Pinkey knew rackets, thoroughly. Therefore, he certainly recognized that the usual sort of racket would be hopeless in New York, at present. Rackets depended upon numerous small collections from many harassed business men. They required too many collectors, all weak links in the chain.
So Pinkey had simply reversed the procedure. Instead of building up many small profits, he was working to gain a few large sums. That meant contacts that Pinkey could handle personally, with enough precautions to prevent leaks.
He needed his strong-arm men; but he wasn't using them as collectors.
Their job was to frame dupes like the Masked Playboy, thus giving Pinkey opportunity for big-time blackmail on a high pressure basis.
UPON the table came clippings: past reports of the Masked Playboy. The Shadow's laugh was audible beyond the bluish light. He was studying the past crimes attributed to the Playboy. They had simply been build-ups to the final one.
Whether the Playboy had been shoved into those crimes, or whether someone had impersonated him, did not matter to The Shadow. He was interested in the crimes themselves; and among the list of pitiful raids, he saw one that stood out strongly.
That robbery had been committed at a place called the Bubble Club. The Masked Playboy had marched in upon Claude Ondrey, owner of the night club trapping him in his own office. Ondrey had passed over some cash; he provided the police with an elaborate report of the episode.
From The Shadow's viewpoint, Ondrey had talked too much. That happened to be a habit with Claude Ondrey.
When the police had cracked the night club racket, during the big clean-up, Ondrey had been one of the most talkative informants. As a victim of the racket, he had paid many visits to the special prosecutor's office.
The Shadow had records of Ondrey's testimony. Oddly, with all his talk, Ondrey had provided nothing new. He simply corroborated statements that other victims had given before him.
That marked Ondrey for what he was. The Shadow had him labeled as a man leagued with crooks. For everything that Ondrey told the prosecutor, he brought
back valuable facts for the big shots who ruled him.
Claude Ondrey could be blamed for the fact that five big men of crime had left New York before the prosecutor was ready to order their arrests. The law had missed that fact, but The Shadow hadn't.
From the past, The Shadow had his key to the present. Pinkey Findlen, back
in New York, was employing the human tools that he had used before. Claude Ondrey was one of them; and his Bubble Club was also valuable. It was one place
that Pinkey Findlen could use as a headquarters, when he wanted.
But Pinkey hadn't been there the night when the Masked Playboy had visited
the Bubble Club. That was just the old game over again. It had strengthened Ondrey's position with the law, enabling him to retain his pose as a victim of crime, instead of a man leagued with crooks.
THE SHADOW clicked off the sanctum light. His whispered laugh brought shuddering echoes from walls that were invisible in the pitch-darkness. Those echoes faded. The Shadow had left the sanctum. But he still chose paths of blackness.
Evening had come to Manhattan. In the darkness of narrow side streets, The
Shadow was no more than a gliding shape as he chose a route to his waiting limousine, a few blocks away. Stepping into the big car, The Shadow dropped his
hat and cloak.
A street lamp showed his face at the window. No longer was The Shadow disguised as a droopy-faced panhandler. His features were hawklike; impassive and distinguished. He was immaculately attired in evening clothes.
The order that The Shadow gave the chauffeur was spoken in a calm but lazy
tone - that of a man who seemed bored with life and was looking for some diversion:
'Bubble Club, Stanley!'
CHAPTER VI
AT THE BUBBLE CLUB
THE Bubble Club was located on a side street not far from Times Square.
It
rated high among night clubs, and many well-known persons chose it as their favorite bright spot. Drinks and meals were reasonably priced, and no other nitery provided a better-balanced floor show. In fact, every evening was a triumph for Claude Ondrey, who was always on hand to greet his patrons. Ondrey was portly and genial, with a bald head that kept bowing as he walked from table to table. His handshake, though, was flabby, and his smile a sham.
Ondrey
didn't make his real money from the customers who thronged the Bubble Club.
That
was apparent on this present evening, when Ondrey finished his rounds and returned to his fancy office at a back corner of the club.
Three men were seated in the office. One was Pinkey Findlen, who wore a hard grin on his lippy, sallow face. The second was Slick Thurley, maintaining his usual wise pose, in constant imitation of Detective Bill Quaine.
The third arrival was a chunky block-faced man, who looked presentable despite the squinty way he shifted his eyes and the side-mouthed manner in which he grinned. He was 'Bugs' Hopton, leader of Pinkey's strong-arm crew.
Ondrey was pleased to see his visitors. From his coat pocket, the night club owner brought a notebook that he handed to Pinkey. While the big-shot studied red-ink figures, Ondrey spoke an explanation. 'The place is packed,'
he
said, 'but it can't make money. Not at the prices we give them. If I could put on a cover charge, we'd break even.'
'Forget it!' snapped Pinkey. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and
counted off the required amount. 'This clears you, Ondrey. Keep running things the way you have. I don't want you to run no clip joint. That brings squawks.'
'But some of the best places have cover charges -'
'So what? That makes this joint better than them, don't it? Better than the best; that's the way I want it. I'm willing to pay for a front that everybody falls for. When you spend dough that way, it ain't wasted.'
Pinkey gestured Ondrey to a chair. Then:
'We're sitting pretty, Ondrey,' declared the big-shot. 'So pretty that we're going to tell you all about it. We've finished three jobs out of four; and when that one goes across, we'll have a million bucks in the bag!'
Settling back in his chair, Pinkey began to recount the victories to date.
'FIRST was Howard Milay,' Pinkey declared. 'General manager of Sphere Shipping. He was a cinch, because he had a past that he was trying to forget.
We dug up the dirt; he had to come through.
'So he let one of his boats go to the bottom, when we fixed it for him.
Only an old tub that ought to have sunk anyway. It was loaded with a cargo of junk metal, and that helped the dive. That cargo' - Pinkey chuckled - 'was on the books as supplies worth three hundred grand. Milay collected the insurance dough and passed it to us.'
Ondrey knew of the case, but hadn't heard all the details. His shammy smile took on a genuine appearance.
'Next was John Thorry,' continued Pinky. 'He was the president of a company called Western Oil Fields. He won't forget that trip he made to New York. We framed him a couple of ways, and let him crawl out by buying some punk
oil wells. He'd been lucky at picking good ones, so he can laugh off some lemons. Anyway, that brought the total up to half a million.'
'And after that' - the interruption came from Bugs Hopton, who spoke with raspy tone - 'the going got
