The menace of The Red Blot - fear of it had made the nightclub proprietress obey the bidding of Socks Mallory. She knew the secret of that inner office; but she had stood the test of silence.
Police would come as they had come before. Nothing would be learned. Yet tonight, another man had disappeared. Lamont Cranston had left the Club Janeiro. If he had not escaped, he must be dead by now; slain by those in ambush, and carried through the secret way.
Dead or alive, he had given an amazing accounting for himself. Yet Juanita Pasquales felt positive that Cranston must either be a victim of murderers or a fleeing man who knew nothing of the mystery which enshrouded the Club Janeiro.
Senorita Pasquales did not know that Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. Not for one moment did she suspect that he, as an invisible master of darkness, was now upon the trail that would lead to the heart of crime!
The disappearance of Lamont Cranston was of The Shadow’s making. The master of detection had not only won a mighty fight. Silent and unseen, he was on his way to the lair of The Red Blot!
CHAPTER XIX
FIVE MILLION DOLLARS
IT was nearly half past nine. Far from the area where The Shadow’s automatics had roared their deadly retorts to the revolvers of those who had sought to slay him, the directors of the Amalgamated Builders’ Association were assembled for their crucial test.
They were gathered about the large table of the conference room. Five stories above the street, in a secluded corner of a mammoth building, they were uneasy despite the security which reason told them was theirs.
The room was lighted. Upon the center of the table lay a long box; beneath its cover was the wealth which had been brought here by Felix Cushman’s order. Like a grim guardian, the black-haired man sat scowling at one end of the table.
Dobson Pringle, his gray hair giving an aged look to his peaked face, sat at the opposite end of the table. During this final lull when all were tense, he put a question which he had propounded previously.
“Where can Carlton Carmody be?” he asked.
“Will you stop asking that question?” queried Felix Cushman. “What has Carmody to do with this meeting? He is not a director - nor an officer of this association.”
“He was to be here,” responded Pringle.
“By whose order?” demanded Cushman.
“Mine,” asserted Pringle.
“You had no right to tell him to be here,” came Cushman’s angry retort.
“Let me explain,” persisted Pringle. “Carmody stayed late this evening. The detective - Hembroke - found him in the office. Carmody insisted that he must see me - here in the conference room - regarding plans for buildings. I told him to remain until we came -“
“Plans for buildings!” snorted Cushman, in contempt. “A fine time for such trivialities. Carmody must be crazy!”
“From what Hembroke said,” declared Pringle, “the matter must have been urgent. It might have had a bearing -“
“On tonight? Nonsense. Let us discuss more serious matters. Gentlemen” - Cushman glanced at his watch and turned to the directors - “it is nearly half past nine. The outer door of this conference room - through the little entrance there - is closed. Any emissary of The Red Blot must open it to appear here.”
“Detectives are planted outside. In the offices at the end of the large central room are three men. Detective Hembroke is one. Others, headed by Detective Cardona, are outside in the long corridor by the elevators and the stairway.
“They slipped in when the money was delivered. Commissioner Weston himself is with them. They are spread out - peering from side offices. They are allowing every opportunity for a man to enter - none for a man to escape.
“We must be calm” - all attention was now upon Cushman - “and we must treat with The Red Blot’s emissary. I shall be the spokesman. We have the money here; we can rightfully demand the release of Selfridge Woodstock and - ”
Cushman paused to stare at Dobson Pringle. The president of the association was staring beyond Cushman’s shoulder, his face aghast. Other directors saw his look; they swung in the same direction - toward the entrance from the anteroom. An evil laugh greeted them.
FOUR men, each holding a heavy revolver, had entered the conference room! The leader, who stood a pace ahead of the others, was a pudgy-nosed, ugly-jawed individual, whose roughened cheeks made his appearance more formidable.
“Stick ‘em up!” came the man’s growl.
A thrust of the revolver caused all hands to raise. Gasps came from trembling directors; another growl silenced these audible expressions.
“No noise, get me?” said the rough-faced man. “If there’s going to be noise, I’ll make it, with this gat! I’m the guy you’re expecting. Socks Mallory - working for The Red Blot. Shove over that kale!”
Before any of the astounded men could respond, Socks acted for himself. He stepped forward and upset the box; his big paw spread out treasury certificates of thousand-dollar denominations.
“We’ll count it later,” laughed Socks. “If there’s any short of five million, you birds will pay the difference. You’ll pay hard, too.”
He beckoned to his men; as they approached, Socks replaced the stacks of bills that he had disturbed. He pocketed his revolver, closed the box, and hoisted it under his arm. With an ugly leer, Socks sidled away from the table, carrying his burden of wealth.
“If you stick where you are,” warned Socks, “nobody’s going to get hurt. We’ve got the dough - that’s all we want. But we’re going to blast our way out of here - and we don’t want trouble from the inside. Get me?”
Socks reached the little anteroom. His men, retreating as a protecting cordon, followed. The light switch was at the door of the conference room. A growl came from Socks. One of the mobsters extinguished the lights.
Then came shots.
Bullets ricocheted against the walls. The outer door was opened. Heavy fire was breaking loose. Of the directors, Felix Cushman was the only one who kept his nerve, while the others dived for the shelter of the table. In the darkness, Cushman leaped to his feet, pulled out a revolver, and blazed away blindly through the darkness, hoping to hit any of the robbers who might be forced to retreat.
Cushman reached the door of the anteroom. Beyond, he could hear the shots of the detectives as they took up the fire.
Lights came on in the outer office. Cushman saw them as he opened the door. Out at the entrance to the corridor, Detective Morton Hembroke was firing his revolver. Answering shots reechoed from the distance.
“Come on, men!” shouted Hembroke. “They’ve got to double back this way! We’ll hold it here!”
The other detectives joined Hembroke. Cushman stood grim, while Pringle and the directors came crowding up in back of him as their protector. Shots outside; then came the swarthy face of Joe Cardona, in from the corridor.
“Did you get them?” came his question.
“Get them?” echoed Hembroke. “They broke through this way -“
“Up toward the other end of the corridor then!” exclaimed Cardona.
Lights were on in the corridor now; detectives came around the turn at the opposite end. They stopped in amazement as Cardona approached them on the run.
“Where did they go, Joe?” came the demand.
“Your way!” cried the ace detective.
“Not this direction!” returned a detective.
Police Commissioner Ralph Weston appeared suddenly from an office doorway. He saw the signs of confusion, and put forth an angry question.
