A quiet, well-dressed young man entered the lobby of an old hotel in Chicago. He noticed a bell boy standing by the wall. The young man approached him and gave him two objects — a small pasteboard box and a fifty-cent piece.
"Will you deliver this package to Room 414?" he questioned. "Do it right away."
"Sure thing!" exclaimed the bell boy. "On my way now, sir!" He entered the elevator and rode upstairs, juggling the half dollar — an unusually large tip in that decadent hotel. The bell boy was bound on an important mission, although he did not know it. The man who had given him the package was Harry Vincent, an agent of The Shadow. He had prepared a warning message in response to a special telephone call from New York.
The speaker at the other end had been Burbank, a quiet-voiced man who worked at The Shadow's right hand.
The message which Harry had arranged was in the package that was going to Room 414. The occupant of that room was Detective Joe Cardona.
On the fourth floor, the bell boy hesitated. He had forgotten the number of the room. He seemed to remember it as 418.
He was not sure. He knocked at the door that bore that number. A man opened it.
"Were you expecting a package, sir?" inquired the bell boy.
"Yes," growled the man. "Is that it? Let me have it."
He slammed the door, and the bell boy went away. The man opened the package in a hurry. It was time it had arrived.
Half an hour before, he had called the desk and ordered a safety razor and a tube of shaving cream. He had been waiting for the articles ever since.
The hotel guest emitted an angry growl when he saw the contents of the box. He drew out a bunch of violets!
What was the idea of these? He threw the flowers on the writing desk and went to the telephone. He tried to get the operator, but failed.
The bell boy had returned to the lobby. He saw no sign of the man who had given him the package. The hotel attendant was sure that he had delivered it where it was intended.
Ten minutes later, Joe Cardona left Room 414 and went downstairs. Out on the street, he walked through the Loop, and mounted the steps to an elevated station. He was bound for the suburban home where Madame Plunket was conducting her seance to-night.
Joe Cardona was satisfied that he was getting somewhere. He had spent some seemingly useless days in Cincinnati. He had looked through some back files of the newspapers, and had discovered that a girl named Stella Dykeman had been killed in a serious automobile accident during the month of March. The brakes of her car had given way on a steep hill leading to her father's estate, and she had crashed into a stone gateway at the bottom of the incline.
Inquiry into the affairs of Arthur Dykeman, her father, had proved that the man was away from Cincinnati at present. But, by a lucky chance, Cardona had learned that the man was a spiritualist, and that he had been receiving messages from a woman named Madame Plunket.
Cardona discovered that she had left town some time ago, and there was no way of tracing her new address.
While the detective was working on this, he had received a bunch of violets at his hotel.
They carried the usual disk. Cardona had it in his pocket now. He brought the disk from his vest.
Madame Plunket Chicago
Those were the words inscribed upon the disk. They had brought Cardona to Chicago. He had located the medium.
At the first seance, Little Flower had spoken to the sitters!
Chicago was a long way from New York, but Cardona felt positive that there was a connection here. Anita Marie, of Philadelphia and Madame Plunket, of Chicago! Two birds of the same plumage!
There had been no disturbing element at the seances which Cardona had attended in Chicago. But he was getting a line on Madame Plunket, and he was convinced that the medium was the lowest of grafters.
The advice that she was passing out indicated that she must have a fund of information somewhere in her house. Cardona knew the law on fortune telling. It would be no trick at all to get the local police to make a raid, when the proper time came.
The train was nearing the station where Cardona must leave. He arose and waited for the stop. Descending the steps from the elevated platform, he turned westward along a narrow street. He walked beneath the glaring light of an electric lamp.
Cardona had no idea whatever that his presence in Chicago was known; nor did he suppose that it might be of interest to anyone other than the spirit medium. Hence, he did not notice the lurking forms that were behind a signboard near the sidewalk.
Cardona, however, did see a darkened car parked on the other side of the street. Professionally, he eyed it with suspicion.
Gangsters were rampant in Chicago. This might be one of their machines. Cardona started his right hand toward his pocket, then stopped abruptly.
Some one had planted the muzzle of a revolver against the center of his back! There was no command to raise his hands. Just a low growl to "keep moving." Cardona, recognizing the threat, obeyed. Simultaneously, the car on the other side of the street approached. Cardona felt himself being urged toward the curb. A minute later, he was between two men in the back seat of the sedan, and the car was heading for parts unknown!
Well did Joe Cardona realize his predicament. He fancied that he had been mistaken for someone whom these gunmen intended to put on the spot.
It was the tightest place in which the sleuth had ever found himself. He could only hope that he might find some way to bluff it out with these intended killers.
He knew well enough that silence was the game for the present. Any attempt at conversation might mean immediate death. No killer would permit the beginning of an outcry. The question lay in what would follow.
When the gunmen found that they had the wrong man, they might let him go. Cardona speculated upon what they would do if he revealed himself as a detective. Gangsters did not go out of their way to war with the police. In that, he might find salvation.
The car traveled a long way. Cardona had lost all sense of direction. They were away from the city now. The detective could hear the waters of Lake Michigan. It was a windy night, and the sound indicated that the waves were high.
The car swung toward the lake and stopped at a low, sloping building. Cardona was forced out, and his captors led him to a door in the side of the building. They went down four steps, and entered a low-roofed room. One of the men switched on the light.
Three men had captured the detective. They were a hardy, sullen-faced crew. Cardona, himself the possessor of a poker face, stared steadily as they frisked him of his police revolver, and backed him up against the wall.
One of the men — a big fellow — faced Cardona. He was the leader of the gang. He addressed the sleuth in no uncertain terms.
"All right," he said. "Spill it. What are you nosing about in Chicago for?"
"Do you know who I am?" questioned Cardona quietly.
"Sure I do," retorted the captor. "You're a New York flatfoot, named Joe Cardona. To square it, I'll tell you who I am. Did you ever hear of Snooks Milligan?"
Cardona nodded. He knew that Snooks Milligan was a survivor of an extinguished gang. Snooks and a few others had joined up with Gallanta's outfit.
"Well," said the hard-faced captor, "I'm Snooks Milligan. And when I want a guy, I get him. I wanted you tonight — so I got you!"
Cardona shrugged his shoulders. He saw no connection between his present investigation and the affairs of Chicago gangsters.
"Come on!" growled Milligan. "Spill it! Why are you out here? Talk quick, or it's the works for you!"
"I'll tell you why I'm here," declared Cardona plainly. "I'm looking in on a bunch of phony spirit mediums. That's where I was bound to-night. There's a woman named Plunket who runs a fortune-telling graft right near where you grabbed me."
"Yeah?" questioned Milligan, in derision. "You can't get away with that stall, Cardona. That may be your blind. But I've got a tip that you're out here to make trouble for us. What do you think of that?"
"You've got the wrong lay," declared Cardona frankly.
"I have, eh?" quizzed Milligan angrily. "Well, I'm going to find out about it! Savvy?? Bring him along." The last words were addressed to the other gangsters. One opened a door and turned on a light. Cardona was forced down another pair of steps into a cellar room.
There was a small platform in the corner; above it was a horizontal rack with a roller and a handle that resembled a clothes wringer.
While one of the gangsters held an automatic against Cardona's ribs, Milligan advanced and pressed a knob on the wall some distance from the rack. The platform tilted forward and extended into a black hole on the floor. Milligan pressed a second knob. The platform moved up again. The gangsters were binding Cardona's arms with ropes. They shoved the detective onto the treacherous platform, and hooked the ropes to the roller by the wall. One man turned the handle, and the ropes tightened, drawing Cardona back, almost to the wall.
"You've heard it said that gangsters don't talk," declared Milligan, to Cardona. "You're going to learn different, now. This is the place where they talk — when that roller begins to work. And when we're through with them" — the gangster motioned significantly to the knob on the wall — "that's the end.
"That hole underneath you is big enough, Cardona! Big enough to hide you along with others that have disappeared!"
Cardona knew well that a certain number of gangsters disappeared annually in Chicago. It was supposed that they were bumped off and left in vacant lots and other spots, in accordance with the usual scheme of things.
The usual idea was that only a certain percentage of the slain victims were discovered; for bodies frequently came to light in obscure places.
But now Cardona had inside knowledge of one of gangland's burial grounds, where bodies of murdered gunmen were lost forever.
The thought chilled him; for he realized that with the knowledge he now possessed, he was doomed to die.
Hence, Cardona shut his lips grimly when Snooks Milligan began a new questioning. The detective's only course was to let the mobsmen believe that he actually knew something that he would not tell. Something the mobsters wanted to know. That would at least give time to live — even though existence would be strained by torture.
Seeing that Cardona would not talk, the gang leader signaled one of his underlings to turn the winch. The man obeyed.
Cardona felt a terrific strain upon his shoulders. He resisted the tightened pressure. Another turn, and it seemed as though his shoulders would be wrenched from their sockets. Still, Cardona was obdurate. Minutes of agony went by, while Snooks Milligan glowered in amazement. This iron detective was resisting as Milligan had never seen a man resist before!
At last, the strain became too great. Cardona yielded — but not by word of mouth. He gasped, and his head slumped forward. He had lost consciousness under the terrific strain. An oath came from Snooks Milligan. This was something that he had not anticipated. He ordered the man to release the winch. Cardona's form slumped loosely forward. It was a long while before he revived.
Determined to make his captive speak, Snooks Milligan ordered a new, slow torture. Cardona took it smiling. He showed a physical endurance that seemed impossible.
At last, the result was the same. Once more the detective lapsed into a state of senselessness. The winch was again released.
A full hour passed before the captive had revived sufficiently to suit Snooks Milligan's purpose. The gang leader glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. Milligan made a gesture of impatience.
"We can't be here all night," he growled slowly, making sure that Cardona understood his words. "But we'll try once again. Wait about fifteen minutes; then take it slow.
"We'll work on him easy. If he talks, all right. If he passes out, we won't waste any more time. We'll give him the works and let him drop!"
Joe Cardona understood. One more round of torture would be his finish. He knew that the result would be the same, whether he framed a trumped-up story to explain his visit to Chicago, or whether he refrained entirely from speech.
At the end, this merciless tiger of the underworld would have no further use for him. Joe Cardona alive, would be a menace. Dead, he could make no trouble.
Those ropes would tighten once more. When their task was finished, they would be released. Guns would bark a message of death, and the captive's body would drop through the opened platform into oblivion!
Still Joe Cardona was game. Although he was sure that help could never arrive in time to save him, he was determined to hold on to life as long as he could.
He set his lips grimly, resolved to yield no cry for mercy.
The carelessness of a bell boy had kept The Shadow from warning Cardona of this trap. Now, he was caught!