It was only a few steps to the end of the passage. There, Shargin encountered a closed barrier. He tapped, rattling his finger nails against a metallic substance. A panel opened. Shargin stepped into a lighted room.
From the blankness of bare stone walls, Moose Shargin had emerged into a small but sumptuous apartment, dark-paneled, carpeted by a thick Oriental rug, furnished with fine mahogany chairs.
The panel closed behind the pasty-faced gangster. Moose stood facing a large easy-chair in the corner. A man was seated there, reading a book.
The man laid the volume aside and glanced toward his visitor. The reading lamp revealed the good-natured features of Hiram Mallory.
“Hello, Chief,” said Moose, in a low, growling voice that was his habitual tone.
“Hello, Moose. How did it go tonight?”
The gangster pulled a chair toward the corner and sat down facing Mallory. A sullen look came over his countenance.
“It didn’t go at all,” he said, grimly. “We got the works. My gorillas are crippled. Maybe you can guess who did it.”
“The Shadow,” said Mallory, quietly.
“That’s the guy!” returned Moose.