Cyro

CHAPTER XVIII THE SHADOW’S THRUST

THE Cafe Internationale occupied a shoddy building not far from the water front. On the fringe of the Vieux Carre, the place was a meeting spot for seamen coming back and forth between the city and their ships.

More than that, it was a rendezvous for men of all nations. Michlieu had given his joint an appropriate name. The babel of many tongues was commonplace in the stone-walled room of this water-front den.

Ordinarily, the cafe was a peaceful beanery. The presence of so many nationalities caused confusion; but also served as a preventative against riots. As a rule, no group predominated in sufficient force to start massed trouble. Brawls usually ended with the arrival of the police.

Michlieu was not famed for the quality of his cuisine. His forte was to supply varied foods, attractive to the many foreign seamen simply because they were dishes found in their own lands. Drinks, too, were of considerable variety.

In this hangout, Chinamen swallowed rice whisky at the same tables where rugged Germans ordered steins of lager. Spaniards from the Latin Quarter met with men who spoke their own tongue: sailors from South American countries. On this night, a sprinkling of Brazilians were present. These were members of the crew from the Tarrano, who chatted in Portuguese.

There were others from the Tarrano who talked in Spanish, along with a few of Dombar’s ilk: Americans who had come with the same ship. These members of the crew did not seat themselves in tables about the lower room. Instead, they strolled past toward a stairway that led to the second floor.

Occasionally, intruders made for that stairway. The hard-boiled waiters let them pass. But they observed that these unwanted seamen invariably came downstairs after a brief argument with someone above.

Behind the Cafe Internationale was a low-roofed building that offered access to the second floor. Standing by the wall of this adjoining structure was a huge African, attired in grimy overalls. He looked like a stoker from some ship.

A square-shouldered man came strolling past. He, too, was roughly clad. As he paused to light a cigarette, the flame showed his face as a clean-chiseled countenance.

“Ready, Jericho?” questioned the newcomer, in a whisper.

“All set, Mr. Marsland,” returned the African. “Tell me when to start.”

“I’m waiting for Hawkeye. You’ll see us go in.”

CLIFF MARSLAND, agent of The Shadow, moved away. Further along, he passed another man of his own build. This was Harry Vincent, also of The Shadow’s forces. They had come here from New York, in response to orders through Rutledge Mann.

A hunched figure appeared on the opposite sidewalk. Cliff spoke to Harry and received a low reply. The new arrival was “Hawkeye.” Cliff crossed and met the newcomer. Once a crook, now reformed, Hawkeye was here to serve The Shadow. He looked like a roustabout in his present attire.

Harry Vincent, alone again, heard a strange whisper from the darkness. He could not see the person who had uttered it; but he recognized the signal. He had heard The Shadow’s whisper earlier tonight. Harry had brought the other agents to the vicinity of the Cafe Internationale.

Harry signaled with his hand. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye strolled toward the cafe. Harry followed. Jericho waited at his post. Then, with the slouch of a lazy Goliath, the big African moved along. He stooped as he entered the portals of the Cafe Internationale.

The place was crowded. Jericho lounged through the smoke-filled room, where the aromas of many tobaccos formed a nauseating medley. He spied the stairway. Stooping, Jericho ascended. He was stopped by a wiry ruffian at the top.

“What you want here?” questioned the man.

“Cajobabo,” returned Jericho, with a grin.

The fellow surveyed the African giant. He nudged his thumb toward the door. Jericho entered. Men stopped talking as he appeared. One arose. It was Dombar.

“Who let you in?” quizzed the ugly faced man. “Wasn’t there a fellow here at the door?”

“I gave the word,” replied Jericho, still grinning. “Cajobabo was it.”

Dombar looked about. He caught shrugs of shoulders and shakes of heads. None of the outfit claimed Jericho as one of their mates.

“Where did you hear this Cajobabo?” demanded Dombar, defiantly.

“Out at the door,” returned Jericho. “I says how do ya get in here, mister? He says ‘Cajobabo’—”

“Yeah? We’ll ask him.”

Dombar strode to the door. Jericho slouched after him. They faced the ruffian who was on guard. Standing at the top of the steps, Dombar growled:

“Why did you let this man in here?”

“He tell me Cajobabo,” returned the guard.

“And you didn’t spill it to him?” quizzed Dombar. “Like he said inside — that you told it to him—”

“He tell me Cajobabo!”

The guard thrust his hand inside his shirt. Something flashed from beneath the grime of the blue flannel. Dombar gave a nod. As the guard yanked a knife, Dombar leaped for Jericho.

WITH a roar of laughter, the African side-stepped. His massive left paw was already swinging. It clamped the knife-drawing guard by the neck and spun the fellow about, on a helpless teeter. As Dombar missed Jericho’s throat, the big fellow caught him with a quick right hand.

Huge arms swung together. Two skulls cracked forcibly. The burdens slumped from Jericho’s grasp. The guard sprawled on the steps; Dombar toppled headlong and went skidding downward.

At the same instant, chairs scraped heavily below. From the tables nearest the stairway, agents of The Shadow sprang to their feet and started a dash up the steps. But Jericho was not awaiting them.

Just inside the door of the upstairs room was a small but heavy table. The instant that he dropped Dombar and the guard, Jericho turned back into the room. He grabbed the table as a weapon.

Murderers were on their feet. These minions of Larribez were no ordinary brawlers. They had seen their comrades fall. They were out to kill. Dirks flashed. One knife came zimming through the air.

Jericho had swung the table as a shield. The whizzing knife buried deep in the tabletop that the African held before him. Dropping his grinning face behind the wooden surface, Jericho let another blade skim past his head. He plunged forward like a huge bull. Then, with a sidesweep, he began to swing the table.

One man sprawled, a gun clattering from his fist. Jericho had backed into a corner, beating out with the table as if it were a mammoth club. Other guns were flashing. Shots barked from the door. Would-be killers turned. They fired back at the agents of The Shadow.

Low upon the steps, Cliff, Harry and Hawkeye were safe from the bullets that ricocheted from stone.

Ruffians turned as Jericho emitted a huge laugh. They saw him holding the table in his right hand as he pointed to the window with his left. There, in from the roof, stood The Shadow, ready with his automatics.

THE SHADOW knew with whom he had to deal. These false seamen were murderers. Jose Larribez had chosen cutthroats for his merciless mob. Every one of the evil crew had committed crimes which merited the death penalty. All had eluded the toils of the law.

Yet The Shadow lent them opportunity. Had they submitted to the menace of his looming guns, he would have ceased this raid. Had mobsters been his foemen, they might have cowered in face of The Shadow’s might.

But to Larribez’s thugs, the arrival of this enemy was signal for concerted murder. Forgetting all other foes, they swung to kill. New knives sped toward the weaving form while revolvers aimed in ready hands.

Whirling as he dropped to the floor, The Shadow escaped the whistling dirks. He had foreseen that move, as had Jericho. But as The Shadow dropped, his automatics thundered. A split-second ahead of his desperate attackers, The Shadow’s sweeping fire found living targets.

Straight up into the brawling crew that surged upon him. Such was The Shadow’s move. With it, Jericho hurled his table at an enemy. Leaping forward, he grabbed milling bodies and hurled them to the floor.

The Shadow did not need this aid. Rising upward, he came clear of sprawling ruffians who had slumped upon him as human shields. But Jericho’s response was timely; and hard upon it came a surge of the agents from the door. Staggering murderers were scattering about the room.

Pounding up the stairs were new fighters from below. The roustabouts who patronized this dive were coming to join the fray. The Shadow aimed an automatic straight for the big bulb that illuminated this upstairs den. He fired. The room was blackened.

A hiss. Jericho went through the window, head-foremost to the roof beyond. The other agents followed the course of his bulky figure. As a shouting mob surged into the room, The Shadow wheeled and stepped across the sill.

Agents had dropped to safety from the low wall beyond the adjacent building. The Shadow swung to the rear of the roof. His automatics blazed shots in the air. A police whistle sounded. Arriving officers headed toward the back of the Cafe Internationale. The Shadow was gone when they arrived.

The remnants of Larribez’s crew had started a wild battle in the dark, plunging toward the surging horde from below. Wounded and half-staggered, these hopeless fighters had gone down beneath an overwhelming rush. When the police invasion came, the strife was finished.

FAR from the scene of this terrific tumult, Raoul Brilliard was sketching in his studio. Watching him was Tracy Lence. The New Yorker did not share the Parisian’s ease. Lence was restless.

Tabac, the lone Apache, was huddled in a corner.

“Make yourself comfortable, Lence,” suggested Brilliard, blandly. “It is too early to expect Larribez. His ship did not dock until tonight.”

“He should have come here as soon as he arrived,” Lence suggested.

“Hardly. He had arrangements to make. That is why I brought Tabac here. Ah, Tabac—”

Turning to the Apache, Brilliard began a jargon of Parisian slang. Tabac grinned and replied in kind. To Lence, their rapid conversation was unintelligible. It continued, though, with laughs and gestures, for a full ten minutes.

Then Tabac subsided. Brilliard went back to his sketch. Lence arose and paced back and forth across the studio. He was puffing nervously at a third cigarette when a soft knock came from the door.

“Answer it,” whispered Brilliard.

Lence opened the door. A dark-faced man in tuxedo attire entered the studio. Lence noted the thin, pointed mustache that adorned the arrival’s upper lip. He saw a twisted smile beneath it.

“Pardon.” The newcomer looked at Lence; then at the Apache; finally at Brilliard. “I have come to find Monsieur Raoul Brilliard, of Paris. Perhaps” — he paused in his polite foreign accent — “I have not found the right place?”

“What is your name?” questioned Brilliard, turning from his sketching. “I believe that Monsieur Brilliard expects someone—”

“I am Jose Larribez.”

The bearded artist smiled and advanced with outstretched hand. Larribez stared in surprise while Lence closed the door. Brilliard introduced himself, then Lence. Larribez gave a wry smile.

“An artist!” he exclaimed. “You deceived me, Brilliard. I might have known Senor Lence; but I did not expect to meet him so soon. I would say you were clever; but perhaps—”

“Perhaps it is Cyro who is the clever one,” chuckled Brilliard. “But let us come directly to the point. What about the men you have brought?”

“They are at the Cafe Internationale,” replied Larribez. “Near the water front. A man called Dombar — he is having charge.”

“They have a password?”

“Si. It is Cajobabo. The name of a town in Cuba.”

“Do any speak French?”

“I suppose so.”

Brilliard gestured toward Tabac.

“The last of my Apaches,” he explained. “Suppose I have him join them?”

“Buenos,” agreed Larribez. “The room that is upstairs. At the Cafe Internationale.”

Brilliard explained to Tabac in French. The Apache replied; then departed at Brilliard’s order.

“He is the last?” inquired Larribez. Brilliard nodded. He began an explanation of what had occurred; Lence chimed in with his account.

At times, Larribez looked troubled. But his dark countenance lighted at the conclusion of the narrative, when he learned that the police had not learned the truth of the affray at Debeq’s.

DISCUSSION of the eliminated Apaches occupied a full twenty minutes. Then Brilliard came to the matter of future plans. He spoke of the mob that awaited Lence’s call. Then he referred to Larribez’s water-front crew:

“Link Ruckert and his gorillas will be instructed beforehand,” explained Brilliard. “You, Larribez, will take direct charge of your own henchmen. We shall discuss final plans here, tomorrow afternoon.

“Lence and I have been invited to the Gaudrin mansion. We shall be inside — I, as the guest of Mademoiselle Alicia; Lence as a friend of young Luke Gaudrin. You will be necessary outside. You must not be observed between now and then.”

“It is plain,” nodded Larribez. “Tomorrow, I shall—”

The door swung open. It was Tabac. Closing the barrier, the Apache broke loose with a flood of jargon that only Brilliard understood. The artist’s face clouded.

“There has been a brawl at the Cafe Internationale,” he declared, “centering in the upstairs room. Some have been killed. Others have gone to hospitals, wounded and unconscious. Your men, Larribez!”

The mustached swindler burst loose with a string of Spanish expletives. Amid his oaths were references to Dombar. Tabac heard the name and made a gesture to indicate that the former mutineer was dead.

“Buenos!” exclaimed Larribez. “It is good. Very good! He alone could have said that I, Jose Larribez, was the one who had those men.”

“But we need your henchmen!” cried Brilliard.

“You shall have them,” returned Larribez. “Bah! Do you think I am helpless? Who do you think is here in New Orleans?”

Brilliard shook his head.

“Juan Quita, of the Porra,” declared Larribez. “And Sancho Trupion, another Porrista. Since the revolution, los porristas — ah, they are everywhere. It is easy that I should find one, here in this Latin Quarter.”

“You need more than one—”

“One or two. They have the ways to find the men that I have had. Along the front here, by the water. They will bring those that I need. Come, senores. Let us find a place to eat. Bah! That food on the ship, el Tarrano!”

Brilliard dismissed Tabac. While he doffed his smock, he heard Larribez explain to Lence that he would call on Quita and Trupion after dining. Brilliard joined the pair; the trio descended from the studio.

The courtyard lay quiet after their departure. Not a whisper stirred its stillness. There was no sign of the mysterious presence that had visited here before.

Since the arrival of Jose Larribez, The Shadow had found other tasks than those of keeping shrouded vigil upon the lieutenants of Cyro. His role of stealth had ended with his departure from the suite in the Hotel Bontezan.