“A squad of men up to the Club Janeiro,” ordered Weston. “Just a moment, Klein - what resulted in the subway? The search there… Yes… No results, eh? Well, the answer is here… Yes, here at the Club Janeiro… Socks Mallory came here after his getaway… He’s murdered Tony Loretti… Get the men up here! I have Hembroke in charge!”
Hembroke had left the death room during the commissioner’s call to Klein. The detective returned to discover Weston still beside the telephone.
Loretti’s body lay unwatched upon the floor. Lamont Cranston, calmly smoking a cigarette, was standing in a corner of the office.
“It beats me, commissioner,” admitted Hembroke. “Socks and whoever was with him have made a clean getaway. I thought we had them sure!”
“What happened in the corridors?” inquired Weston.
“We were posted at the ends,” explained Hembroke. “Two of us one way; two the other, so we could keep tabs on the outside. We heard the shots. We headed down together; had everything covered right.”
“I was the first one on the job; I saw someone at the point where the corridors cross. I fired; but I had to be careful not to hit my men coming from the other direction.”
Commissioner Weston nodded.
“I figured,” continued Hembroke, “that the killers were heading out into the night club. I ordered the others to go that way, while I came in here. Then I saw you and Weems - and this gentleman who was with you.”
“We came in from the night club,” explained Weston. “No one got away in that direction.”
“It beats me,” repeated Hembroke. “Socks Mallory got out of these offices. We covered every way out. He may have headed for the night club; then doubled back and taken one of the side passages. That’s the only explanation.”
“But how did he get in?” questioned the commissioner. “We searched this place; you looked through the dressing rooms before you posted your men.”
“I know it,” admitted Hembroke.
“At the same time,” went on Weston, “this is no more startling than the subway mystery. Mallory was trapped there this evening; yet he came here and killed Loretti!”
SILENCE followed. Cranston puffed his cigarette while Weston and Hembroke stood in puzzlement. The other detectives were still searching outside and trying to restore order in the night club. This room where death had struck was like an oasis in a desert of confusion.
Weems came in to announce that the entertainers wanted to get back to the dressing rooms. Senorita Pasquales was anxious to learn what had happened, Weems said.
“Let them into the dressing rooms,” ordered Weston. “You take charge outside, Hembroke. Keep the senorita out for a while. Wait for Klein and his men; they will be here any minute now.”
Hembroke and Weems departed. Commissioner Weston turned to Lamont Cranston.
“This is amazing!” exclaimed Weston.
In reply, Cranston passed the extra automatic to the commissioner.
“I shall not require this any longer,” remarked the millionaire.
“An amazing mystery,” repeated Weston, as he took the automatic from Cranston’s hand. “Socks Mallory wanted revenge. He had a grudge against Tony Loretti. I wonder, though, if there could be a further motive -“
“Perhaps,” interposed Cranston, “it would be wise to examine that sheet of paper which is lying beneath your left foot. You brushed it from the table when you seized the telephone.”
Commissioner Weston looked in the direction indicated. He picked up what appeared to be a blank piece of paper. When he turned it over, he saw that it was a page of figured tabulations. But the cash receipts of Tony Loretti’s racketeering were not the cause of the startled cry which came from Weston.
In the center of the sheet, the commissioner saw an inky, crimson blotch. It was the signature of new crime plotted by a supercrook.
“The Red Blot!”
Weston uttered the name with a gasp. The hand of the hidden fiend was in back of this new murder.
Grimly, the commissioner recalled Spider Carew’s words across the wire. Socks Mallory was working for The Red Blot! Here was the proof of the dead informant’s statement!
“Cranston,” declared Weston solemnly, as he turned the paper so the millionaire could see it, “I advise you to stick to big-game hunting. Things like this are severe blows to those connected with the law. This is the sign of a master crook, an unknown criminal who has been called The Red Blot.”
“We must investigate this. It will mean long, hopeless work. You have probably read in the newspapers how The Red Blot has been working. He has reached his zenith, tonight.”
“Interesting,” was Cranston’s quiet comment. “Of course, Weston, I would not dispute with one who knows crime as well as you. But if you asked for my opinion -“
“It would be?”
“- that any crook clever enough to have perpetrated tonight’s crime is merely at the beginning of his schemes. Keep that paper, Weston. See if I am right.”
Lamont Cranston extended his hand as a friendly token of departure. During that final grasp, he repeated his cold opinion.
“The Red Blot,” remarked the millionaire, “will strike again - soon - and his next stroke will he more formidable than this or any that has preceded tonight’s murder!”
COMMISSIONER WESTON found himself nodding as Cranston departed. There was a firm conviction in the quiet tone to which Weston had listened. The words of Lamont Cranston awoke vague dread in the commissioner’s mind.
When Inspector Timothy Klein strode into the room a few minutes later, he found Commissioner Ralph Weston still holding the ledger sheet which bore the mark of The Red Blot.
“Inspector,” ordered Weston, “post men here, and keep them on duty. Quiz every waiter; every one who might know anything. That includes the orchestra and the entertainers.”
“Socks Mallory is the murderer - so Loretti said when he was dying - but The Red Blot is in back of this crime!”
Outside the Club Janeiro, Lamont Cranston, in evening clothes, was strolling along the side street. In leisurely fashion, the millionaire flicked his cigarette over the curb; then stopped at a waiting taxicab. The driver grinned and opened the door.
“Keep the ten dollars that I gave you,” remarked Cranston quietly. “It will cover the ride uptown and the time that you have been waiting.”
“But there’s more than five dollars comin’ back to you -” The cab driver, hesitating, realized that mention of the money might cause him to lose the handsome tip.
“Never mind the change,” smiled Cranston. “Drive me to Forty-ninth and Broadway; then turn west, and continue to Ninth Avenue. The ten-spot will be yours.”
The driver nodded. Cranston entered the cab.
While the vehicle rolled down Broadway, the passenger undertook a surprising transformation. Lifting the rear seat of the cab, he drew out black folds of cloth and the crushed shape of a slouch hat. The cloth became a cloak as it slipped over Cranston’s shoulders. The hat, implanted upon the millionaire’s head, completely concealed the rider’s features.
Black gloves completed the metamorphosis. Lamont Cranston had become The Shadow. The tall form rested in darkness; the cab appeared to be empty. It was empty, shortly after the driver swerved west on Forty-ninth Street.
As the cab slowed for traffic, the door on the right opened softly. A fleeting figure moved through darkness and dropped free of the cab as an invisible hand closed the door.
A coupe was parked on the side street. With three long strides, The Shadow gained it unseen; a few moments later, he was behind the wheel of the automobile.
WHEN the cab driver stopped at Ninth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, he was amazed to discover that his
