“DID Craft speak to Pringle?” questioned Cranston.
“Yes,” allowed Weston. “That was the deed that started The Red Blot into action. Mobsters abducted Craft. Pringle framed what looked like a disappearance of the architect. Then trouble broke loose.
“From the central cavern of his underground realm, The Red Blot had taken a large conduit as a course to the East Side subway. Other old underground passages, considerable distance from Pringle’s domain, were tapped from spots along the subway line. To build up a reputation, to gain funds which he needed, The Red Blot launched crime attacks in parts of Manhattan where his men could escape by hidden outlets to these underground channels. After each raid they returned to their base.
“Besides Socks Mallory, The Red Blot had another capable aid — Merton Hembroke. Where Mallory served as lieutenant of the underground forces, Hembroke was a secret agent working as a detective. That was to prove vital in The Red Blot’s plans. As we have pieced it, here is what happened.
“First: Spider Carew, a henchman of Mallory, who was stationed above ground, tried to squeal. We sent detectives to cover him as he rode up on the East Side subway. Hembroke tipped off Mallory to get the man. Mallory did so and escaped in the subway.
“Then Mallory slew Tony Loretti, who was a menace to The Red Blot’s schemes. Juanita Pasquales has confessed that she was forced to do Mallory’s bidding. Hembroke was present at the affray in the Club Janeiro. He made it look as though the killer might have escaped outward. He effectively covered the secret of the little office.”
“I see,” smiled Cranston.
“Then came The Red Blot’s master stroke,” continued the police commissioner. “Socks Mallory slugged an elevator operator and abducted Selfridge Woodstock, Chicago financier, with the secretary, Crozer. Down to the level below the Hotel Gigantic, in an elevator. There — so we believe — Hembroke took the elevator up; left it and reached the lobby, where he was on hand to gain credit for a quick investigation.
“Dobson Pringle, as president of the Amalgamated Builders, had very little money invested in the concern. He knew the psychology of the directors. He had a fake note. Its delivery caused consternation. Pringle was ready to urge the raising of the five million dollars. When Felix Cushman proposed that radical act, Pringle wisely played a conservative part.
“Then came an unexpected event. Before the meeting, set in the Amalgamated conference room, Carlton Carmody, architect, who had succeeded Hubert Craft, discovered the faults in the plans. He was seen by Hembroke — we have Carmody’s own testimony for this — and the false detective tipped off Pringle. Socks Mallory came up and seized Carmody, who was held prisoner with Craft, Woodstock, and Crozer.”
“Where?” queried Lamont Cranston, lighting a cigarette in absent-minded fashion.
“THAT’S coming,” smiled Weston. “Mallory raided the directors’ meeting and took five million dollars. Again, Hembroke covered by making it look as though the crooks had run out. Hembroke was commended. All was set for The Red Blot to pull his final coup blowing up through Galladay’s floor, the jewel robbery, and an escape along a passage which would be blocked after the marauders had passed.”
“Strange,” observed Cranston, “that such well-laid schemes should fail—”
“Detective Joe Cardona gets the credit,” interrupted Weston, in an admiring tone. “He investigated the Hotel Gigantic. He was double-crossed by Hembroke, and was captured. He escaped. He found The Red Blot’s secret office. A special passage — off behind a door that was always closed — led up to the Falconette Apartments, where Pringle lived. Cardona discovered a map; it showed all the strategic points except that one, which had been obliterated. Cardona also found a telephone that was hooked up with Pringle’s apartment.
“Through some lucky freak — how, we have not yet ascertained — the wire of the secret phone was temporarily connected with an outside line. When Cardona called, he got detective headquarters. Our men interrupted the robbery of Galladay’s. They covered everywhere — and the crooks were shot down by the police.”
“Odd,” remarked Cranston, “that The Red Blot did not escape through his own private exit—”
“Cardona stopped him!” Weston was triumphant. “Cardona shot down both Dobson Pringle and Merton Hembroke. He found the hiding spot of the stolen five million dollars, which The Red Blot had returned to get.
“Inadvertently, Cardona released a flood of water — a tapped dry pipe line which The Red Blot had arranged to sweep the dungeon where he kept his prisoners, should he deem their death necessary. Luckily, they managed to escape through the door which Cardona had previously opened.”
Police Commissioner Weston glanced at his watch. He arose hastily and announced that he must be back at his office. He shook hands with Lamont Cranston and departed.
A STRANGE smile appeared upon Cranston’s face as he recalled a parting invitation from Weston. The police commissioner was anxious to have Cranston pay a visit to those underground passages — to see, for himself, the remarkable catacombs which The Red Blot had fashioned.
It was after the usual luncheon hour; the gloomy grill room of the Cobalt Club was empty save for Lamont Cranston. By the light of side lamps on the wall, the millionaire’s body cast a long, sinister blotch upon the floor; his chiseled profile produced a weird, elongated silhouette.
The mark of The Shadow! That uncanny stretch of darkness was the power which had obliterated The Red Blot. It betokened the master who had alone detected and conquered the hordes of the supercrook.
Cardona had been a pawn in The Shadow’s game; but to the sincere detective, The Shadow, always preferring the shroud of darkness, had given the credit.
The shuddering whisper of a mocking laugh crept through the gloomy room. Its eerie reverberations continued as Lamont Cranston, moving forward with steady, even stride, left the spot. The ghostly sounds were heard by a waiter who paused and quivered as he stood at the entrance from the kitchen. The last echoes of that taunting, spectral sound were terrible to hear.
The room was empty as the waiter stared. Lamont Cranston had left, unseen. The laugh of The Shadow had broken from his impassive lips — as a recollection of the story which Commissioner Ralph Weston had told.
For The Shadow had triumphed. With that weird being who dwelt in darkness save when he appeared in unexpected guise, victory was sweet only when obtained by secret action.
The Shadow, still unrevealed, was ready for new conquests. That final laugh was his last token of triumph in the case which he had just completed.
The Shadow — with no need for other aid — had obliterated the crimson scourge of The Red Blot!