Cyro

CHAPTER VII IN THE VIEUX CARRE

LATER that afternoon, a man strolled from the depot of the Southern Railway, at the fringe of the Canal Street business section. It was Tracy Lence. The swindler had arrived in New Orleans.

Lence strolled leisurely along the principal thoroughfare. To all appearances, he was a chance stranger, just arrived in New Orleans. Half a block from the railway station, Lence saw a motion picture theater. He purchased an admission ticket and strolled past the ticket-chopper.

The swindler chose a far aisle. An usher showed him to a seat. As soon as the attendant had gone, Lence arose and edged back to the upper end of the aisle. From this darkened lookout, he watched for other customers coming through the main door.

Business was slow at this hour. The dozen persons who entered while Tracy watched were all ordinary patrons. Satisfied that no smart dick had taken up his trail, the swindler went down the aisle, found a secluded exit and stepped out into the light of a side street.

He did not return to Canal Street. Instead, he walked along to a thoroughfare that paralleled the main channel of traffic. A few minutes later, he had entered the Vieux Carre, the famous French Quarters of New Orleans.

Lence had been here before. He knew the general location of the place he sought. He displayed little interest in the picturesque details of the Quarter. He walked along unnoticing the old-fashioned buildings with their overhanging balconies. At each crossing, however, he paused and noted the street signs. He found the one he wanted.

Turning left, the swindler walked two blocks further; then stopped before the entrance of a stone-fronted building. A wary glance in both directions. Lence walked through the doorway. He found himself in a stone courtyard.

Up above were inner balconies, reached by stairways from the interior. The house consisted of rooms that served as apartments and studios. Lence chose the nearest stairway and ascended. He looked through an opened doorway that led from a second-story balcony. He observed the interior of a studio.

On the other side of the large room was a doorway that led to the living quarters. Looking about, Lence saw a man in the studio. The fellow was a bearded Frenchman, who wore an artist’s smock and a beret. Palette on forearm, he was using a brush to apply the finishing touches to a portrait.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” greeted Lence.

The artist turned and mildly surveyed his visitor. Not recognizing Lence, he made a profound bow to the stranger.

“Ah, monsieur,” responded the Frenchman, “que voulez-vous ici?”

Lence smiled and shook his head. He caught the meaning of the artist’s inquiry; but his own knowledge of French was too limited to proceed in that tongue.

“Do you speak English, monsieur?” he inquired.

“Oui, monsieur.” Again the Frenchman bowed; then repeated his question in English: “What is it that you wish here?”

“I wish to see Monsieur Brilliard.”

“Ah, monsieur! It is I you seek.”

“You are Brilliard?”

“Raoul Brilliard.”

LENCE paused in surprise. He had come here to find a fellow confidence worker. Instead, he had discovered a bona fide artist. In posing as a gentleman, Tracy Lence had cultivated a knowledge of painting. He could see that there was merit to the portrait that Raoul Brilliard was completing.

“Ah, monsieur” — Brilliard had noted Lence’s gaze turn toward the painting — “is it for a portrait that you have come? Perhaps, monsieur there would be someone who might wish my work?”

“My name is Tracy Lence,” replied the visitor.

A change came over the Frenchman’s features. Sharp eyes peered from beneath bushy brows. Then, with a voluble flow of French, Brilliard strode excitedly to the door and closed it.

“Tres bien, monsieur. C’est un honneur—”

Brilliard turned while speaking these words. Then, the door closed behind him, he broke off suddenly. He extended his hand as he stepped toward the visitor.

“I was expecting you,” chuckled Brilliard, discarding accent as well as French. “But when you came in, I thought you were some wealthy art patron. You fooled me, Lence.”

“Not half as much as you fooled me,” replied Lence. He eyed this other agent of Cyro. “I never expected to find you a genuine artist. How do you find time for the work?”

“It is part of the racket,” explained Brilliard seriously. “It works well in Paris, Lence. Cyro uses me only for the big buildups.”

“What are you — American or Frenchman?”

“Both. My father was a Frenchman living in the United States. My mother was an American. I learned French perfectly from boyhood. Spent my summers abroad.”

“And finally settled in Paris?”

“Yes — to study art. Cyro picked me out and started me in the swindle racket. I happened to be in this country at an exhibition in Cleveland when things broke here. Cyro called me.”

“I was in New York when I heard from him.”

“I know. He sent you two messages, I believe.”

“I must have missed the first one. Well, I’m here anyway.”

“How did you come in?”

“By the Southern. I figured it best to come a roundabout way. I went to Pittsburgh, took a plane hop and grabbed a Southern rattler for the finish of the trip.”

“Do you need any money?”

“No. What about instructions?”

“I have them for you. Sit down.”

LENCE took a chair. Brilliard lounged upon a pedestal that was standing near by. Quietly, the Frenchman began the details of the game.

“I know no more about Cyro than you do,” he began. “I have never met him; but I act when I receive his orders. I have encountered some very remarkable persons among his agents. We are a select group of workers, Lence.”

Tracy Lence nodded in agreement.

“Cyro goes everywhere,” proceeded Brilliard. “How or when he came to New Orleans, I do not know. But it was here that he uncovered something that looks like a million dollar winner.

“A man named Danforth Gaudrin — old New Orleans family — has pawned his yacht as a last resource. Yet in raising that money, he made the proviso that he should have the yacht for one more cruise.”

“A final blow-out?” questioned Lence.

“Not at all,” returned Brilliard. “At present, a Britisher — Professor Pearson Babcock — has chartered the yacht for a coral hunt in the waters of the Gulf. Apparently, Gaudrin went to the trouble of borrowing money just so the professor could make that cruise.”

“Sounds a bit ridiculous.”

“Hear the rest, Lence. Diving equipment, valued at a few thousand dollars, was taken aboard the Nautilus.”

“That’s the name of Gaudrin’s yacht?”

“Yes. Diving equipment to aid in the search for coral specimens. Can you think of a more suitable purpose for such equipment?”

“Certainly. It might be a plan to recover gold from a sunken ship.”

“Exactly! That is Cyro’s theory. We are in New Orleans to be ready when the Nautilus returns.”

“We’re going to raid the yacht?”

“If necessary. I shall come to that later. Our first purpose is to establish ourselves with the Gaudrin family. As acquaintances, you understand. When the pay-off comes, we will be on the inside.”

“Good! What’s the system?”

“My part,” explained Brilliard with a smile, “has been quite simple. My standing as an artist has given me entree into select circles, I have received some excellent offers for portraits.

“I have accepted some; but others, I have refused. I am here for a vacation — a new vigor. Away from Paris — away from France — but” — he smiled and shrugged his shoulders — “of course I must be where there is vivacity. I chose New Orleans. American, but with the spice of my beloved France.”

“So you turned down some of the jobs?”

“Most of them. But even though this is a holiday, this sojourn of mine in New Orleans, I can not neglect my art. I have chosen certain persons to be subjects for portraits which I can not resist to paint. Gratis.”

“I begin to get it,” nodded Lence.

“DANFORTH GAUDRIN has a daughter,” smiled Brilliard. “Alicia. She is very attractive. One might call her beautiful. I have met Mademoiselle Alicia. I must paint her portrait. Art impels me.”

“And the family is broke.”

“You have it. I made the offer to paint the portrait. Since I have chosen others also, Alicia Gaudrin accepted. No, that is not the girl” — Brilliard shook his head as he saw Lence eye the portrait on the easel — “but when I have finished this subject, it will be Alicia’s turn.”

“Which means that you are gaining access to the Gaudrin home.”

“Exactly!”

“But where do I come in?”

“I shall tell you. Danforth Gaudrin has a son — Luke Gaudrin. An amateur roue. Loves to gamble and waste money, whenever he can get it. He spends most of his time at the Club Caprice, outside the city limits. Somehow, he still manages to keep credit there.

“You can make friends with him easily. He is shunned by most of his old acquaintances. Buy the drinks; let him touch you for various amounts; treat him like a long-lost brother. He wants gentlemen for friends, for his father has criticized his present associations.”

“Leave that to me, Brilliard. It will be just like a build, without worrying about the trimming at the end. I’ll be there at the pay-off.”

“Of course,” reminded Brilliard, “we must keep our ears open for any information. But we must not press for it, you understand. You know how Cyro works — in the background, yet where he can learn what he needs.”

“To tip us at the finish.”

“Yes. But remember, Lence, this is not a con game. Cyro made that point emphatic when he sent his last message to me. We are pointing toward crime; we must be ready for the strong work.”

“Who will be here to help us?”

“First” — Brilliard raised his forefinger — “a squad of Apaches whom I have summoned from Paris. They are already in town, posing as natives of this Latin Quarter. Second: your mobsters from—”

“I have no mobsters.”

“Yes you have. Cyro saw to that. They came in from Chicago, two days ago. Link Ruckert is the fellow who handles the gorillas. He is staying at the Douran Hotel, waiting to hear from you. Make no contact until you need him.”

“All right. Where am I to stay?”

“At one of the best hotels. Make your own choice. But wait: I have not finished with the list. There is another of Cyro’s agents — one whom you will meet here, when he arrives.”

“That’s right. Cyro always uses three lieutenants on big jobs. It’s a wise stunt, too. Prevents a double cross. Who is the third man?”

“Jose Larribez, a Cuban, once a member of the secret police they called the Porra. He worked for Cyro when there were trimmings in Havana. Larribez cleared Cuba before the big revolution. He went to the Argentine.

“He is coming in by boat — with a crew of workers who will pass as seamen down on the water front. Larribez will stay at a hotel, like yourself. You will meet him here. That completes our schedule.”

“And now?”

“Leave here and register at your hotel. Go out to the Club Caprice tonight. Start your acquaintance with Luke Gaudrin. Drop in to see me off and on.”

“It won’t excite suspicion?”

“Not at all. Many of the best people of New Orleans have apartments here in Frenchtown. They patronize the restaurants of this Quarter. In fact” — the Frenchman swelled proudly — “to be an acquaintance of Raoul Brilliard is something of a privilege!”

“Great!” declared Lence. “It looks like a grand layout, Brilliard. Au revoir, old topper. I’ll see you after I’ve been to the Club Caprice.”

An artist in an opposite studio gazed dejectedly across the courtyard as he saw Brilliard usher Lence out to the balcony. The bearded Frenchman was shaking his head emphatically and gesticulating as he dismissed his visitor.

“Lucky chap, that Brilliard,” growled the watching artist to a model attired in a Mardi Gras costume. “I’ll wager he’s turning down another portrait job.”