Cyro

CHAPTER XIII BALKED KILLERS

“STEP on it!” came The Shadow’s firm command. “Speed to the city limits. Then pull to the side of the road.”

The frightened taxi driver needed no further urge. Though quivering, he obeyed as his terror magnified. Tramping accelerator to the floor he shot his machine forward at full speed, anxious only to do the bidding of this being who would brook no dallying.

As the cab whirled forward, the car near the Club Caprice shot out with immediate speed. Hoarse cries came from its occupants. They knew that their quarry had spotted their presence. Madly they took up the chase of the lurching cab. But they could not equal the pace of the maddened driver up ahead.

“Over” — The Shadow’s command came from the rear of the cab as his automatic pressed the driver’s neck. “Pull over and stop. Stop hard.”

Cold steel of the gun’s muzzle spurred the driver to prompt response. He had doubled the distance between his cab and the car behind. The halt that he made was terrific. He jammed the brake and banked the cab upon a mound of dirt at the side of the road.

“Out,” ordered The Shadow. “Run for cover!”

The driver dived from the wheel and scrambled over the low bank at the side of the road, never glancing behind him. At the same instant, The Shadow yanked open the door and leaped against the bank.

His left hand clutched the lapels of his full-dress coat, pressing them so they hid the whiteness of collar, shirt and tie. As his right shoulder struck the bank, The Shadow spun about. Half rolling, half leaping, he whirled back, away from the stalled taxi.

He was a mass of spinning blackness in the shroud of night. The Shadow was unseen despite the glare of approaching lights. The attire of Lamont Cranston was serving him as well as any cloak. In four swift seconds, he had hurled himself from a spot of pressing danger.

FROM the pursuing automobile came flashes of flame, accompanied by the roar of revolvers. Bullets ripped the rear of the halted cab. Slugs crashed windows as the big machine approached. An open touring car, its sides offered opportunity for the marksman in it.

Opportunity lay elsewhere, also. Ending his spin against the banked side of the road, The Shadow stopped with automatic levelled. He pressed the trigger as the touring car arrived. Not once; but often.

The kicking automatic sent fierce jabs of flame. With every spurt, The Shadow’s arm was swinging, following the car that had come to deluge the cab with leaden hail. Screamed oaths shrieked through the air as the driver applied the brakes. The touring car spun roundabout, a dozen yards beyond the cab.

Rising, The Shadow swung himself up the embankment; the action took no more than one swift leap. Dropping flat, he aimed to deal with desperadoes should they require more. The touring car was straight across the road. Lights from an approaching automobile showed toppled figures dangling above its doors.

One unscathed marksman had seen The Shadow’s shots. Leaning from beside the driver’s seat, he loosed a volley for the center of the bank where The Shadow had been. Whirling bullets thudded the dirt, the air crackling as it closed behind them.

A single shot answered from atop the embankment. A last burst from the automatic, it proved a perfect stroke. The crook beside the driver jounced upward; then slumped down in the car. The man at the wheel stepped on the gas.

Jolting from the road, he drove hard through a chance opening between trees. Cutting wildly across a field, he reached a dirt road that led to another highway. The touring car jounced from side to side; then sped away in flight, its driver carrying a cargo of dead and crippled pals.

Cars had stopped all about. Lights were glaring on the road. Those headlamps, however, did not show the right side of the taxicab. Nor did they reveal The Shadow as he crawled quickly along the embankment, then dropped beside the taxi.

Leaping to the wheel, The Shadow started the bullet-riddled cab. Shots had been for the body — not for tires, tank or motor. The cab responded. The Shadow drove it roaring, past cars that had halted in their path from the city. Racing the motor to full speed, he whizzed into the city limits of New Orleans.

NOT long afterward, Lamont Cranston appeared in the lobby of the hotel where he was stopping. His usually immaculate attire bore slight traces of grime; that fact, however, was not noticed by the elevator operator.

Reaching his room, The Shadow changed his clothes. He packed his bags; then summoned the porter and arranged for his luggage to be expressed to New York, save for a briefcase that he intended to carry with him.

Going down to the lobby, The Shadow checked out, still in the quiet manner of Lamont Cranston. He left the key; but he did not go from the hotel. Instead, he returned to his floor. The door was unlocked as he had left it.

Opening the briefcase, he produced a make-up box. Surveying his countenance in a mirror, he laughed softly and began to remold his masklike features. His visage changed beneath the pressure of his finger tips. When The Shadow’s work was completed, his face was fuller and heavier than that of Lamont Cranston. It still carried its hawklike semblance; that was all.

The Shadow strolled from the hotel room. He descended to the lobby, walked out and strode briskly toward bright lights that glittered along Canal Street. His gait, his manner — both had undergone a change as marked as that of his countenance.

TWO hours after the episode on the highway, two men arrived at the Club Caprice and asked for Rafferty. One was Joe Cardona; the other, a tall, square-shouldered man. Although clad in civilian attire, this individual had the military bearing of an army officer. His face was as square-set as his frame.

Rafferty conducted the two to Medbrook’s office. The gambler arose and extended his hand, first to Cardona, then to the detective’s companion.

“Well, well,” chuckled Royal. “Lieutenant Wayson. You’re in good company, Cardona. Wayson is the best police instructor in the country. An expert on small arms—”

“Cardona knows all that, Medbrook,” interposed Wayson, in a deep tone. “The chief gave him the details when he introduced us this afternoon. You know my duties. I confine myself entirely to revolver practice.”

“During the day,” laughed Medbrook. “And in the evenings, you see the town. What are you going to do — take Cardona around the French Quarter? Looking for a con man who might be picking off the saps who come to town?”

“That’s just what we intend to do,” informed Wayson. “But that comes later, Medbrook — beginning with tomorrow night. The reason I’m out here now is to find out what I can about that trouble on the highway.”

“You mean that battle between a touring car and a taxi? We heard about it here — that’s all. Anyway, it was outside the city limits, wasn’t it?”

Royal eyed Wayson sharply. The police officer nodded his acknowledgment.

“It doesn’t come under our jurisdiction,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t prevent our finding out what you know about it. I’m here ex-officio.”

“I understand,” stated Royal. “Well, lieutenant, I’d like to help you out; but frankly; I don’t know a thing about it. The whole affair was off the premises of the Club Caprice. We only received a second-hand rumor that there’d been a fight.”

“The cab showed up in New Orleans,” remarked Wayson. “It was found in a parking lot. The driver arrived later; he said he’d picked up a passenger from here.”

“Any description of the rider?”

“None. The fellow poked a gun muzzle up against the driver’s neck and made him pull over. He let the driver run for it.”

“And then the fight began?”

“That’s it. He heard the shots; then he saw his cab roll away. That’s all he told us.”

The telephone bell rang. Medbrook answered it. He spoke briefly.

“Came in, you say?” inquired Medbrook. “I see… Checked out right afterward… Gone to New York… All right… No, never mind… That’s all I need to know…”

The gambler smiled as he hung up the receiver.

“Just checking on a customer,” he remarked. “A stranger we didn’t know enough about. He looks all right, though. No, he wasn’t one that we thought might be Cyro” — Medbrook shook his head as he saw Cardona about to interrupt — “we were afraid this fellow was a professional gambler, getting a line on the way we run things.”

This statement ended, Royal Medbrook tapped the desk in meditation; then looked at Wayson.

“There’ve been tough birds around lately,” he declared. “But I don’t think they amount to much. They’ve kept their noses out of our business; and I guess they’re wise enough to stay outside the city limits, too. They were probably after some fellow in the cab; but I can’t figure who he was. A lot of customers went out of here tonight.”

Wayson seemed satisfied with the explanation. He arose, motioned to Cardona and the two departed.

OUTSIDE the Club Caprice they entered a coupe that belonged to Wayson and headed cityward.

“We’ll take a stroll down toward Frenchtown,” decided Wayson. “Just to look around tonight; but tomorrow we can make some inquiries about this chap Cyro. Seems to me I heard some talk about him when I was in Jamaica, a few years ago.”

“You were on service there?” asked Cardona.

“Yes,” laughed Wayson. “Jamaica, the Philippines, Hawaii, Algeria, China — I’ve been everywhere. Old pals of mine are always dropping in to see me. I show them the high spots of New Orleans. Unofficially.”

“You think Cyro might be in the Latin Quarter?”

“Possibly. Let me explain how things are down there, Cardona. To begin with, there are a lot of places that look tough to people who don’t know them. Up North, they would be mobster hangouts. But they aren’t down here.”

“Why not?”

“Gangs find the New Orleans climate unhealthy. Medbrook brought out that fact when we talked to him. Gangsters keep quiet inside our city limits. Mobs follow rackets — and a racketeer can’t get to first base in New Orleans. The town has its riffraff, but they move openly. We watch the places where they go; and we keep an eye on them.

“If a local rowdy decided he’d become a big shot, we’d step on him as soon as he began to organize. If a big shot blows in from another city, he finds himself up against it when he tries to organize a crew. If he tries to import his own gorillas, we can spot them like daisies in a wheat field.”

“Then gangsters stay clear of New Orleans?”

“No. A lot of them visit here. But they mind their business. The layout doesn’t look right. That’s all. There are too many people belonging here who can’t see the idea of outsiders starting trouble with the cops.”

“Then the French Quarter stays quiet?”

“Not all the time. In a sense, it’s never quiet. Anything may happen there. Same way along the water front. Look at it this way, Cardona. The Hudson River is pretty big at New York, isn’t it?”

“More than a mile wide.”

“Well, suppose it began to rise — twenty or thirty feet. It would be tough for Manhattan, wouldn’t it?”

Cardona nodded.

“Well, out there” — Wayson pointed toward the foot of Canal Street, along which they were riding — “we’ve got the Mississippi and it rises. But it doesn’t wash us out because we have the levees. Higher than the level of the streets.

“We handle crime something like the river. We know it’s due for rises. And when it’s low, there’s liable to be an influx from outside. That’s when the levees show how useful they can be. We have them built. They are ready when we need them.”

Cardona made no comment. He caught the angle of Wayson’s rough simile. Where New York had seething crime that kept a constant level, smaller cities frequently encountered an intide of crooks who saw a happy hunting ground awaiting them. New Orleans had met this difficulty, according to Wayson.

Before Cardona could ask for further details, the lieutenant returned to his original statement.

“I said we would inquire about con men,” remarked Wayson. “We will. I’ll talk to people that I know. They don’t want customers who may make trouble for them. They’ll pass the word along. The rats won’t know anything about it.

“But if you came down here with a detective, making his rounds, some of the small fry might wonder who you were. They’d figure you for an out-of-town detective. They’d pass the word, not to help you, but to help any of their kind that might be in bad. Your man might wise to it.”

THE coupe had reached the center of the city. Wayson parked; he and Cardona alighted. A traffic cop delivered a friendly salute as they crossed the broad avenue with its four rows of streetcar tracks in the center.

“Same as Market Street in Frisco,” remarked Wayson, pointing to the tracks. “Four abreast.” Then, to a cop who was taking the number of a parked car: “Give him a break, Stevie. You won’t get the towing car for half an hour. It was heading up Claiborne when we passed it.”

The policeman grinned and waved. Wayson nudged his thumb to indicate the other side of Canal Street, the one from which they had come.

“That’s uptown,” he explained to Joe. “On that side of Canal Street. On this side is downtown. That’s the way we distinguish them. Different from most cities. First thing we strike in the downtown side is the French Quarter.

“We turn through here to begin with” — they were walking along Canal Street as he spoke — “and we’re going along the wettest alley in the world — Exchange Street. Grog shops. Keep your eye peeled.”

Night had brought illumination to Canal Street. Both sides of the broad thoroughfare were resplendent with circular globes above their stout metal lamp-posts. Exchange Street, however, presented a more garish spectacle.

Bars with open fronts, indoor cafes, amid a blaze of light. A scattering crowd threaded back and forth across the thoroughfare. Automobiles rolled slowly, honking their horns continuously.

Wayson was eyeing all about him. So was Cardona. All the while, the lieutenant acted as though pointing out the sights to a friend. A genial, baldheaded man gave a greeting. Wayson spoke to him. The fellow nodded.

The same thing happened further on. Whenever Wayson paused to chat, he kept his keen eyes roving. He was studying the medley of humanity, looking for men worth watching.

At the end of Exchange Street, Wayson turned about. He glanced at his watch, then shrugged his shoulders. His gesture signified that it was too late to begin operations.

“Tomorrow night — at eight,” decided the police lieutenant. “I’ll meet you at your hotel. We’ll head down this way, Cardona. We lost too much time with that useless trip out to the Club Caprice.”

A WELL-DRESSED man was standing near the corner. He had overheard Wayson’s words. Cardona saw the stranger, but caught only a slight view of his dignified face. He did not recognize the passer.

But as Wayson and Cardona moved toward Canal Street, a soft laugh came from the lips of the dignified stranger. He waited until Wayson and Cardona were out of sight; then began a brisk pace in the direction of a hotel, a fair-sized establishment known as the Bontezan.

Under his arm, the stranger had a briefcase. He placed it by the desk as he signed the register. The name that he wrote was Justin Oswood. The address: New York.

“I sent some luggage here,” remarked the new guest. “It bears my name.”

“We received it, Mr. Oswood,” informed the clerk. “It is in the porter’s room. We shall send the luggage up.”

In the room assigned to him, Justin Oswood smiled warily as he studied his reflection in a mirrored door. The visage that he surveyed was the one that had replaced the countenance of Lamont Cranston.

The Shadow was still in New Orleans at a new hotel, wearing a guise that would not be recognized by any who had met Lamont Cranston.

Tonight, The Shadow had visited the home of Danforth Gaudrin, a place where crime was due to fall when the Nautilus returned. He had accomplished all he needed there for the present. He did not require another visit as Cranston.

At the Club Caprice, he had learned the course that Joe Cardona was to follow. His chance observance of Cardona and Wayson had given him corroboration. Tomorrow night, while waiting for the crime that would reveal the schemes of the elusive Cyro, The Shadow would have opportunity to trail Cardona through the French Quarter.

Most important of all tonight’s episodes had been the one in which The Shadow had actually encountered men of crime. He had beaten off a band of would-be slayers. He knew that they were but a portion of a ready mob. The rogues had attacked from outside the city; but chances were that their hangout was within the limits of New Orleans.

Luck had allowed the driver of the touring car to escape with the thinned and crippled crew. To take up the trail; to seek the leader who had ordered that band to battle would be a troublesome task for The Shadow, particularly while better prospects offered.

As Justin Oswood, The Shadow could afford to wait. Lamont Cranston was gone; thugs would be lying low. When the time came, The Shadow could deal with the pals of those whom he had beaten back tonight.