The Shadow knew what Commissioner Weston did not know; that the crimes of The Red Blot must be dependent upon some plan of action that was unknown in the annals of New York police experience.
There was purpose behind each crime; this mysterious killing of Tony Loretti was more than a mere feud. How was Socks Mallory evading the police so successfully? Where was Moocher Gleetz? The Shadow wanted the answers to these questions.
Working in darkness, The Shadow had ignored The Red Blot in order to search for Spider Carew’s hiding place. He had found that spot too late. Once again, The Shadow would take up the trail of one who would lead him to the source.
Socks Mallory! He was The Shadow’s quarry now. His trail had ended at the Club Janeiro; from that spot, The Shadow would take it up once the police surveillance had lifted.
New crimes might occur in the meantime, but The Shadow would not abandon this definite quest.
Again The Red Blot! That supercrook had become a colossus of the underworld. His identity was unknown, even to The Shadow; but his hand could be detected.
The Shadow, past master in the war against crime, was ready to deliver a counterthrust!
CHAPTER XII
THE RED BLOT SPREADS
THE menace of The Red Blot had become a hideous reality. The next day’s newspapers were filled with accounts of the slaying in the subway and the murder of Tony Loretti.
The two crimes had been linked; and the appearance of The Red Blot’s crimson symbol at the Club Janeiro was sufficient proof that the master crook had ordained the death of Spider Carew. For in each instance the police knew the identity of the killer - Socks Mallory.
Public opinion seemed to grasp the very thought that Lamont Cranston had expressed to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. The crimes of The Red Blot had merely passed the preliminary stage. Some great outrage was due to occur soon.
The methods of The Red Blot were modern. Established as the most insidious criminal that New York had ever known, he had spread a pall of terror throughout Manhattan. His crimes had been swift and varied; none knew where he might strike next.
Speculation was rife. Men of important affairs felt unsafe. Some great crime was brewing, and the versatility of The Red Blot was a pressing threat. Wherever people discussed current events, mention of The Red Blot was made.
“Read about de Red Blot! Tony Loretti moidered by de Red Blot! Police still hunting for de killer!”
A newsboy’s cry came to the ears of two men who were riding up Broadway in a taxicab. One of the hearers - an elderly, gray-haired gentleman, turned to his young companion and asked a question:
“What is The Red Blot, Crozer? That is the second newsboy who has been shouting about it.”
“The Red Blot is a criminal, sir,” responded Crozer. “The New York newspapers have been filled with accounts of his activities. I was reading the latest news while we were coming in on the Limited this afternoon.”
“I have not looked at today’s newspapers,” remarked the elderly gentleman. “But I do not recall any mention of The Red Blot in the Chicago journals that I read yesterday.”
“That is readily explainable, Mr. Woodstock,” rejoined the young man. “There were two bold murders committed last night by a man believed to be in The Red Blot’s service. It is sensational news today, sir.”
The elderly man nodded; then his thoughts drifted to more important matters. Yet he could not help but draw a contrast between what the newspapers accepted as news, and the factors which they ignored.
While an unknown criminal - The Red Blot - was receiving tremendous headlines, Selfridge Woodstock, leading financier of the Middle West, had arrived unannounced in Manhattan, accompanied by his secretary, to arrange a series of building operations that would involve one hundred million dollars.
Selfridge Woodstock smiled. Long after The Red Blot had been forgotten, the people of Manhattan would stare in admiration at the tremendous structures created through the financial genius of this builder from the Middle West.
IT was evening on Broadway. Early lights were blazing at Times Square when the taxicab turned right and rolled toward a massive building which occupied an entire block. Crozer, the secretary, spoke to his employer.
“This is the Hotel Gigantic, Mr. Woodstock,” remarked the young man. “It is the latest building erected by the Amalgamated Builders.”
“An excellent place to hold our meeting,” smiled Woodstock, as he alighted from the cab.
Within the gorgeous lobby of the Gigantic, Crozer made an inquiry at the desk; then announced to Woodstock that the meeting was being held on the twenty-fourth floor. The two men entered an elevator and rode swiftly upward.
On the twenty-fourth floor, they turned along a corridor and followed it until Crozer stopped at a door near the end. A knock; the door opened; and the visitors walked in to receive a welcome.
A tall, gray-haired man in a gray suit gave Selfridge Woodstock a friendly smile and handclasp. Woodstock had met this chap before. Dobson Pringle, the virile president of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association. Pringle introduced Woodstock to a group of directors.
There was only one who impressed the Chicago man. That was Felix Cushman, chairman of the directors. Cushman was a stocky, black-haired man with quick eyes and a protruding lower lip.
There was a large table in the center of the room. Pringle and Cushman together ushered Selfridge Woodstock to the principal chair, and the rest of the group seated themselves.
Pringle, glancing about, noted a quiet, white-haired man who had been standing at the side of the room. He beckoned and introduced this individual to Woodstock.
“Mr. Carlton Carmody,” announced Pringle. “Our chief architect. A very capable man, Mr. Woodstock. Very capable.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Carmody,” said Woodstock, in a friendly tone. “Any man responsible for the plans of so excellent a building as this great hotel is indeed worthy of commendation.”
“I did not design the Hotel Gigantic,” remarked Carmody, with a smile. “It was the work of Hubert Craft.”
“Indeed, yes!” exclaimed Woodstock, turning to Pringle. “I remember now. A wonderful architect, Craft. Interesting chap, too, though eccentric. I understood he died a few months ago.”
“He did,” informed Pringle. “Overturned in a pleasure boat on Long Island Sound. Poor old Craft - he was our chief architect for more than seven years. Long experience before that. He was connected with the city for many years.”
Felix Cushman was tapping lightly on the table. His dark eyes were directed toward Pringle. The president of the association nodded.
“This is a directors’ meeting,” declared Cushman bluntly. “Our time is very valuable tonight. You will excuse me if I seem brusque, Mr. Woodstock. I believe in efficiency. You have our prospectus there, Pringle? Will you read it, please?”
Dobson Pringle brought out a large document from his portfolio. He began to read aloud. Selfridge Woodstock listened thoughtfully, his chin resting in his hand. Felix Cushman, firm in gaze, watched the old financier intently.
THE document concerned the reorganization of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association, dependent entirely upon the cooperation of interests controlled by Selfridge Woodstock of Chicago. With the support of the Western financier it would be possible to institute a building campaign on a vaster scale than any previously attempted.
When Pringle had finished his reading, Selfridge Woodstock turned to his secretary. He asked for notes which Crozer had been making. Referring to these, Woodstock put forward questions.
It was Felix Cushman who gave answer. One by one, the chairman of directors defined the clauses, while Crozer made new notations. When this discussion had been completed, Selfridge Woodstock eyed the black-haired man squarely and put an important question.
“What,” he asked, “are the available funds of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association?”
“The list,” said Cushman to Pringle. The president pr
oduced it. Woodstock studied the figures.
“Fifty million dollars,” declared Woodstock. “These are ready funds - at least negotiable securities which can be promptly liquidated?”
“Positively,” announced Cushman.
“That is all I care to know, gentlemen,” decided Woodstock. “Crozer, how much time do we have to catch the Bar Harbor Express?”
“Thirty minutes, sir.”
Then Selfridge Woodstock arose and smiled. He noted the anxious look on the faces watching him. His smile broadened.
“I am going to my Maine lodge tonight, gentlemen,” he said. “This appointment was planned as a little stopover on the way.
“Perhaps you may be surprised to know that I do business in such short time; but that happens to be the way of my choice. Your proposition suits me. I shall be glad to invest the fifty million dollars which you require to proceed with the new enterprise.”
A gasp passed around the group.
These men had expected a refusal from the financier, so quickly had his decision been made. Instead, Selfridge Woodstock had accepted their terms without question!
Words of appreciation were coming from all sides. Selfridge Woodstock, donning coat and hat with Crozer’s aid, was still smiling at the sensation which he had created. He shook hands around the group; then added a few words.
“My word is my bond, gentlemen,” declared Woodstock. “I shall be in Maine one week; then to Chicago by way of Canada. Send the papers to my office there; send your representative. I shall go through with the deal exactly as you have proposed it.”
Nodding his good-bye, Selfridge Woodstock left the room, accompanied by Crozer. The financier’s last glimpse was one of beaming faces, among which those of Dobson Pringle and Felix Cushman predominated.
SELFRIDGE WOODSTOCK chuckled as he walked along the silent corridor with his secretary. When they reached the elevators, Crozer pushed the button, and smiled at his employer’s good humor. Selfridge Woodstock loved the element of surprise, and he utilized it even in the most important transactions.
“They didn’t know,” said the financier, “that I was sold on their proposition before I came here. Fifty million dollars! No wonder it took their breath, Crozer. They have that amount themselves, but it represents the investment of several moneyed men.”
A man had stepped from another corridor while Selfridge Woodstock was speaking. His hat was pulled low over his features. His hands were in his pockets.
The metal door of the elevator shaft slid open. Woodstock and Crozer boarded the car; the stranger followed them. The door slid shut. The stranger brought his hand from his coat pocket. Something glimmered as he delivered a ferocious blow to the hack of the operator’s head.
As the attendant fell, the ruffian turned and covered Woodstock and Crozer with the weapon he had used. It was a large revolver.
Instinctively, the financier and his secretary raised their hands. They saw a fierce, unshaven face confronting them - features which marked this man as the daring criminal whom the New York police now sought - Socks Mallory, right arm of The Red Blot!
With his left hand, Socks managed the elevator control. The car shot down the shaft, floor after floor. The swift descent decreased in speed. Socks Mallory brought the car to a stop and opened the door.
Woodstock and his secretary found themselves staring into the muzzles of three more revolvers. They realized, from the darkness outside the car, that they were at the very bottom of the shaft,
“Get out,” growled Socks Mallory, thrusting his gun forward. “Make it fast!”
The two men walked from the car, stepping down to a cement floor. A small opening yawned ahead of them. With mobsters jostling them with guns, the prisoners were thrust into a narrow, descending passageway.
They could hear Socks Mallory talking to another man behind them. The gang leader was giving instructions. There was a grunted response; a few seconds later, the elevator door shut.
Flashlights glimmered, to show a passageway through solid rock.
With Socks Mallory prodding from in back, the prisoners were hurried forward.
The Red Blot had spread tonight. The minions of that mighty crook had spirited away the richest financier of the Middle West, from the midst of the Hotel Gigantic!
CHAPTER XIII
THE ULTIMATUM
THE departure of Selfridge Woodstock and his secretary had left the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association in high fettle. Felix Cushman, the sharp-visaged chairman of the board, was prompt to state the importance of what had occurred.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this means absolute success to our projects. By acquiring the cooperation of Selfridge Woodstock, by gaining his consent to duplicate the amount of our resources, we have assured ourselves against unexpected competition. Our president, Mr. Pringle, can tell you that.”
Pringle was nodding solemnly.
“Yes,” he asserted, “there is every reason to believe that Woodstock intended to put his money into building operations, here in New York. I have dealt with Woodstock before; I knew him to be a man of quick and definite decisions. We have gained Woodstock’s support; moreover, we will not lose him, now that he has decided to go with us.”
“We have made millions here tonight,” added Cushman. “Pringle says that he will not lose Woodstock. I tell you that we cannot afford to lose him. We have large resources, but they would not be large enough to offset any combination that might be formed to compete with us. Woodstock, however, has settled everything in our favor.
“I tell you again, gentlemen, those few minutes that he was here were worth millions to all of you who have large holdings in Amalgamated Builders!”
The directors, men of many millions, responded warmly to these statements. Cushman, the wealthiest of all, came in for strong approval. Pringle, too, was given his share of commendation. Although a comparatively small holder of Amalgamated securities, Pringle’s position as president made him important.
Pringle had for years been connected with New York building promoters. He had, in a way, been inherited by Amalgamated Builders when a smaller concern had been absorbed by the large association.
Next to Pringle, Amalgamated had possessed Hubert Craft, the celebrated architect who had designed the most modern of the buildings which Amalgamated had promoted.
Pringle, now, made reference to the dead architect, in a thoughtful tone.
“This would have been glorious for Craft,” remarked the president. “Gentlemen, our new projects will include some of the finest structures that will appear upon Manhattan’s sky line!”
“We can count on Carmody,” mentioned one of the directors.
This was the first reference to the architect who now served as successor to Hubert Craft. Still standing by the wall, Carmody acknowledged the compliment with a short bow.
A retiring, noncommittal sort of man, Carmody had plodded on to his present position of importance. Nevertheless, his ability in building design had gained him merited recognition.
A TELEPHONE began to ring. Noting that the directors were again engaged in conversation, Carmody answered it. Talk ceased while the others listened to the architect’s words.
“Mr. Pringle?” queried Carmody. “He’s here… Yes… I understand… Wait a moment - you say it has been waiting for him, and should be delivered now… At the desk… One moment, please…”
Carmody covered the mouthpiece and turned to the men at the large table.
“An odd message for you, Mr. Pringle,” the architect announced. “Someone says that he left a message for you at the desk, in the lobby; but it was not to be delivered until you call for it.”
“Who is on the wire?” questioned Pringle.
“I don’t know,” returned Carmody. “A voice that I never heard before. Insisting that you get the message at the desk.”
Pringle arose and came over to the telephone. He took the instrument from Carmody, and began to speak. He heard a voice cut
off at the other end.
“This is Mr. Pringle,” the president stated. “Who are you?”
No reply.
Pringle looked puzzled. He jiggled the hook. The hotel operator responded. Pringle began to complain that his call had been cut off; then changed to tell the operator to give him the desk.
“Hello,” he said. “This is Dobson Pringle. You have a message there for me?… Very good… I was to call for it, eh?… Send it up to the twenty-fourth floor… Yes, where the Amalgamated Builders’ Association is holding its directors’ meeting.”
PRINGLE put down the telephone and went back to the table, He resumed his conversation with the directors. Between three and four minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Carmody answered it, and received a square envelope. He tipped the attendant, dismissed him, and brought the message to Pringle.
The building president uttered an ejaculation of surprise, as he showed the envelope to Felix Cushman. Although it bore the name of Dobson Pringle on the wrapper, it was also marked in the corner, with underscored words:
For the Directors.
Both Pringle’s name and this notation were inscribed in red ink. The president opened the envelope and spread a sheet of paper on the table. He stared at red-inked lines.
With Felix Cushman looking over his shoulder, Pringle slowly read these words, in an astounded voice:
“To Dobson Pringle and those concerned with the management of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association:
“You have just completed a fifty million-dollar agreement with Selfridge Woodstock of Chicago. You hold the agreement; but I hold Woodstock.
“He will not be released until you have made the arrangements which I require. My agent will call at your conference room in the Amalgamated Building tomorrow night at half past nine.
“At that time, you will deliver to him the sum of five million dollars, in cash or negotiable securities of which no record has been kept. In return for this payment, Selfridge Woodstock will be released.
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