TABLES TURN
A MAN was seated in the lobby of the Hotel Pavilion, close by the window where the telephone operator was located. Despite his correct attire, this individual’s face betrayed the fact that he was other than a gentleman.
Yet that did not bar him from these premises. Money was the one standard of admittance to this luxurious hotel. No one questioned the presence of Hooks Borglund.
This harsh-faced crime master was not the only person in the lobby who bore the marks of the underworld. Among the many guests were several others of his ilk. They were sitting quietly in lobby chairs, apparently ill at ease, others indifferent to their surroundings.
Hooks Borglund cast a cagey glance toward a stranger who entered the lobby. The newcomer was tall and calm-faced. He walked in leisurely fashion, with his hands in his coat pockets. Borglund’s ears pricked as he fancied that he heard the jingle of metal. The sound ended in a short click.
The advancing figure stared coldly toward Hooks Borglund, and the crook’s eyes met the piercing gaze of Lamont Cranston. Neither showed any sign of recognition. Cranston continued on his way, while Borglund wondered.
Possessed of intuitive shrewdness, Hooks sensed that some mystery surrounded the person who had just entered. He watched Cranston go toward the elevator.
Borglund half rose from his chair to watch the dial. It stopped at the fourteenth floor. Borglund sank back with a grin. Gifford Morton’s room was on the tenth. Evidently this man was not paying a visit there.
The sound of the telephone operator’s voice suddenly attracted Borglund’s attention. The girl was speaking in an excited tone.
“You want the police?” she questioned. “Room 1048? Can you wait until I notify Mr. Hurley… Yes… Oh, I see. Thank you. I shall notify him right away—”
Borglund was staring straight ahead as he rose again from his chair. The number that the girl had given was Gifford Morton’s room!
Hooks thumped his right fist against his open left hand. He had sensed that something was wrong, but he had been waiting. Now, perhaps, he had delayed too long.
It was not his job to interfere with Carpenter’s game; but it was his task to see that all went well.
Hooks cast a shrewd glance about the lobby. Questioning eyes met his gaze. As each well-dressed mobster caught the signal Hooks made a slight upward gesture with his thumb. He saw the gangsters rise one by one and saunter toward the elevator.
“Manager’s office?” The girl was speaking again. “Is Mr. Hurley there?… Yes, I must speak to him — trouble in 1048. They want the police… No, they asked for the police, not the house detective… All right, I’ll call headquarters — connect you with them, Mr. Hurley—”
The girl plugged in a switch, and then answered a light that appeared on the switchboard.
“You want Mr. Borglund?” she questioned. “I can have him paged—”
Hooks stepped up to the window.
“I am expecting a call,” he announced. “My name is Borglund. Will you have me paged if the call comes in—”
“Party is asking for you now,” responded the girl.
“Take the call in Booth 4.”
Hooks hurried into the indicated booth. He lifted the receiver, and recognized the growl of Wheels Bryant.
“That you, Hooks?”
“Yes. Hello, Wheels.”
“Trouble over at Big Tom’s. Gun play. Coppers cleaned up the joint after the mob finished the fireworks. Slide over with the mob and get the lay. There’s a guy we’ve got to get—”
“The mob’s gone upstairs, Wheels,” responded Hooks, in a low tone. He was watching from the booth to make sure that the girl was not listening in. “Carpenter’s in trouble. He’s working on a bird named Morton, and he must have landed in a jam. Someone called for the cops—”
“Leave it to the mob. Carpenter can tell them what to do. Get over to Big Tom’s right away. Alone—”
“O.K.”
Hooks Borglund hurried from the hotel. He knew that gun play at the Club Catalina meant a serious situation. As a chance visitor after the fray, Borglund would be of great value. Those in the hotel could take care of themselves. They were competent.
“A GUY we’ve got to get—”
That message from Wheels Bryant was puzzling to Hooks Borglund. He wondered who had jammed the works at the gambling joint. Not for one moment did he think of the tall, calm-faced man who had so recently passed him in the lobby.
Had Borglund caught a glimpse of that man now, he would have cursed himself for his folly in not sensing the meaning of the jingle that he had heard. In a room on the fourteenth floor of the Hotel Pavilion, Lamont Cranston was standing by a table near the window. The faintest trace of a smile wreathed those firm lips as Cranston’s eyes looked toward the lighted Club Catalina.
They were looking for him there — scurrying mobsters and incoming police. They were wondering where he had gone. Now, from a veritable watchtower, Lamont Cranston was observing the swarming crowds that were hurrying for a glimpse of the chaos that had been created on his account.
Stepping into the gloom of the dimly lighted room, the hawk-visaged millionaire removed two automatics from his pockets. He carefully reloaded them and placed them on the table. When he extracted stacks of glittering coins, which he piled before him.
A large trunk stood in the corner. Lamont Cranston drew it away from the wall and pressed two rivets. The back of the trunk opened, revealing two small compartments and a large cavity beneath.
He placed the money in one compartment, and added several rolls of bank notes. From the depths of the lower opening, he drew forth two garments — a black cloak and a slouch hat.
As Cranston’s long arms spread the cloak, its crimson lining showed in the dull light. The flowing garment slipped over his shoulders. His hands raised the hat and placed it on his head.
Standing by the window, Cranston slipped a pair of thin black gloves over his hands. A gem that gleamed on the left third finger was blotted from view.
Lamont Cranston was no longer the occupant of this room. The Shadow had taken his place. Where a human being had stood, a specter of the night now reigned!
The silent, black-clad form moved slowly away. The automatics were no longer on the table. The Shadow, like a phantom of another world, had merged with the darkened corners of the room. His presence had become invisible!
IN contrast to this scene, a slowly moving drama was unfolding four stories below. Herbert Carpenter, calmly smoking a cigarette, was still seated in Gifford Morton’s living room, apparently unconcerned about his fate.
The multimillionaire was gloating as he watched his prisoner. Gorman, the secretary, was speaking over the telephone. Morton questioned him as he hung up the receiver.
“The police will be here soon,” announced Gorman. “I have just talked with Mr. Hurley, the proprietor. He says that he will have the officers come up with the house detectives.”
“That’s all right,” declared Morton. “You explained the situation properly, Gorman. You told him that my own detectives are here. They are competent to take care of the matter until the police arrive.”
“The house men will probably beat them here, anyway,” growled one of Morton’s private detectives. “That’s the way with them noseys. Always trying to get in first, and take the credit. That’s hokum the manager was giving. You wait and see.”
“It doesn’t matter greatly,” said Gifford Morton.
Herbert Carpenter was leaning back in his chair. His eyes were half closed as he tried to picture matters downstairs. He was entirely ignorant of the strange sequence of events that had so recently occurred — events that put a different color on the situation.
MEN with different purposes had crossed paths. Lamont Cranston had passed Hooks Borglund, before the master crook had heard the operator at the telephone. Then, mobsters had followed Borglund’s quick bidding, without Lamont Cranston’s knowledge.
Lamont Cranston had undergone a strange transformation. Hooks Borglund had left the Hotel Pavilion in response to a call from Wheels Bryant. These were matters of great moment to Herbert Carpenter, despite the fact that he did not know of their occurrence.
“I told you. See?”
The voice of one of the private detectives aroused Herbert Carpenter from his reverie. A man dressed in a Tuxedo had entered the room, and was standing in the now open doorway. The fellow had a hardened, bulldozing expression.
“The house dicks,” growled the same private sleuth. “I told you they’d get here before the police.”
A second man had joined the first at the doorway. The pair advanced into the room. Gifford Morton spoke in a dominating tone.
“Wait until the police arrive,” he ordered. “I wish to turn my prisoner over to the law.”
One of the newcomers nodded.
“I told the manager to keep you downstairs until the police arrived,” continued the multimillionaire. “Why were my instructions disobeyed?”
“It’s our job,” growled the first of the two men who had entered. “Whatta ya got on this bozo, anyway?”
“That is something I shall tell the police,” declared Morton, in a surly tone.
“Who are dese guys?” came the question as the entrant pointed his thumb toward one of the private detectives.
“My own men,” replied Morton, in an annoyed voice. “They are detectives, in my hire. I am Gifford Morton.”
“Tell ‘em to put up their rods,” ordered the newcomer. “Well take care of this phony.”
The speaker waved to his companion. The two approached Herbert Carpenter. As the private detectives reluctantly lowered their revolvers, the men who had come in produced their own weapons.
“Give ‘em the works, huh?”
These words were uttered in a low voice as the first of the two advancing men neared Herbert Carpenter. A sudden expression of understanding came over Gifford Morton’s purplish face. With a wild cry, he turned toward his two sleuths.
“Look out!” he shouted. “Look out! These men are not the house detectives!”
As the cry came from Morton’s lips, other men appeared at the door. For a brief instant, a tense group seemed ready to spring. Revolvers were flashing into view. Snarls and gasps came from excited lips.
Then a man by the door pressed the light switch. Figures leaped forward in the gloom, which was alleviated only by the light from the outside corridor.
With a maddened shout, Gifford Morton yanked open the door of the larger room. A new flood of illumination cast a cross-beam over the floor, toward the central chair, where Herbert Carpenter was seated.
A shot rang out. That spurt of flame was the forerunner of a grim and unequal conflict that was due. The pretended house detectives were the advance guard of Hooks Borglund’s mobsmen.
Police were on the way to this spot; every second was precious. Lives and wealth were at stake. Crime had locked with fair play.
The tables were turned on Gifford Morton!