quiet smile.
“Someone out to get me?” queried Loretti, in an incredulous tone. “That is impossible! Tell me - do you know the name of this man who wants to make trouble for himself?”
“Yes,” stated Weston. “The man is known as Socks Mallory.”
“Mallory!” Loretti’s brows narrowed. “Is he here in New York?”
“He killed a man tonight,” returned Weston. “Murdered his victim in the Lexington Avenue subway.”
“Socks Mallory!” Tony Loretti pronounced the name with a sneer. “He is a tough customer. He threatened me once before, but lacked nerve to take a shot at me. Let me thank you, commissioner, for this information. I shall assure you that if Mallory comes here tonight, he will do me no harm. I need no police protection.”
“Perhaps not,” said Weston dryly. “Nevertheless, you’ll take it, Loretti. Is this office your headquarters?”
“Yes,” admitted Loretti sullenly.
“These other rooms?” Weston pointed to the doors.
“My private office to the right,” returned Loretti. “Senorita Pasquales has the office on the left. This is sort of a reception room.”
“Come on, Hembroke,” ordered the commissioner.
The two investigators entered each office in turn. The rooms were small ones. The one used by Loretti had a mahogany desk and several chairs. The office which belonged to Juanita Pasquales was furnished with table, chairs, filing cabinet, and broad, shelved cabinet with glass doors. The shelves showed only stacks of newspapers and scattered magazines.
“All right,” announced Weston, when he returned to the central office, “we’re going to watch this place, Loretti.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Commissioner,” was the reply. “Let me warn you, though, that it can only make trouble. I know how to look out for myself. I need no police protection. If Mallory is coming here, you’ll only scare him away.”
“There’s logic in that, commissioner,” declared Hembroke.
“I know it,” agreed Weston. “That’s why I wanted to make sure that no one else was in these rooms. There’s just one entrance to this suite. You will be here, Loretti. Stay here.”
“I always do,” returned Loretti suavely.
“And you, Miss Pasquales?” questioned Weston. “Where do you intend to be this evening?”
“On the floor,” returned the woman. “The show goes on in about fifteen minutes. It will last one hour.”
“Good,” approved Weston. “You will come out with us, Miss Pasquales. Loretti, I’m going to post men in those two side corridors just beyond the door of this suite. There will be others - including myself - in the big room of the night club. If Socks Mallory comes here tonight we’ll trap him.”
A gleaming smile appeared upon Tony Loretti’s lips. The nightclub governor approved this plan.
“All right, commissioner,” he said. “Those side passages go to the dressing rooms, and they serve as exits, also. If your men lay low, it will work out, maybe.”
“Hembroke,” said Weston, to the detective, “I’m putting you in charge of those corridors. Take three men. Make sure that all the entertainers have gone out to the floor. You and one man take a corridor; the other two men stay opposite. I’ll keep the extra man with me. Get busy!”
HEMBROKE nodded and left the office. It was several minutes before he returned to announce that all was ready.
The commissioner nodded to Juanita Pasquales. The senorita left the office, and Weston watched through the half-opened door as he saw her conduct a troop of entertainers out through the archway to the main room.
Hembroke had disappeared; now, while Weston still waited, the detective came from the corridor on the left to announce that the dressing rooms were clear.
“My men are posted,” he added. “Wait about two minutes, until I get set. Then you can go out to the main room, commissioner. Look down the corridors as you go by. You’ll see that we’re well out of sight. Weems - he’s the extra man of the squad - is at a table just past the archway.”
Commissioner Weston waited the required period. He glanced at Tony Loretti, and the man smiled confidently. Weston left the office, and closed the door behind him. At the crossing of the passages, he looked first to the right; then to the left.
The side corridors were gloomy. No one was in sight. The detectives must be hiding at the ends, beyond the dressing rooms. Weston smiled in satisfaction. He went through the archway.
A screen hid the main room of the night club. Weston sidled past the edge and looked about for Weems. He saw the detective at a near-by table. The man was watching the screen that concealed the archway.
The commissioner strolled past the table and paused to speak in a low tone.
“Keep watching, Weems,” he ordered. “I’m going to take a table of my own, where I can watch, too. If there’s any trouble, jump past the screen.”
Weems nodded.
Looking for a vacant table, Weston found himself in a quandary. He felt that more men should have come; but it would be unwise to summon them now. Weems was the only sleuth covering that archway. Weston realized that he, the police commissioner, might have to do service if trouble occurred.
The thought made Weston smile; nevertheless, he was still a trifle worried. Hembroke and the other detectives were posted. It was too late to make new arrangements. Ralph Weston glanced around, and in that moment observed a tall man entering through a side entrance of the Club Janeiro.
INSTANTLY, Weston recognized the newcomer. That hawklike countenance, stern and impassive; those keen eyes, and thin, determined lips! Here was a man whom Weston had met before; a unique character among the wealthy residents of Manhattan.
Lamont Cranston, millionaire adventurer, globe-trotter, whose travels had carried him to the wilds of Tibet; a man to whom big-game hunting in the African jungle was a mere pastime!
The head waiter of the Club Janeiro was not far from where Weston stood. The commissioner moved over and spoke to him.
“Do you see the man who has just entered?” questioned Weston. “His name is Lamont Cranston. Go quickly. Bring him to my table.”
“Yes, sir,” returned the head waiter.
Weston took a seat at a vacant table and waited. A few minutes later, he saw Cranston approaching. The millionaire betrayed no expression of surprise. He merely came to Weston’s table, drew back a chair, and sat down, as though he had been expected.
“Good evening, Cranston,” said the commissioner.
“Good evening,” responded the calm-faced millionaire.
Cranston was immaculate in evening clothes. He picked up a menu, gave an order to a waiter, and looked quizzically at Weston.
The police commissioner smiled and picked up a card himself. He gave an order, also. He looked around, saw that no one was close by, and spoke in an admiring tone.
“You’re a cool one, Cranston,” declared the commissioner. “How did you know that I didn’t want you to show a lot of enthusiasm over meeting me here?”
“I seldom express enthusiasm,” responded Cranston quietly. “Moreover, I knew that the police commissioner would not care to appear conspicuous at the Club Janeiro. What has brought you here, Weston?”
“Cranston,” returned the commissioner, in a low whisper. “we are looking for a murderer tonight. A man called Socks Mallory. He is scheduled to make an attempt upon Tony Loretti, the big shot of the night clubs.”
“Interesting,” commented Cranston. “Where is Loretti at present?”
“In his office,” answered Weston, “past that screen. I have four men posted in side corridors. That man four tables away from us is another detective. He and I are watching this end. There may be trouble. I could use another man.”
“Meaning -“
“Yourself.”
A faint smile appeared upon Cranston’s lips. The millionaire bowed his head in acknowledgment of the
