Cyro

CHAPTER XIV THE MESSAGE

TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed. Midnight strollers were passing through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, where old-fashioned lamps cast mellow light that softened the scarred house fronts. The night was warm; people upon balconies overlooked the passing strollers. Keen, foreign faces formed a good proportion of those behind the upstairs rails.

Among those on the street were two who had been on the go since dusk. Cardona and Wayson had maintained a haphazard course in their combined search for Cyro. They had visited places that the police lieutenant called “two-bit joints”: twenty-five cents for a drink, a sandwich or a dance.

They had stopped in little restaurants; and for a while they had loitered about an absinthe shop that held more than the usual quota of foreigners.

Everywhere, Wayson had sown seeds that might grow. He had told persons of the French Quarter that the police were looking for a gentleman of crime — a con man who did not belong in New Orleans. He had made it plain that word of such a stranger would be appreciated.

The tour had halted in Gallion’s Restaurant, where Wayson had suggested a midnight meal. Seated at a corner table, Joe Cardona noted a balcony along the back of the main room, with an entrance to another part of the restaurant.

Monsieur Gallion, with pointed mustache, came over and chatted in French with Wayson. Then the proprietor broke into convivial Italian when introduced by Wayson to Cardona.

“Wait until we visit some water-front beaneries,” chuckled Wayson, as a waiter took their order. “You’ll hear every lingo there. But these are the spots where Cyro might be. A swindler might land a sucker at Gallion’s.”

As Wayson spoke, Cardona noted a tall, keen-visaged stranger enter the restaurant. Joe had a hunch that he had previously seen the newcomer somewhere else in the French Quarter. He did not suspect that he was looking at The Shadow.

As Justin Oswood, The Shadow had trailed Wayson and Cardona during the entire evening. Sometimes close, sometimes at a distance, he had constantly kept inconspicuous. He had heard Wayson state — hours ago — that they would wind up at Gallion’s.

More than that, The Shadow had spied others watching Wayson and Cardona — particularly in the absinthe house. There, a squint-eyed foreigner had overheard Wayson mentioning Gallion’s. The squinty individual had departed promptly afterward, so quickly that The Shadow, handicapped by his part of Oswood, had been unable to follow.

At one time during the evening, The Shadow had dropped the trail. That was when Wayson had announced a brief portion of his coming route. The Shadow had left; he had hailed a cab and gone to the Hotel Bontezan, where he was registered as Justin Oswood. Returning to the trail, he had stopped at Gallion’s, to leave a package. Then he had picked up the course of Wayson and Cardona.

The trip had been a short one, for the Bontezan overlooked the French Quarter. At present, returned to Gallion’s, The Shadow quietly asked the waiter for his package. The man produced it, and placed it on a chair beside the customer.

Indulging in a light meal, The Shadow had finished before Wayson and Cardona were half through. He remained, however, smoking a cigar. Thus he saw a shirt-sleeved man who entered and walked over to Wayson’s table. He understood the French that the fellow uttered. He saw Wayson nod; he watched the man go out.

“A tip,” confided Wayson to Cardona. “I thought one might be coming.”

“About Cyro?” asked Joe.

“It may be,” replied Wayson. “That chap came from Pierre Debeq.”

“Who is Debeq?”

“An old Frenchman who lives in a house at the end of a little alley near Royal Street. He has a great many wealthy friends, although his own finances are limited. I think I see a light.”

“About Cyro?”

“Yes. Maybe somebody who knows Debeq spoke to him about some swindler being in town. It’s a good lead. Swallow your coffee. We’ll go over and see Debeq.”

WHILE the two men were putting a hasty finish to their meal, The Shadow arose and strolled from the restaurant. Under his arm, he was carrying the package that he had obtained at Gallion’s. In the brisk manner of Justin Oswood, he walked one block in the direction of the Hotel Bontezan. That distance covered, The Shadow changed his course. He came to an empty house between two street lamps. He stepped beneath the shelter of a deep balcony.

There was a sound of crinkling paper, as The Shadow opened the package which he carried. Totally obscured by the gloom, The Shadow remained in this temporary shelter. Something swished softly in the darkness. Then came silence.

A splotch of darkness moved along the sidewalk; it wavered past the fringe of the nearest lamplight. A patrolling policeman spied the phenomenon, purely by chance. He stared suspiciously at the overhanging balcony.

Clicking his flashlight, the patrolman made an inspection of the sheltering space. The rays showed no one beneath the balcony — nothing except a wall of crumbling brick. The patrolman resumed his beat. Quiet reigned within the Vieux Carre.

Silently, mysteriously, The Shadow had blended with the night. No longer passing as Justin Oswood, he had assumed his favored garb, that cloak of blackness that so well-befitted the night-splotched byways of this antiquated area.

WHILE The Shadow was finding seclusion in the cover of darkness, two others were also deciding that the quiet of the French Quarter suited them. Cardona and Wayson had paced away from Gallion’s and were almost to the residence of Pierre Debeq.

“There’s always life in the Quarter,” observed Wayson, as he guided Joe toward the new destination. “But there’s something that subdues it; an atmosphere that suppresses trouble.”

“And helps the law hold its own?” questioned Cardona.

“Usually,” returned Wayson, “and trouble doesn’t last long after it starts. Yet you never can tell when it’s likely to begin. I always carry my artillery.”

He patted the sides of his coat to indicate two guns beneath. Cardona grinned and thrust his hand to his coat pocket, to give a momentary flash of a snub-nosed revolver.

“We take this alleyway,” announced Wayson. “It’s the way in to Pierre Debeq’s.”

They entered a space just past a three-story building, one that was fronted with a double balcony of iron lacework. The ornamentation ended abruptly at the alley. Wayson and Cardona were passing through a narrow passage that showed high, straight walls on each side.

One street lamp revealed narrow sidewalks. Ahead was an ancient driveway, a continuation of the alley. Stone paving was visible beyond a gate. The grilled barrier was open; the visitors walked through a veritable tunnel to reach a dimly lighted court.

Dark doorways and stairs to upper stories showed at one side and the end of the court. At the far portion, totally obscured from the outside alley, was the front of a stone-walled house. With footsteps echoing from the dull paving, Wayson led Cardona to the entrance.

“This is Debeq’s,” explained the lieutenant. “Chez Debeq, he calls it. Take a look around this courtyard, Cardona. Walls on every side, with those inner balconies. It looks as though all four were one house; but they aren’t. Only this side is Debeq’s. He’s probably waiting for us. We’ll walk right in.”

Wayson opened the front door and they passed beneath an archway to another court, where a single light shone upon a door across the way. This was a small courtyard, and Cardona pictured it correctly when he decided that it was the equivalent of a vestibule in an ordinary house.

Once past the arch beneath the upper stories, no one could find an outlet except through a door opposite. That, in a sense, was Debeq’s inner front door. Once within it, visitors would find themselves actually in the house itself. There would be stairways leading up to all sections of the upper floors.

Wayson decided to ring a bell that showed beside the door. A clang answered his effort. Wayson waited; then spoke to Cardona.

“Debeq’s an old codger who prefers to live alone,” remarked the police lieutenant. “Wait until you see his big hall. More like a living room, just inside this door.”

There was no response. Wayson clanged the bell again, waited, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Old Debeq is rather deaf,” he said. “I don’t like to walk in on him; but since he sent for us, we might as well try the door to see if it’s open.”

THE barrier yielded as the police lieutenant pressed it. Wayson and Cardona stepped through a little anteroom that was dark. They saw the gleam of candlelight ahead. Two tapers were burning above a mantelpiece, throwing a flickering glare upon a stone hearth. Dim stairways showed at the sides of the hall.

A clock between the candles was chiming a three-quarter hour. Wayson stared about, his face perplexed. He had not expected to find the room deserted. He eyed the stairways; then shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t see Debeq,” he began. “I wonder if—”

The clock’s chime ended as Wayson paused. With the last stroke came an interrupting sound. It was a wheezy whine from a corner past the fireplace. Wayson stepped in that direction, Cardona close behind. Both saw the outline of a form huddled in a chair.

“Debeq!” exclaimed Wayson. “Bound and gagged! What’s happened here? A robbery?”

The lieutenant yanked the handkerchief from the face of the man in the chair. Cardona saw a plaintive, withered countenance as Pierre Debeq stared up into the light. Wayson tugged at binding ropes that held the old man’s arms. Debeq uttered feeble words in French.

Like a flash, Wayson sent Debeq’s chair skidding into the corner, its occupant riding with it. The lieutenant seized Cardona’s arm and wheeled Joe out of the light. He snapped a command; Cardona hurried with him toward the door.

Debeq’s words had been a feeble warning, delivered just in time. This room was a trap, set by those who had overpowered the old Frenchman; and Wayson and Cardona were the victims for whom it had been planned!