Cyro

CHAPTER XVII TWO NIGHTS LATER

“NOTHING new, Rafferty,” declared Royal Medbrook from behind his office desk. “Take a look at the sheets if you want.”

“Never mind, Royal,” returned Rafferty, with a grin. “I’ll take your word for it. The New York dick is still in town and I’ve got to keep him posted.”

“Certainly. I suppose he’s still scouring the French Quarter, along with Lieutenant Wayson.”

“Yeah. But they’d have given it up if it hadn’t been for that brawl at Debeq’s.”

“At Debeq’s?” questioned Medbrook, a slight look of interest on his face. “Who is Debeq?”

“Didn’t you ever hear of him?” inquired Rafferty. “He’s an old Frenchman who lives down in the Quarter. Some tough birds tried to burgle Debeq’s place. They shot it out with the cops.”

“I read about it,” recalled Medbrook. “But I didn’t know Cardona and Wayson were in on the fight.”

“They kept it out of the papers — their part of it — so nobody would know Cardona was here in town. The cops took the credit; but Wayson and Cardona did the heavy work.”

“I see. And Cardona probably thinks that those rowdies could be hooked with the con man?”

“I guess he does. He hasn’t said it though. Just seems to be sticking around in hope of something happening. Wayson is off regular duty. Just working to help Cardona.”

“Well, if either of them think that swindlers use mobs, they’re crazy. That’s my opinion.”

“Ditto, Royal.”

Rafferty went out. Tony entered. He made a gesture toward the papers on the desk.

“I didn’t put that fellow Lence on the list,” he confided. “He’s back again. I thought you’d better know it. He’s talking to young Gaudrin.”

“Don’t worry about Lence, Tony. He’s in the clear. Who else is with Luke Gaudrin?”

“The millionaire.”

“Cranston? I thought he had left town.”

“Cranston isn’t here. I’m speaking about Marr.”

“I’ll drop out and say hello.”

“All right, boss.”

MEDBROOK followed Tony from the office. Reaching the gaming room, he shook hands with Luke Gaudrin; then with Dunwood Marr. Luke turned to introduce the gambler to Tracy Lence. Another handshake.

Luke turned back to the roulette table. Medbrook clapped a friendly hand upon the young man’s shoulders. Luke had acquired a fair-sized stack of chips; the action looked like friendly congratulation on Medbrook’s part.

“Good work, Luke,” said the gambler. “Keep right on winning, as long as you don’t break the bank. How is your father?”

“The governor’s feeling great.”

“Good! Give him my best regards. I might drop in some evening, when I’m going by.”

“We’d be glad to see you, Royal.”

Medbrook stepped away. Dunwood Marr watched the gambler with a quizzical gaze. Something that resembled suspicion crept over the millionaire’s face. Then Marr suddenly resumed his usual genial expression.

Neither Luke Gaudrin nor Tracy Lence had noted Marr’s change of countenance. But another observer had. This was a player who stood on the opposite side of the table. He was a new guest of the Club Caprice, one who had been introduced as Justin Oswood.

No longer Lamont Cranston, The Shadow had watched a meeting at the door of the gaming room where Luke Gaudrin and Dunwood Marr had run into Tracy Lence. He had observed the trio from then on. He had also noted Royal Medbrook’s arrival.

The Shadow had seen significance in Medbrook’s approach; and it seemed that Dunwood Marr had also gathered that the gambler might have more than a passing interest in the affairs of Luke Gaudrin.

Lence was talking roulette systems to Luke. Marr had resumed a style of play that appeared to be his own. Secure and unrecognized in his guise of Justin Oswood, The Shadow strolled from the gaming room. He passed that portal; near the veranda, he observed two other persons: Reginald Exeter and Alicia Gaudrin.

“I WISH they would hurry out,” Alicia was saying. “I’m tired of the nightclub, Reggie. And I wouldn’t go in that gambling room, even I knew I would surely win.”

“Why not, Alicia?” inquired Exeter.

“Because of Luke,” replied the girl. “He is wheedling father. That’s a fact, Reggie. I think he’s lost money here and he’s trying to make them think that father will pay up.

“He brought Mr. Cranston here and this is the second time that he has had Mr. Marr in the place. Father came that first time. Luke is trying to impress the management.”

“Not so loud, Alicia. Some one might hear you. Tell me more about that dinner party that you have arranged.”

“It is in honor of Professor Babcock, on his return. It will be quite informal, Reggie. Father, Luke, you and I, Captain Emory — to meet the new owner of the Nautilus.”

“Namely, our friend Mr. Marr. He will be present of course.”

“Yes. And I have managed to land Raoul Brilliard. That should please you. You will be able to talk all the French you want, Reggie.”

“You will make the arrangements for the portrait?”

“Yes. Won’t that be grand?”

“I should say! By the way, Alicia, didn’t I hear Luke say something about the dinner when he introduced us to this chap Tracy Lence?”

“Yes.” The girl seemed annoyed. “You know he invited Lence to the house that night Mr. Cranston came. So he repeated the invitation again, tonight.”

“Inviting Lence for the big party?”

“Yes — and I think it was nervy on Luke’s part. I’m going to tell him so. I don’t want this man Lence at that dinner.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Alicia. Lence may prove to be quite as interesting as Cranston.”

“I don’t care. I’m going to tell Luke that he—”

“You will say nothing to him.”

Alicia’s eyes flashed angrily. Then a smile came to her lips, replacing a pout.

“You’re right, Reggie,” said the girl, in a soft voice. “So considerate, always, of people’s feelings. It would not be right to embarrass Luke now that he has given the invitation.”

“That is the way I feel, Alicia.”

The Shadow strolled away. Exeter had not noticed him, for his back was toward the personage who posed as Justin Oswood. Nor did Alicia observe the tall stranger. She was too intent in her conversation with Exeter.

ENTERING a cab, The Shadow drawled his destination. He mentioned a pier on the Mississippi; then specified that he wished to be there within a half hour. The driver responded, saying he could make it.

The cab arrived within the time appointed. A steamship had docked; lights showed the name at the stern. The boat was the Tarrano, from Pernambuco. Smoking a cigarette, The Shadow joined a group of persons who were watching a scattering of passengers descend the gangplank.

Chiefly a freighter, the Tarrano had brought a large and cosmopolitan crew. Some of the seamen had already left the vessel. The passengers, however, numbered less than thirty. One individual, dark-faced and mustached, caught The Shadow’s eye.

This was obviously Jose Larribez. His luggage had undergone inspection; he was arranging for his large suitcases to go to a taxicab. “Si, Senor Larribez” — the proving words of identity came from a steward. The Shadow caught Larribez’s response — a mention of the Hotel Bontezan.

A soft laugh came from Oswood’s lips as The Shadow strolled away from the group of idlers. Larribez had chosen The Shadow’s hotel. The coincidence simplified the task which The Shadow had set for this evening. There was no need for haste.

SHORTLY after Jose Larribez had registered at the Bontezan, Justin Oswood appeared at the desk to inquire about mail. He found several letters awaiting him. While the clerk obtained them, The Shadow spied the register and noted the location of Larribez’s rooms. The new arrival had taken a suite.

In the room which The Shadow occupied as Oswood, a strange phenomenon occurred shortly afterward. A switch clicked; the light from a table lamp came on, to throw a spot of illumination in a room that was otherwise totally dark.

Beneath that light appeared long-fingered hands. A gem — The Shadow’s girasol — sparkled from a finger on the left. The hands opened envelopes. Coded messages came into view. Writing faded as keen eyes read the statements.

Then came a rippling laugh, suppressed to a shuddering whisper. The light clicked out. Swishing sounds came from the gloom. The door opened. Into a silent, deserted corridor stepped a figure cloaked in black.

The Shadow followed the corridor to a flight of little-used stairs. He went up one floor, turned left and arrived at a door which he knew must be the inner room of Larribez’s suite. The Shadow probed the lock with his pick. The door opened when he softly turned the knob.

The room was dark, but rays of light penetrated from the doorway to the living room. Closing the outer door behind him, The Shadow softly locked it and stepped toward the connecting door. Feet scuffed in the other room. The door swung open. The Shadow deftly swerved behind it as Larribez entered and turned on the light.

The dark-faced man began to unpack a bag. The door, almost fully opened, prevented him from seeing the figure that stood behind it. While Larribez was still placing articles in a bureau drawer, there was a soft knock at the outer door of the living room.

Larribez went to answer it. He turned out the bedroom light while on the way; but he left the door open.

The Shadow heard someone enter the living room. Peering through the crack of the door, he observed a stocky, rough-faced fellow who had entered.

“They’re getting set,” announced the arrival. “Down at a joint called the Cafe Internationale — a water-front beanery run by a Frenchy named Michlieu.”

“I know the place,” replied Larribez, in a slightly foreign accent. “But it is not the one that I should have chosen. There are too many other people there.”

“Downstairs, yes,” admitted the other man. “But Michlieu’s got an upstairs joint for the overflow. I told him I was trying to get a crew for a tramp steamer. I paid him for the use of the upstairs room.”

“Excellent, Dombar!” decided Larribez. “You can make your headquarters there.”

“And I’ll stay there,” added Dombar, “I’m wanted in this town for that mutiny on the Stellar five years ago. Nobody knows I’m the guy that crowned the skipper with a belaying pin, but—”

“Forget your previous murders, Dombar,” interposed Larribez, calmly. “The other men have all performed similar deeds. That is why I chose them and brought them here. You are in charge only because you are an American. When will the crew assemble?”

“Inside an hour. Password is the one you gave me: Cajobabo. I’ve passed the word to the ones I know; they’ll get it to the rest.”

“And all will soon be acquainted. All right, Dombar. You must return to the Cafe Internationale. Call me by the telephone after this — unless you hear from me, through someone with the countersign.”

The door closed. Jose Larribez was alone. The ex-Porrista made a few notations at the writing desk; then turned to reenter the bedroom. Jose Larribez was totally oblivious to the fact that his conversation with Dombar had been overheard.

Yet every word of that brief talk had reached The Shadow’s ears. Already, the unseen listener was completing plans for an immediate campaign.