Martin Slade listened to Dick Terry's discourse as they rolled along through darkened streets. Dick, elated at having discovered a man who could give the inside story of Rajah Brahman, was telling Slade about Maude Garwood's weakness for matters psychic.
Slade, in turn, was agreeing cordially with everything that Dick had to say.
"It's a terrible racket," declared Slade. "Several times I've wanted to tell the police about it, but I didn't like to start trouble alone."
"I'm willing to," responded Dick.
"Good," said Slade. "I'll back you up. But we'd better see this other fellow first. He may prove useful." Slade parked his car in an obscure street. Dick, keen in his consideration of Rajah Brahman, had no idea where this place was located. He followed Slade through a narrow alley and up a steep flight of stairs. They entered a crudely furnished restaurant, which was provided with a rickety bar at one end of the room. A heavy-set, black-haired man was standing behind the bar. Other men were seated at tables. Slade pointed to a door at the far side of the room.
"There's another room over there," he said. "Let's go in there. We'll be alone." Dick acquiesced, and followed his companion into a poorly furnished place that had no windows. The bartender appeared. Slade ordered two bottles of beer. When the beer arrived, Dick paid no attention to it. He was anxious to discuss details with Martin Slade.
"Who is this fellow you were talking about?" he asked.
"He comes here every night," said Slade. "Wait a while. We'll see him. Meanwhile, let's get a line on the phony rajah — whatever we know already."
"Look at this," said Dick, pulling an object from his pocket. It was the watch that he had found after the first seance.
"What is it?" asked Slade curiously.
"Something that came from the rajah's seance room," declared Dick. "One of his spook machines. Look!"
He blew into the hollow stem of the watch. The watch sprang forward from a telescopic tube, and a bulging form came from it.
Dick let the shape fall and made the tube collapse. He handed the device to Martin Slade, who examined it closely.
"Say!" he exclaimed. "If we could get a few more contraptions like this one, we'd have the goods on that faker. This gives me an idea.
"I have an apartment on the same floor as Rajah Brahman. That's how I began to get interested — seeing so many people travel in and out. Suppose you stay up there, with me.
"We could watch at close range, and maybe start something that would queer the racket altogether." Slade leaned his elbow on the table and spoke in a confidential tone that was completely deceiving to Dick.
"You see," he said, "I'm a private investigator for certain concerns. Checking up on men that they thought were pulling something crooked. That's how I happened to run into this fellow they call Reds — his last name slips my mind.
"I just knew him by sight, that was about all, until one time I spotted him up at my apartment house.
"I thought he was playing some phony game, and might be on my trail. So I put it up to him when I saw him down here. He told me he was up at the Callao Hotel seeing Rajah Brahman.
"He used to work for the rajah, and wanted to get back with him, but the rajah wouldn't have anything to do with him. Reds was so sore that he began to spill a lot he knew.
"He said the rajah's real name was Clutten — and a lot of other facts that I don't exactly remember.
"Since then, I've thought about crimping that crook's racket. I've seen so many people coming in and out — going away from there, telling how wonderful Rajah Brahman is.
"You're the first sensible person I've seen come out of there, but of course your story explains it. I'm willing to work with you. But we've got to do it wisely."
"Your idea's a good one," commended Dick. He was being completely misled by Slade's easy manner.
"Of course, I'm handcuffed while I'm with my aunt. She believes this faker is wonderful.
I can't leave her. If I do, she will hand everything she's got to Rajah Brahman."
"Not if you're watching, she won't," commented Slade. "If she's falling for the rajah's game, the best stunt you can do is try to crimp him before it is too late!"
"You're right," agreed Dick.
"WHY not let your aunt think you have gone back to Texas?" questioned Slade suavely. "She'll tell the rajah that you've left town. He will become bolder then — and you will be watching without his knowing it!"
"Good idea!" said Dick. "I'll leave a note in her hotel. We can go by there to-night." He fumbled in his pocket and produced a folded sheet of writing paper. Slade was ready with a fountain pen. Dick scrawled these lines:
Dear Aunt Maude: I have gone back to Texas. I am tired of this foolish waiting to hear what this fake rajah has to say. Take my advice and forget about him. If you don't hear from me again, you can send my trunk to San Antonio when you leave New York.
Signing his name, Dick sought an envelope. He had none, but Martin Slade provided one.
It happened to bear the name of a Washington hotel in its upper corner, but Dick paid no attention to that, as he wrote the name of his aunt and her hotel. He sealed the envelope and dropped it on the table. Slade tapped the fake watch which Dick had handed to him.
"You say that you found this in the seance room?"
"I found it in my pocket," said Dick. "You know, I was just about ready to believe that faker was real. He had been doing some pretty clever stuff. Writing on a slate — these spooks coming out — and all that. But when I found this watch, and made out what it was for, then I knew I had the goods on him."
"I wonder how it came in your pocket," said Slade reflectively. "Maybe he dropped it there in the dark — without realizing it. The other night, you say?"
"Yes. To-night, he was working with a trumpet. Say — that was weird, all right. It had a lighted end, and you could see it floating all around through the air, with a voice coming out of it!"
"That trumpet gag is old stuff," said Slade, with a knowing air. "The end comes off the trumpet — nothing but a luminous band — and he must have had it hooked on to an extension rod like this one on the watch. That would let him keep the people looking up, thinking they were seeing the trumpet floating.
"Then you figure he had the trumpet with him?" Dick quizzed.
"Sure. So he could make the voices himself. A whisper sounds uncanny through one of those trumpets."
"But I heard a noise like a man drowning. It sounded real—"
"Did he have a bucket of water there?" interposed Slade.
"Yes. Not a bucket" — Dick corrected — "it was a big Hindu bowl."
"That gives it away," laughed Slade. "I know how he did it. He put the end of the trumpet into the water — the big end — and then blew through the small end. It makes a gurgling sound, like a man choking.
"I'm nobody's fool on this sort of stuff, you know," he went on. "I've run into some of these fakers before. But from all I hear, Rajah Brahman must be the ace of them."
Slade was picking up the envelope to give it back to Dick, along with the watch, when suddenly he stopped and stepped to the door, which was slightly ajar. He peered through the crack, and turned to nod to Dick.
"There's Reds now," he said. "Over at the other side of the big room. Sit tight a few minutes. I'll go over to get him."
He slipped through the door, and let it remain slightly opened. Dick, still thinking about Slade's explanation of Rajah Brahman's latest miracle, was not at all suspicious of the man's action. The door opened a few moments later, and two men entered.
Dick looked up, expecting to see Slade and the expected "Reds." Instead, he viewed two tough-looking ruffians, who paid no attention to him. They closed the door behind them, and took a position at a table in the corner of the little room.
Dick waited a few minutes. Then he arose, partly opened the door, and peered out. He closed the door, but not all the way. He went back to his table.
"Hey, you!" growled one of the newcomers. "Close that door! Leave it the way you found it!" The curt order awoke an angry response from the husky Texan.
"Who are you talking to?" he demanded.
"You — bohunk!" snarled the mobsman.
Dick was on his feet in an instant. Common sense would have told him that retreat was advisable, but he was no man to let an insulting ruffian get the better of him.
The fact that the ugly-faced gangster had a companion meant nothing to Terry. He would have acted the same had there been half a dozen.
The gangster, big-fisted and crafty-eyed, arose also and advanced to meet his opponent. He made a feint, and shot a swift punch at Dick's ribs.
The Texan warded the blow aside, and swung in with a straight right to the gangster's jaw. The impact was terrific. The man crumpled on the floor.
The other was rising, drawing a gun. Before he could cover Dick with his revolver, the Texan leaped upon him, and the two grappled furiously.
The revolver barked twice, but the shots went by. Getting his right hand free, Dick drove a punch squarely between the gangster's eyes. As the man's grasp weakened, Dick flung him aside. He grabbed for the revolver, but missed. The gunman was scrambling away. Dick did not follow. He had had a chance to make his get-away, but instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small automatic.
He had carried this weapon with him to Rajah Brahman's. He had said nothing of it to Martin Slade. Dick was seeing red. He had no time for parley. Quick as a flash, he fired two shots, and the rising gunman sprawled upon the floor. The gun clattered away. Dick, realizing that he might have killed the man, thrust his automatic in his pocket and opened the door of the room.
He looked quickly about for Martin Slade. He saw no sign of his companion. He realized suddenly that the room was half filled with ruffians, like the ones who had just attacked him. The whole situation dawned in an instant. He had been double-crossed by Martin Slade!
He was in a death trap. The only reason that he had found these men inactive was because they supposed that he not the gangsters — had fallen during the fray in the little room. There was only one chance for escape — the inner room! As he saw a hand rise with a gleaming revolver, Dick made a dive for the door. A shot rang out, but it found its mark only in the woodwork. Dick was safe in the inner room. But now the horde of gangdom was on his trail.
Three husky gangsters were leaping for the barrier, determined to smash their way through the temporary barricade. Dick Terry was safe for the moment, but he could not hope to withstand the odds that were against him now.
Barney Gleason's mob — the group of sullen thugs who used "Black Pete's" place as their hangout, were springing into action. Two of their number had been overpowered by this stranger. The rest were out for vengeance.
Crash!
A heavy chair smashed against the door. Another swing, and the central panel gave. The third stroke broke the rickety door clear from its hinges. The way was open for the mob of vicious gunmen!