compliment.
“I have two automatics with me,” whispered the commissioner. “If you care to assist, one is ready for you. Under the table -“
“Pass it,” said Cranston calmly.
The automatic changed hands. Commissioner Weston sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The waiter came with the order. Weston and Cranston began to eat, conversing quietly while they watched the screen.
New confidence held the commissioner. He felt that he could rely upon Lamont Cranston. There was something about Cranston’s manner that made Ralph Weston realize that he had chosen an intrepid aid.
THERE was cause for the impression. Had Commissioner Ralph Weston known the identity of this person who had agreed to aid him, he would have been amazed beyond recall. Had he known Lamont Cranston’s purpose here tonight, he would have been doubly astonished.
This calm-faced personage had come to the Club Janeiro for the same purpose as Commissioner Weston and his band of sleuths. He was here to encounter Socks Mallory. The features of Lamont Cranston were a guise that he had adopted to serve him for the occasion.
Beneath that full-dress coat were two automatics, compared to which Weston’s guns were puny weapons. The police commissioner was dining with The Shadow!
Again, the mysterious warrior had been forced to change his plans. Alone, he could have watched Tony Loretti, unseen. But with police on hand, with Commissioner Weston calling upon him for aid, The Shadow found it necessary to bide his time.
In the guise of Lamont Cranston, he waited. He, The Shadow, was the aid of Commissioner Ralph Weston - the police official who believed The Shadow to be a myth!
CHAPTER XI
AGAIN THE BLOT
IN the center office of his suite, Tony Loretti was serene. A quarter of an hour had passed since Police Commissioner Weston had left. The strains of music were coming in muffled tones from beyond the door. The floor show was on.
Strolling into his own private office, Loretti opened a desk drawer and pulled out a revolver. He handled the shining weapon with a smile, then replaced it, but left the drawer open.
Tony Loretti recalled that he was under police protection tonight. Officers of the law might question his possession of a revolver, should they enter unexpectedly.
Commissioner Weston’s statement that Socks Mallory was in Manhattan was not a cause of great alarm to Tony Loretti. Some months ago, Mallory had started the nightclub protective racket, beginning with the Club Janeiro as his headquarters. Loretti had appropriated the idea; his power had driven Mallory out of the game.
Attempting retaliation, Socks had encountered gangsters secretly employed by Loretti. After a short fight, Socks had fled in a taxi. He had killed the driver at the end of the ride; and was now wanted for murder while Tony Loretti dwelt in security.
Loretti had henchmen in the Club Janeiro tonight. He could have summoned them to stay on watch for Socks Mallory. But, since the police commissioner had chosen to interfere, it would be discreet to rely upon the law. Afterward, Socks might still be a menace. He could be dealt with then.
Tony Loretti laughed. He was positive that Socks Mallory would make no attempt tonight. Socks was shrewd enough to spot the presence of the police commissioner and five headquarters detectives.
Nevertheless, Tony Loretti was a rascal who played safe. The revolver in the opened drawer gave him a feeling of complete assurance.
Consulting a large sheet of paper, Tony read over the figures that told of the present week’s receipts. Night clubs were doing well. Those under Loretti’s wing were managing best of all.
Tony’s cut was a moderate one, considering the power that this racketeer possessed. That was the part of wisdom. It kept the nightclub proprietors from becoming antagonistic. They were getting off cheap.
Engrossed in his study of the figures, Tony Loretti did not hear the creeping sound that came from the central office. When he looked up, in sudden startlement, he acted too late. Loretti’s hand stopped on its way to the desk drawer. Just within the door were three men!
HARDENED ruffians they were; and the leader, a few paces in front of the others, was grinning as he covered Loretti with a large revolver. A gasp of recognition came from the big shot’s lips.
“Socks Mallory!”
“Glad to see me, eh, Tony?” snarled Socks. “Get up out of that chair! Back to the wall. Come on - move!”
Loretti complied. Socks grumbled orders to his men. With pale face, Loretti was standing across the room, his hands up beside his head, his eyes staring beadily as Socks Mallory advanced.
“Thought I couldn’t get you, eh?” grinned Socks. “Well, I’m here. I’ve got you. Let’s see you take it!”
Fiendishly, Socks pressed the trigger. The revolver boomed quick, successive shots.
With the first discharge, Tony Loretti tumbled. Socks Mallory, driving the muzzle downward after each recoil, pumped lead into the big shot’s body.
Six bullets - each delivered with equal venom. They were not directed with careful aim. Socks Mallory knew well enough that Tony Loretti would not survive this cannonade. As the final report echoed through the little office, Socks Mallory’s men switched out the lights.
Total darkness persisted through the suite, until one man opened the door that led to the corridor, and fired wild shots like a paean of triumph. This was by Socks Mallory’s design. He wanted the world to know that he had given Tony Loretti the works.
Music ended in the night club. Screams of women sounded from the big dining room. Then came shouts in the darkened corridors. Answering gun shots, delivered by detectives, came in response to the challenge which Socks Mallory had ordered.
Beyond the screen, Police Commissioner Weston had heard the first echoes of the cannonade. The official leaped to his feet and watched as he drew his automatic.
Weems, at the other table, also pulled a revolver and stood in readiness. Lamont Cranston, however, was the one who acted with most promptitude.
Rising with easy swiftness, the millionaire swept toward the screen and hovered there; holding the gun which Weston had given him. His keen eyes peered down the corridor, where the new series of shots were now in progress. With a motion of his hand, Cranston beckoned the police commissioner forward. With Weems at his heels, Weston hurried to the spot.
Detectives were in the corridor. The door of the suite was open; Merton Hembroke was standing in the central office. The detective had turned on the light. Looking back, he spied Weston and called to the commissioner.
“It started in here!” was Hembroke’s cry. “They must have gotten Loretti! Come on!”
Detectives flocked to Hembroke’s aid. Commissioner Weston, with Lamont Cranston beside him, entered the central office to find that the detectives had spread into the other rooms of the suite. Another call came from Loretti’s office. Weston headed in that direction.
WITH Cranston still beside him, Weston found Hembroke leaning over the prone body of Tony Loretti. The big shot was still alive. His lips were moving.
“Who got you?” demanded Hembroke.
“Socks - Socks Mallory,” came Loretti’s gasping words, “He - he and - some others. They - they -“
Choking, his dark face twisted, the big shot coughed out his life. His body shook with a final tremor.
Tony Loretti was dead.
“There’s nobody in here,” came a voice at the door. It was Weems. “Where did they go, Hembroke?”
“Search everywhere!” ordered Weston. “The corridors - the dressing rooms. Spread, men!”
Detectives hurried to do the commissioner’s bidding. Weston snatched up the telephone from Loretti’s desk. He put in a call for headquarters. Within two minutes, he was talking to Inspector Klein.
