“Looks to me like he’s trying to chisel. Out to make trouble for you.”
“He’s not getting very far.”
“He can’t get very far.” Monk spoke contemptuously. “He can’t touch you, can he? You’re too well organized for him. The Shadow has brains, but he doesn’t use them.
“What if he managed to plug you? That wouldn’t change Chicago, would it? But he doesn’t work that way. That’s where he’s soft. He could have put me on the spot last night, but he didn’t do it. So he’s going on the spot when I get him.”
The New York gangster arose and started for the door. He turned to make a final statement.
“Forget about those hoodlums,” he said. “They’re as good as wiped out now. McGinnis and I will do a clean job.”
WHEN Monk had left, Nick Savoli went from the apartment. His huge, bullet-proof car was awaiting him. Mike Borrango remained in the apartment.
Despite Monk Thurman’s assurance that The Shadow was not a menace, the enforcer spared no precautions. There were two men in the apartment below. He stationed an additional gangster in the anteroom, to take the place of the regular attendant.
Shortly before six o’clock, Howard Blake, the advertising man, entered his apartment on the third floor of the Escadrille. He had apparently returned from a busy afternoon’s work. He turned on the radio, and sat reading the newspaper.
There was a buzz on the radio, as though static had interfered. Howard Blake listened intently. There was another buzz — shorter than the first. The sound was repeated.