Cyro

CHAPTER XI CROOKS AGREE

THE next morning found Raoul Brilliard at his easel. Still working upon the finishing touches of the portrait, the bearded artist was humming a catchy Parisian air as he applied dabs with the brush. Stepping back to survey his work, Brilliard became conscious that someone had entered. Smiling, he turned about to face Tracy Lence.

“Bon matin, monsieur,” greeted Brilliard. “Entrez, s’il vous plait. Fermez la porte.”

Lence understood the order to close the door. He performed that action while Brilliard watched him. The Frenchman nodded wisely as he noted Lence’s anxiety.

“What is the matter?” inquired Brilliard.

“Plenty,” returned Lence. “Did you ever hear of Joe Cardona?”

“No,” replied Brilliard. “Who is he? Some con man? Did you see him out at the Club Caprice?”

“He’s not a con man,” explained Lence. “He’s a dick. A smart one, from New York. But the Club Caprice was where I saw him.”

“You know him then?”

“By sight.”

“Does he know you?”

“No.”

Brilliard shrugged his shoulders and turned back to work at the easel. Apparently, he could not see how Joe Cardona’s arrival in New Orleans concerned the cause for which Cyro’s aids were striving.

Lence caught the significance of the Frenchman’s shrug. He decided to explain matters.

“When I was in New York, Brilliard,” he said, cautiously, “I was on my own. Not working for Cyro. You understand, don’t you?”

Brilliard nodded. It was obvious that he had learned the facts of Lence’s probation.

“I was counting on a tip from Cyro,” resumed Lence. “But I had to live in the meantime. So I teamed up with a smart worker named Roke Rowden. He was the front. I was the blind, ready to strut my stuff under a phony name — so I’d keep under cover.”

“I understand. Go on.”

“Well” — Lence hesitated — “Rowden spotted that message that came in from Cyro. He wanted to be in the know. Threatened to queer the game. So I bumped him.”

“Openly?”

“No. We were alone in his apartment. I made a perfect getaway. Left Roke Rowden dying, with suicide appearances. When I left New York, I ducked around a bit on my way here.”

“So you told me.”

“I didn’t leave a clue. I wouldn’t have come here if I had. Yet here’s Joe Cardona in town. Out at the Club Caprice, talking with a chap named Rafferty, who’s a stooge for the New Orleans police.”

“On your trail, eh?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I think he’s after somebody else. Looking for some lammister, maybe. There’s probably a bunch of them bumming around New Orleans. But here’s the way I figure it, Brilliard. Cardona is smart. He’s a guy with hunches. I don’t like him being in town.”

“Why not suggest that he leave?”

Brilliard’s tone rang with sarcasm. Tracy Lence winced. He laughed in forced fashion. Then he became more serious than before.

“CYRO is a big shot,” he declared. “I know he doesn’t worry about wise dicks. But Cardona is a lucky bird. Runs into the breaks, that fellow does.”

“You mean then” — Brilliard wheeled, impressed by his companion’s tone — “that there is actually a chance that this detective could interfere with our plans?”

“I mean it,” assured Lence.

Brilliard considered. While the Frenchman was still pondering, Lence put in new statements.

“I had Luke Gaudrin lined up,” he asserted. “But when I saw Cardona, I ducked. I headed in town and checked out of my hotel. Checked all my luggage and drove up to Gulfport. Stayed there for the night and drove back this morning.”

“And Luke Gaudrin,” questioned Brilliard, narrowly, “did he suspect anything?”

“Nothing,” assured Lence. “I told him I would get in touch with him after I returned to town. Within a few days, that is to be.”

Brilliard nodded. He reached in his smock, drew out a small card, and wrote an address upon it.

“Move into this place,” he said. “An apartment over near the Cabildo. Close by Jackson Square. I leased the apartment for a friend named Richard Guyas. The name is already on the door. Introduce yourself as Guyas and live there.

“You will then be free to move out of sight any time you choose. For the present, keep out of sight. Except when you come here, which you may do any time during the day or evening up to midnight.

“If you see this door closed, do not enter. That will mean that I have art patrons present. They come seldom, for I do not encourage them. But let me add one point: after tonight, keep a sharp lookout while you are traveling through the Quarter.”

“Why?”

“On account of this man Cardona.”

“You think he will be around here?”

“If he is looking for someone and does not find that person at the Club Caprice, he will most certainly come to the French Quarter. We can allow him one more night; then watch out.”

“I get it. He’ll wait for a report from the Club Caprice. Maybe he’ll go there. If there’s nothing doing, he’ll be down in this section.”

“Exactly. And that is the time when we must be ready for trouble. But I do not suppose there will be any.”

Brilliard’s tone showed annoyance. Lence noted it and began to pace the studio. Suddenly he turned to the artist.

“Say, Brilliard!” exclaimed Lence. “What’s the matter with this fellow Link Ruckert — the one you said was waiting to hear from me at the Douran Hotel? Why don’t I get in touch with him?”

“For what purpose?”

“To get rid of Cardona. Link could bring a squad of gorillas down here and hand that dick the works. It would be a cinch! This French Quarter is loaded with hide-outs—”

BRILLIARD was smiling as he raised his hand in interruption. Lence stopped short.

“Mobsters in the Vieux Carre,” clucked the artist, shaking his head. “The police could pick them out as easily as I could discover a copy in the midst of a gallery of original Rembrandts.

“You have made the usual mistake, Lence. Old houses, courtyards, foreign faces — all these have given you the impression that the French Quarter of New Orleans is a lurking spot for crooks. You are wrong.

“You have seen that the Quarter is well policed. Certainly. Trouble breaks out here at intervals that are not infrequent. But it is local trouble. A criminal seeking seclusion here after commission of a crime would be placing his head squarely in a noose.

“Link Ruckert and his gorillas pass muster where they are. There are plenty of lowbrow visitors who come into New Orleans at this time of year. But the Quarter belongs to the French, the Spaniards and the Italians who gained a foothold in this section.”

Brilliard paused with a smile. Lence appeared puzzled.

“You wonder why Link Ruckert is here,” remarked the Frenchman. “I thought I made that plain. His gorillas, Lence, are waiting for the payoff; I thought I made that clear. Nevertheless, my friend, you have given me an idea.”

“Regarding Cardona?”

“Yes. His elimination may be accomplished with the aid of my Apaches. They are passing as bona fide dwellers in the Vieux Carre. They are like rats, Lence, when it comes to finding shelter.

“Leave this task to me. All that I need is a description of the man Cardona. Write it here, Lence” — Brilliard extended a pad and pencil — “then leave and take up your residence as Richard Guyas. Come back here this evening.”

“You won’t have to communicate with Cyro?”

“Cyro communicates with me. Every afternoon, when I sip my chocolate at Thibault’s, there may be a letter, or perhaps a call upon the telephone. It is not until tomorrow that we must have to act. There will be time, my friend.”

“All right,” agreed Lence. “I’ll stroll along then, Brilliard. When shall I come back?”

“Demain,” replied Brilliard, picking up brush and palette.

“Tomorrow?” questioned Lence, to make sure.

“Oui,” replied Brilliard. “Yes — tomorrow. I have an engagement for this evening.”

LENCE departed. Brilliard resumed his work. He began to hum; his voice arose in song and drifted out through the open door to the little courtyard.

Noon arrived; the artist had completed the task. With cocked head he was surveying the finished portrait when new visitors arrived upon the threshold.

“Ah! Mademoiselle Gaudrin!” exclaimed Brilliard, as he recognized Alicia. “Comment-vous portez-vous ce matin?”

“I’m feeling grand, Monsieur Brilliard,” laughed the girl. “But please omit the French conversation. You already know that I can not speak the language.”

“Eet ees too bad, mademoiselle,” agreed Brilliard, resorting to broken English. “Here in ze New Orleans, you do not speak le Francais.”

“I told you that I studied German in boarding school.”

“I remember eet, mademoiselle. All ze same, eet ees one grand meesfortune. In thees city, where live so many of my countrymen, eet ees every one who should know ze language which they speak.”

Brilliard made a profound bow with this assertion. Then he noted Alicia’s companion. With the girl was a young man whom the Frenchman apparently did not recognize.

“This is Mr. Exeter,” introduced Alicia. “He talks French perfectly, Monsieur Brilliard.”

“C’est vrai?” questioned the artist, turning to the Australian.

“Absolutement,” responded Exeter, with a nod.

Brilliard put another question; Exeter replied. Then came more rapid words; almost immediately, the two broke into a voluble conversation.

Alicia looked on laughing. Brilliard was speaking with gesticulations. Exeter, proficient in the French language, was acting in the same fashion.

Questions, jests and chuckling repartee passed rapidly. The girl was bewildered by the flow of conversation. Then it took a serious vein.

Exeter listened, nodding, while Brilliard explained something. He came back with pointed responses which pleased the Frenchman. Then the discourse ended abruptly. Brilliard turned to Alicia and indicated the portrait on the easel.

“C’est fini, mademoiselle,” he explained.

“It is finished,” added Exeter.

“I managed to gather that much,” laughed Alicia. “Well, Monsieur Brilliard, does this mean that you can begin upon my portrait?”

“Bientot, mademoiselle. Eet ees soon that I can commence. Eet ees to your house that I must come—”

“Certainly. I should like you to come there tonight.”

“Impossible, mademoiselle—”

“Not to begin the portrait, monsieur, merely to be my guest at dinner. I should like you to meet my father.”

“Oui, mademoiselle. But eet must be some other night. I have ze appointment for thees evening.”

“I see. Suppose then, a few days from now—”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

As the visitors turned to leave, Brilliard opened a new conversation with Exeter. The two were laughing over some jest as Exeter and Alicia went down the stairway.

OUTSIDE, Exeter spoke to Alicia.

“Suppose we lunch at Gallion’s,” he suggested. “We have been there before. Oysters Rockefeller, Shrimps a la Creole, a bottle of Sauterne—”

“Excellent,” agreed the girl. “Come along. We’ll walk over by the Rue Royale. Well, Reggie, did you enjoy your visit with Monsieur Brilliard?”

“Immensely,” replied Exeter.

“So it seemed,” said Alicia, “the way you two began to chat. What in the world did you find to talk about?”

“Paris,” stated Exeter. “As soon as Brilliard learned that I knew the city, it was hard to stop his talking. He referred to a lot of places that I recognized. He was beginning anecdotes when we left.”

“You should stop by again and chat with him for an hour.”

“Perhaps I shall. It would be interesting. Well, here’s Royal Street. Only a block to Gallion’s.”

BACK in his studio, Raoul Brilliard had removed the portrait from its easel. He busied himself rearranging the studio; then spent a while cleaning palette and brushes. More than an hour had passed before he finished.

Strolling from the studio, Brilliard carefully locked the door behind him. He waved a greeting to the artist across the way and called something in French. The other man nodded.

“What did he say?” inquired the model, after Brilliard had gone down the stairs.

“Just wanted me to tell people he was out,” replied the artist. “He’s going to Thibault’s for a cup of chocolate. He won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours!” exclaimed the model. “That long for a cup of chocolate?”

“When Frenchmen drink chocolate,” chuckled the artist, “they’re like the English with their tea. They take half the afternoon for the job.”