don’t know whether or not they got him. He bumped my two gorillas - I know that. But maybe Dynamite’s crew got him. Maybe it was one of those boys that scrammed.”

  “Let it ride,” growled Socks. “If it was Cranston who got away, he’s probably still running. He’ll be too scared to come back. Those boiled-shirt boys seem to fall into luck sometimes. I thought you’d bring him in here, dress suit and all. We’ve got a good graveyard for stiffs like him. Forget it; if he shows up again, I’ll get the tip-off from Juanita.”

  THE matter settled, Socks Mallory turned to Dynamite Hoskins and gave the full-faced man a friendly poke in the ribs.

  “What do you think of our layout, Dynamite?” grinned Socks. “Didn’t expect it to be as sweet as this, did you?”

  “Greatest thing I ever saw,” returned Dynamite.

  “You’ve got a lot to see yet,” declared Socks. “They talk about the underworld. We’ve got the real underworld right here. It’s the works. Pick your spot - anywhere around Manhattan. I’ll tell you whether or not we can take a crack at it. Say - we’ve been running the bulls around in loops. I’ll bet Joe Cardona will be ready to quit after tonight.”

  “What about this guy Hembroke?” questioned Moocher.

  “Him?” Socks grinned, then changed his expression to a serious one. “Say - I’m telling you straight - he’s the one guy who could make trouble for us. But he won’t get the chance. Leave that to The Blot, Say - he knows his stuff, The Blot does.”

  After this reference to the hidden chief, Socks quickly changed the subject. He came down to definite business with Dynamite Hoskins.

  “We’ve got you in for the big job, Dynamite,” declared Socks. “Tomorrow, we’ll fix up the lay. You’ve heard of Galladay’s, haven’t you?”

  Socks grinned as he made his reference to a huge jewelry concern that was known throughout the world.

  “Well,” continued Socks, “that’s the nut we’re going to crack. In again - out again; and you’re going to help us.”

  “Galladay’s!” exclaimed Dynamite. “Say, Socks, have you gone cuckoo? You can’t crack that joint. Since they moved into that new Fifth Avenue Building of theirs -“

  “That’s just it,” interposed Socks. “It’s our gravy - that place. It’s going to take two nice socks of TNT, though - and that’s where you come in.”

  “Two?” questioned Dynamite.

  “Sure,” returned Socks. “One to get into the joint; the other to cover up after we come out. This is one time we’re going to make a straight getaway - and we’re going to leave nothing behind us.”

  Socks paused to let his words sink in. Then, as an encouraging thought, he added:

  “Listen, Dynamite Hoskins - you, too, Moocher. This is going to be up in the millions, this job. Galladay’s have got a lot of European crown jewels in that place of theirs. Say - we can all call it quits after this haul.”

  “That’s the way The Blot figures. He’s going to be in on this job himself - working with us. You get your charges set - when The Blot is ready, we’ll start. Then - well, the whole world is where we’ll go!”

  “What about old Million Nibs from Chicago?” questioned Moocher. “Him and the others - like that fellow Carmody you dragged in early this evening.”

  “There’ll be a sweet fade-out for them,” laughed Socks. “Don’t worry about that. Come on” - Socks rose as he spoke - “we’ll go out with the boys. I won’t hear from The Blot for a while yet.”

  THE long streak of blackness faded from the floor. Socks Mallory and his companions left the office, and went toward the door at the right of the corridor.

  It was after their departure that the black blotch again manifested itself. This time it crept farther and farther inward, until it had assumed unusual proportions. Then, in the doorway, loomed the figure that had caused the creeping silhouette.

  The Shadow, amazing as a specter, stood within the confines of the stonewalled room. His black cloak drawn close about him; his features hidden by the brim of the slouch hat, the master of mystery was alone.

  This room had resounded with Socks Mallory’s gleeful chuckles. It was due to reverberate with a more sinister sound. Weirdly, the laugh of The Shadow cast its eerie whisper among the echoing walls.

  The tall figure moved toward the desk. The Shadow made no effort to push the object aside. The millions were safe. He had no need to touch them now.

  His gloved hand p
icked up the telephone. The same hand replaced it. The desk drawer opened at The Shadow’s touch. Out came the folded map of Manhattan which Socks Mallory had consulted on the previous night.

  With it were other papers. The Shadow spread them before him. They were the plans which Carlton Carmody had brought into the consultation room. The Shadow noted the splotches of red drawing ink which the architect had applied to certain spots.

  The plans went back into the drawer. It was the map of New York which intrigued The Shadow. His gloved forefinger traced red lines. The pointer stopped on certain spots.

  The Shadow was following the very thoughts which Carlton Carmody had expressed. The Stellar Theater Building; the Hotel Gigantic; the Amalgamated Building. The Shadow kept on. His finger marked a red line that led to the new Galladay Building. Then, with final action, it pointed to a short line that terminated in a spot some distance from Times Square.

  The Shadow knew that location. The Falconette Apartments - one of the most exclusive places on Park Avenue. Like the Galladay Building, the Falconette Apartments had been built by the Amalgamated Builders.

  The Shadow’s laugh was like a dying whisper. Its echoes clung to stone walls even after the map had been folded and replaced in the drawer. Those sounds persisted after the departure of that black-garbed phantom. They continued when the final traces of his silhouette had vanished, in creeping fashion, from the floor.

  The Shadow followed the corridor to the end; not the way that Socks Mallory had gone - that offered nothing new to The Shadow - but in the opposite direction. The door opened; the black form then disappeared down the stone steps.

  Minutes later, the vague swish of a cloak announced The Shadow’s return. There was a passage to the right. The Shadow took it. The tall, ghostly shape was lost in the gloom.

  Some time later, a man in evening clothes appeared in the quiet lobby of the Falconette Apartments. He carried what appeared to be an opera cloak upon his arm. Its folds concealed the odd shape of a slouch hat.