“Answer it, Turk,” said Gyp.
Turk Berchler responded. His conversation was brief. He looked pleased when he had completed it.
“It was Nicky,” he said to Gyp. “Willington has shown up at the Club Cadiz. Nicky’s ready for us.”
“To get Willington?”
“Sure. In Nicky’s office. It will be a cinch, Gyp. Nicky can get Willington in there. Then we show up and bump the guy. Lug him out through a passage that Nicky has all set for a get-away. The door on the right of the office.”
“Who has the key to it?”
“Nicky keeps the key in his desk drawer. But we won’t need them. He’s going to leave the door unlocked.”
“All right.” Gyp’s teeth gleamed. “Willington isn’t wise; that’s a cinch. He’s been around the Club Cadiz a lot more than I have. He wouldn’t figure on Nicky selling him out to me.”
“Of course he wouldn’t.”
“And that makes it soft. I’ll walk in there and meet him. Like it was an accident. Both of us trying our luck at Nicky’s. Handshakes and all that.”
“Sure thing.”
“You come in a little later. Don’t talk to me. Just walk around, like you belonged there. Which you do.”
“Right.”
“When Nicky suggests that Willington go into the office, the guy will fall for it. If for no other reason, he’ll want to talk about me and what I’m doing there. Nicky will send for you, Turk.”
“That’s it.”
“And when you get inside, I’ll come over and cover. Nicky can step out, leaving you talking with Willington. I’ll walk in — like it was Nicky coming back—”
“And there’ll be curtains for Cuyler Willington.”
Turk’s face was evil as his lips formed the final statement. Gyp grinned in appreciation of his companion’s enthusiasm. He clapped his hands. The Hindus appeared.
“We’re going out,” stated Gyp, forgetting his usual jargon of Hindustani. “When Skeeter comes in, tell him to sit around until he hears from me. Get my evening clothes. Mahmud — the coat and vest. Here, Bundha, hang up this dressing gown.”
Gyp peeled off the dressing gown as he spoke. He stood wearing stiff shirt and collar with white tie as he waited for his coat and vest. Turk was already attired in tuxedo. He remained in his chair.
NEAR the entrance of the Hotel Royal, Hawkeye was standing by a news stand. He looked like a loiterer; but his presence had brought no comment from a passing policeman. For Hawkeye had a knack of appearing harmless and inconspicuous.
The little spotter had been watching the beanery across the street. He had seen Skeeter Wigan go to answer a telephone call, when accosted by a man behind the counter. Skeeter had remained to finish a bowl of chili. That accomplished, the frail mobster was starting toward the door.
Hawkeye stepped from beside the news stand. He sauntered across the street and shot a wig-wag signal to Moe Shrevnitz. The taxi man was parked near the cab stand of the Hotel Royal. Moe started along the street as he caught Hawkeye’s call.
Skeeter, leaving the little cafe, was swinging toward the corner. It looked as though he intended to walk; for he ignored the cab that was approaching. But as he reached the corner, he suddenly changed his mind and entered a taxi that was standing there.
“Goin’ to the Delphin Apartments,” growled Skeeter to the driver.
“Yeah?” questioned the cabby. “Where is the place?”
Skeeter gave the address. The taxi started out into the traffic of the avenue.
At the same instant, a man twisted away from a jam of persons waiting to cross the street. It was Hawkeye. Close at Skeeter’s heels, the little spotter had caught all that Gyp Tangoli’s tool had said.
A traffic officer was shouting angrily at Moe Shrevnitz, who had stalled his cab at the corner. Hawkeye came bounding over, wrenched open the door and leaped aboard. Cross traffic started. Moe grinned at the growling cop and shot across the avenue.
Hawkeye, head thrust through the space to the front seat, was talking quickly. He gave Moe the name and address of the apartment house.
“I think that’s where Gyp Tangoli lives,” he added, as they shot along the side street. “You’ll know the mug if you see him. Dark — he looks like a gypsy — with long hair and a lot of gold teeth.
“You can beat the goof that’s driving Skeeter. Get over there ahead of them and park. I’m coming along right after I make a phone call. Drop me at the next corner.”
Moe jammed the brakes twenty seconds later. Hawkeye bounded to the curb near the corner of an avenue and hurried into a cigar store to make a telephone call to Burbank.
Moe swung on a right turn. Traffic was clear. The alert cab driver made speed.
In fact, Moe Shrevnitz, when he neared the vicinity of the Delphin Apartments, was confident that he had gained a full five minutes on Skeeter’s cab. The street, when he reached it, was deserted except for a few parked cars. Moe pulled up a dozen yards away from the apartment house.
This was a good place to wait.
Watching from behind the wheel, Moe kept on the lookout for the arrival of Skeeter’s cab. He had stopped on the near side of the apartment house. He was staring at the entrance. His eyes became suddenly alert as two men stepped into view.
Both were dark-visaged. One was tall; the other squatty. These men — Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler — had come from the apartment house. Moe was positive that one must be the crook of whom Hawkeye had spoken.
Correctly, Moe picked the tail man as Gyp Tangoli. He eased the cab into gear and rolled up toward the apartment house.
“Taxi?”
Gyp and Turk climbed aboard as they heard Moe’s question. As they entered, Gyp growled an order through the front window.
“Club Cadiz,” he instructed, “and step on it. We’re in a hurry.”
No chance to stall. Moe shot the cab away from the curb, carrying the two crooks with him. Reaching below the seat, Moe pressed a switch. He bundled his coat collar close about his neck. The action enabled him to adjust an earphone.
For the rear of Moe’s cab carried the hidden microphone of a dictograph. It was wired for such occasions as this. As he drove along to the Club Cadiz. Moe Shrevnitz was set to overhear any conversation that might pass between Gyp Tangoli and Turk Berchler.
Two minutes after Moe had left, another cab pulled up in front of the apartment house. Skeeter Wigan alighted and entered the building. The front door was open; he went through and took the automatic elevator. The taxi, meanwhile, made its departure.
Three minutes passed. Then a furtive figure stepped gingerly into the entrance of the apartment house. It was Hawkeye. The little trailer had come to this vicinity after making his call to Burbank. He had looked in vain for Moe’s cab. Not seeing it, he wanted to check on the residents of this apartment house.
The name Tangoli appeared on a card by the number 3 G. Hawkeye grinned. That was enough for the moment. Hawkeye stepped outside and slunk away toward the darkness at the side of the apartment house. He had gone no more than a dozen steps when a sudden hiss halted him.
The Shadow!
Hawkeye stopped, trembling. Though he owned The Shadow as a chief, Hawkeye still dreaded his mysterious master. For Hawkeye possessed an uncanny ability at spotting hidden watchers; yet The Shadow, at times, approached so warily that even Hawkeye could not sense his presence.
“Report,” came a whispered order, seemingly from nowhere.
Hawkeye nodded in the darkness. He had already told Burbank that this was Skeeter’s destination and that Moe would be posted near the Delphin Apartments. He had also mentioned that he believed the apartment house was where Gyp Tangoli lived.