Part 8 (1/2)
CHAPTER XIII.
MEN IN THE DARK.
SILK ELREDGE saw nothing unusual about the bottle cork, and said so.
Rahman Singh held the cork close to the gambler's eyes and pressed the top of it. A tiny orifice opened in the bottom of the cork.
Opening a little box, Rahman Singh brought out a medicine dropper; from it, he let a colorless fluid enter the hollow cork. His finger eased away, the hole at the cork bottom closed.
”You will remember,” remarked Rahman Singh, ”that after I poured myself a drink I corked the bottle before handing it to you.”
Silk nodded.
”We were both drinking from the same bottle,” stated the Hindu. ”The gla.s.ses were fresh ones, therefore you could have suspected nothing. Nor could anyone else -”
”Cranston, for instance!” inserted Silk, with enthusiasm. ”I get it, Rahman Singh. You've loaded the cork, and when you handed him the bottle, likeyou gave it to me, you'll press the top. The stuff will get into the whiskey!”
Rahman Singh smiled his approval of Silk's insight. He corked the bottle very carefully and set it on the proper table. Silk gave a reflective chuckle.
”A smart stunt!” he approved. ”I remember that first phone call you gave me this afternoon, when you asked me what kind of liquor Cranston usually ordered at my joint. I told you whiskey.
”So you're going to hand his nibs a Mickey Finn. Say, that will make a cinch of it! How soon will the stuff hit him, and how much of a wallop has it got? We don't want The Shadow to make trouble after the mob s.n.a.t.c.hes him.”
Rahman Singh calculated for a few moments. He studied the medicine dropper as he replaced it in the box.
”The stuff can't be tasted,” he said, at length. ”It's better than most knock-out drops. You don't feel it for a while, but when it hits” - he smacked one fist against his other palm - ”it comes like that!
”It puts a man out for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But that will be long enough. I have these” - he opened a drawer beneath the table, to show coiled rope and strips of rawhide - ”to use as bonds. They are strong enough to hold The Shadow.”
Silk nodded, then added a suggestion. ”You'll need to gag him, too.”
Rahman Singh produced a big handkerchief; then, as an afterthought, he brought out a bag that looked like a hood, for it was large enough to go over a man's head.
”I use this when I perform my blind-fold tests,” declared Rahman Singh.
”It will hold the gag tightly in place. Sometimes gags can be worked loose.”
All preparations satisfactory, Silk was ready to leave. Rahman Singh halted him, with a wise suggestion: ”Wait until I have called Cranston. We must make sure that he can come tonight. Otherwise, we shall have to postpone our plans.”
Silk sat down, while Rahman Singh picked up the telephone that had long ago been provided for the hide-out. Soon, the Hindu's voice was speaking its oily tone across the wire. He was connected with the Cobalt Club and asking for Lamont Cranston.
Gold teeth gleamed from the black beard, as Rahman Singh listened to the response from the telephone receiver.
OUTSIDE, Silk's mobbies formed separate cl.u.s.ters at distant spots along the street. Some were roving about carrying messages to others who were lurking near the rear of the hide-out. One thug suddenly hissed to the others: ”There's Silk!”
They recognized the derby-hatted figure with the m.u.f.fled overcoat, saw a hand go up and make shoulder gestures. They understood the simple signals, mumbled the good news among themselves while Silk's car was wheeling away.
”He means the guy is due to show up,” grafted one. ”All we gotta do is lay down until he does.”
”Then slide up after him,” added another, ”so we can s.n.a.t.c.h him and take him out by the back. The outfit there has got the car.”
”Yeah. Only we gotta allow time for that Hindu to spring something first.”
”Sure! Silk gave us the lowdown on that. Didn't you see him spread his fingers when he stuck his mitt up? That meant five minutes.”
The five minutes, of course, applied to the time that was to follow Cranston's arrival. It was at least a quarter hour before the lurking thugs saw a big limousine pull up in front of the squalid house. They saw a pa.s.senger alight; he was dressed in evening clothes and moved in leisurely style. Had they been close enough, they would have discerned the features of Lamont Cranston. With a wave, The Shadow dismissed the limousine, then strolled toward the house steps.
Restless mobbies were beginning to think that the victim suspected a trap, when he suddenly snapped from his idleness. Swinging a cane with one gray-gloved hand, Cranston opened the house door and entered. The crooks began to clock the minutes as soon as he was gone from sight.
Five minutes pa.s.sed. Mobsters emerged from hiding spots, crossed the street and ma.s.sed through the door of the marked house. They left one man as lookout, then started to creep up the bare stairs.
Near the door they wanted, the s.n.a.t.c.h crew could hear the sound of voices; one, oily, almost apologetic, that of Rahman Singh. Replies were coming in a level tone that represented Cranston. There was a gurgle of liquid pouring into gla.s.ses.
The talk continued; gradually, Rahman Singh's voice predominated, for Cranston's was growing weaker. There came a sound, like the thump of a body on the floor. Crooks reached the stout door, waited eagerly for it to open.
Meanwhile, the lookout below was watching pa.s.sing traffic. He saw a car wheel into the street, twist toward the nearer curb and halt there with a jolt.
The huddled crook's pasty face contorted, as he gave a squint.
”Cripes!” he uttered. ”A squad car!”
From another block came the start of a siren's whine, hastily cut off.
Someone had begun to shrill the device too soon. The lookout saw a stocky man leap from the squad car and turn toward the door of the house.
He knew that swarthy face by sight.
It belonged to Inspector Joe Cardona!
THE police official saw the thug wriggle back into the doorway. Cardona's hand, already at his hip, came out with a Police Positive. He shouted for the thug to halt; getting no response, he riddled the doorway with bullets.
Other officers were at his heels, more cars were rolling into the street, when Cardona sprang into the house.
Upstairs, crooks were pounding Rahman Singh's door, bellowing for the Hindu to open it. They had heard the gunfire, and the lookout had arrived hoa.r.s.ely announcing that the bulls had begun a raid.
Thinking themselves trapped, the crooks wheeled, ready to mow down opposing cops; but at that moment they were given another outlet.
Rahman Singh yanked his door inward. The mob saw the Hindu pointing to a trussed prisoner, whose head was covered with a cloth hood. While they were grabbing the victim, Rahman Singh crossed ahead of them; babbling in some unknown tongue, the Hindu tugged the rear door wide and pointed them out through the back of the hide-out.
Mobsters were gone, with their burden, when Cardona arrived at the head of his squad and covered Rahman Singh with the revolver that had fired the opening shots. The Hindu cowered helplessly in the corner; counting him an important prisoner, Cardona remained, while the officers dashed through.
From the rear stairs Joe heard a shout, as the cops saw that escaping thugs were carrying a human burden. Catching the significance, Cardona poked his gun hard against Rahman Singh's ribs and demanded: ”Who did they s.n.a.t.c.h? The Shadow?” It wasn't guesswork on Cardona's part. He was here on a tip-off: the phone call that he had waited to receive. The Shadow's voice had come over the wire again, urging the police ace to invade this hide-out with a squad.
Rahman Singh merely leered. His darkened hand took hold of Cranston's gun, s.h.i.+fted it aside as Joe tugged the trigger. The revolver was empty, because of the barrage that Cardona had loosed below. Rahman Singh had seen that its chambers contained no slugs.
There was a rapid grapple between the slippery Hindu and the stocky inspector. It ended when Rahman Singh proved himself master of other Oriental arts than those of the Hindu mystics. The specialty which he revealed was jujitsu; with the skill of a j.a.panese wrestler, he sent Cardona on a whirling flight that bowled over the table holding the crystal and sent the big gla.s.s ball rolling along the floor.