The slack was gone. Another turn of that cylinder, accomplished against pressure, would cause the wire to draw the lever. The apparatus was set for murder. All that it needed would be a final twist.
“Touch nothing,” said Willington, warningly, as he turned to Rami Zaka. “The mechanism is as I want it. Go to see the swami tonight. Be friendly. Pretend that you need money. Offer him the table. Let me know how you succeed. I shall do the rest.”
Rami Zaka nodded in agreement. He ushered his visitor from the storeroom. Willington donned hat and coat and left the dismal little apartment.
Ten minutes after Willington’s departure, Rami Zaka also fared forth.
One hour later, the schemer received a telephone call at the obscure hotel where he was stopping. It was from Rami Zaka. The wizened seer had made a bargain with Swami Marabout Bey. Gyp Tangoli would receive the table tomorrow.
Standing by the window of his room, Cuyler Willington looked out toward the dreary glow of the city that shone through the misty night. His lips formed a contemptuous smile. One that symbolized a triumph that the murderer had long anticipated.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE NEXT NIGHT
THE address of Swami Marabout Bey was that of an old house on Fifty-eighth Street. The place was an unpretentious residence that had been converted, years ago, into an apartment building.
On the same night that Cuyler Willington held his meeting with Rami Zaka, a vigil began outside of the house on Fifty-eighth Street. It started with the arrival of a taxicab that parked in the vicinity for a full hour. Moe Shrevnitz was the driver of that cab.
After the taxi had gone, a coupe parked and remained in the neighborhood until midnight. Harry Vincent was behind the wheel of the car. When he went off duty, another watcher took charge for the remainder of the night. This was Hawkeye, loitering in a little alley across the way.
In the morning, Moe was back. Afterward came an Italian fruit vender who kept moving his wagon up and down the street most of the day. This was Pietro, another of The Shadow’s reserve agents. The abode of Swami Marabout Bey was under constant surveillance.
For The Shadow had not been deceived by Gyp Tangoli’s return to his old character. Like Cuyler Willington, The Shadow had seen the advertisement in the newspaper. He had recognized that Gyp Tangoli and Swami Marabout Bey might be the same man. He wanted to know more about the affairs of the pretended mystic.
Rami Zaka’s visit to Fifty-eighth Street had preceded the vigil of The Shadow’s agents. Hence no trail had been gained that might lead back to Willington. But on the next day, reports came in to both Rutledge Mann and Burbank, The Shadow’s contact aids.
Various furnishings had been delivered to the house on Fifty-eighth Street, all of them to Swami Marabout Bey. These were described in as much detail as possible. Among them had come the elephant table, delivered in a single shipment.
EVENING found The Shadow in his sanctum, going over reports from his agents. He contacted with Burbank by telephone, to obtain final reports. Swami Marabout Bey had been seen entering his abode: this report came from Harry Vincent, who had relieved Pietro near dusk. Harry was not positive that the fellow was Gyp Tangoli.
A report from Clyde Burke was important. Clyde had seen Joe Cardona at headquarters. The detective had mentioned Gyp Tangoli. It was plain that Joe had gained no clue to the man’s identity. With that report, Clyde had gone off duty.
Matters had turned to The Shadow’s liking. A soft whisper above the blue lamp told that fact. There was a sinister tone to The Shadow’s mirth, one that z ill for crime. The Shadow’s mental prediction had come true.
Bait. That was Gyp Tangoli’s purpose. He had taken on the character of Swami Marabout Bey in order to lure Cuyler Willington to doom. Willington must certainly know that Gyp was the swami.
In his comparison of the two crooks, The Shadow had picked Gyp as the one who relied on power: Willington as the one who dealt in craft. He knew that Gyp could not have guessed the danger of the Q-ray, even though he had seen its action at the Club Cadiz.
Gyp probably realized that death had been delivered by Willington; yet his own survival had made him believe that his luck would hold. Entrenched in his new abode, he was ready for an attack, confident that he could overpower Willington if the man made a move.
Moreover, Gyp would not fear exposure to the police, through Willington. The law did not have the goods on Gyp Tangoli. In a tight spot, Gyp could tell plenty to make trouble for Willington. The Shadow knew that Gyp Tangoli was laughing at the law while he waited to receive Cuyler Willington as friend or foe, in whichever capacity Willington might choose to come.
Considering what he had learned of Willington, The Shadow felt sure that the schemer would eventually take the bait. Not, however, until he had formulated some plan of his own. That was why The Shadow had posted his agents for the first night. Well convinced that Gyp was the swami, The Shadow was ready now to move in person.
The bluish light clicked out. A laugh rang through the sanctum. It rose eerily and broke into shivering echoes. The Shadow had made his departure. Within a half hour he would be at Swami Marabout Bey’s.
DOWN at detective headquarters, Joe Cardona was seated at his desk. Something of Joe’s glumness had returned. His swarthy face was clouded. Quizzes at the Universal Electric Company had failed. The police had learned conclusively that no one could have had a part in the removal and replacement of the Q-ray machine.
That device had been dismantled. Its parts had been destroyed. James Sundler had produced physicians who had examined the bodies of the experimenters who had died during tests of the machine. Those doctors had looked at the victims of the slaughter in the Club Cadiz.
They believed that the persons at the night club had been murdered by the Q-ray. But how? By whom?
Joe’s check-up at the Universal laboratories had convinced him that there could not be a second Q-ray machine in existence.
Wearily, Cardona arose from his desk. He dreaded a meeting with the police commissioner. Weston had gone out of town for the evening, but would he back later tonight. Cardona knew that his chief would expect results.
Someone entered the office. Joe looked up to see Detective Sergeant Markham. Enthusiasm showed on the fellow’s face. Joe growled a question:
“What is it?”
“A lucky break, Joe!”
“On this Club Cadiz business?”
“No. On Gyp Tangoli.”
“Hang Gyp Tangoli!”
Cardona started for the door. Markham stopped him. The detective sergeant’s face was serious.
“It may be bigger than you think, Joe,” he informed. “That’s why I came here in a hurry. Listen, Joe: You can’t get anything tonight on the Club Cadiz business. But if you go after Gyp Tangoli — and get him — you’ll have something to tell the commissioner.”
“Maybe you’re right, Markham,” said Joe, suddenly. “After all, we might be able to pin a murder charge on Gyp. What did you find out, Markham?”
“Well — do you remember that dead Hindu up at Gyp’s apartment?”
“Yeah. We didn’t identify him.”
“I’ve found out who he was. His name was Bundha.”
“Bundha what?”
“Just Bundha, I guess. Maybe those Hindus only have one name. But wait’ll I tell you how I learned it. There was a Hindu uptown got hit by a truck a couple of hours ago. They took him to a hospital in the precinct where I was. The fellow was trying to talk. They couldn’t understand him. The lieutenant knows a lot of lingos. He went over to the hospital and I went with him.”
“Did the Hindu talk?”