Cyro

CHAPTER VIII AT THE CLUB CAPRICE

TWO days later, a stocky, swarthy-faced man walked from the L & N depot at the foot of Canal Street. He spied a taxicab, stepped aboard.

“Take me to police headquarters,” he ordered.

“Old or new?” questioned the taxi driver.

“What’s the difference?” quizzed the passenger.

“Well, it all depends,” replied the cabby, with a grin. “If you parked a car and found that it’s been towed away, you’ll find it at the old station house. That’s where they haul the autos when they grab them—”

“I want to see the chief of detectives.”

“That’s different. You’ll find him up at the new place.”

FIFTEEN minutes later, Joe Cardona alighted in front of an imposing edifice that occupied an entire block. He entered the portals, made an inquiry and was directed down the corridor. Soon he was talking with the chief of detectives.

“So you’re looking for a con man, eh?” questioned the chief. “Big shot or small fry?”

“This fellow is a big shot,” replied Cardona. “Wanted for the murder of Roke Rowden, in New York. All I know about him is that he goes by the name of Cyro.”

“Never heard of him.”

Cardona laughed gruffly.

“That’s what I told the commissioner,” he said. “But you can’t argue with him. He knows that there’s a crook named Cyro; that Scotland Yard was trailing the guy; that maybe the fellow is an Englishman. But maybe again he isn’t an Englishman.”

The chief of detectives smiled.

“Anyway,” resumed Joe, “I’m here. And my best bet is to look over the field. I might have luck. I’ve had it before.”

“You say the fellow is a big shot.”

“Yes. That part of it is sure.”

“Then I’ll send you out to the Club Caprice.”

Cardona’s eyebrows lifted, as proof that he had never heard of the place the chief had mentioned.

“It’s this way, Cardona,” explained the chief. “We put the clamps on some of the gambling joints a few years ago. So they opened up some swell places outside the city limits. Since then, New Orleans has changed a bit. Many people prefer to remain in town for a good time, after repeal arrived. But the swell joints still get the business. They attract the boys with the money. If your con man is a real big shot, that’s where he’d be.”

“It’s outside your jurisdiction?”

“Yes. But we keep tabs on what happens there. Take a trip to the Club Caprice tonight. Ask for Rafferty. He will introduce you to Royal Medbrook, the man who runs the place.”

IT was after eight o’clock when Joe Cardona arrived at the Club Caprice. Staring from the window of a cab, the New York detective spied a galaxy of lights set back from the road. The cab wheeled into a tremendous driveway, rolled past deep rows of parked cars and pulled up at a pretentious doorway.

The mingled strains of a famous orchestra reached Cardona’s ears as a resplendent doorman stepped up to the cab. Cardona alighted, paid the cabby and made his way through clustered patrons into the Club Caprice.

From a center hallway, Joe viewed a mammoth nightclub. Hundreds of tables were set about a huge dance floor; beyond that, the orchestra, upon a platform that looked like a stage. Cardona recognized the glittering name of the orchestra leader, as he read it upon a banner above the platform. The leader was of nation-wide prominence.

Joe stared as he saw a card by the doorway, announcing the cover charge. He rubbed his chin as he calculated the amount that the nightclub was grossing. The place was packed, with new patrons struggling to get in.

“You’ll have to wait, sir,” assured a polite head waiter, as he saw the detective. “Are you alone, sir?”

“Me?” asked Joe. “I’m not going in just yet. I’m looking for a man named Rafferty.”

“Yes, sir.” The head waiter was prompt with his reply. “Step over here. I shall find him for you.”

They crossed the hallway and came to a pair of heavy doors where two huskies in evening clothes stood on guard. The head waiter spoke to one of them. The fellow approached Joe Cardona.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Cardona,” replied Joe.

The bouncer nodded. His companion swung the door. Joe was ushered through and the second bouncer gave the low-voiced information:

“You’ll find Rafferty over by the faro table. Near the door of the second card room.”

Cardona walked through and found himself in the most extensive gaming room that he had ever seen. Occupying a complete wing of the Club Caprice, it afforded facilities for hundreds of players.

Roulette wheels were spinning, with croupiers busy beside them. These tables occupied the center of the room, while lesser games were on the outskirts. Slot machines, equipped for fifty cent and silver dollar play, formed long rows along the walls at the side.

The room was well thronged, although it had not even started to do a capacity business. Cardona estimated the crowd at sixty or seventy persons, nearly half of the players women. He decided that this must be a good-sized crowd for this early hour. Midnight would be the time when business would near capacity.

There were a few players at the faro table. Beyond, Cardona saw a slim, droop-shouldered fellow wearing a tuxedo. A cigarette was dangling from the man’s lips. His eyes looked wise as they kept a roving lookout about the room. Cardona approached.

“Rafferty?” he questioned.

The fellow nodded.

“Cardona’s my name,” said Joe.

Another nod. Rafferty gripped the detective’s elbow.

“Stick here,” he said. “I’ll drop in and tell Medbrook you’ve arrived.”

Rafferty moved away. Joe stood by the door of an empty card room and began to look over the patrons. He was skillful at this business; and he intended to make good use of his time while waiting for Rafferty’s return.

THOUGH Cardona did not realize it, he had made a conspicuous figure from the moment that he had entered. He had neglected to don evening clothes; and only a few of the patrons had done the same. Fully one dozen pairs of eyes had watched Joe cross the gambling room.

Two men had been chatting by a roulette table when Cardona had entered. One was Tracy Lence; his companion was Luke Gaudrin. Tracy had spotted Joe during his passage. At the very moment when the detective began to look about, the swindler drew a watch from his pocket.

“Half past eight!” he ejaculated. “I promised to be at the hotel before nine. I’m leaving town for a day or two, Luke. I’ve already checked out.”

“I thought you were going to drop out to the house,” put in Luke. “You told me—”

“After I get back,” interposed Lence. “I’ll give you a call, Luke. Good-by, old man.”

A handshake; then Lence turned and strolled toward the outer door. Familiar with New York, he had recognized Joe Cardona.

Lence had a hunch that the ace sleuth was after him. With his back turned, however, he took his time in departing. He followed a gentleman and a lady who were on their way to the exit. Cardona spied the trio. He mistook them for a party.

There was one observer, however, who spied the actual circumstances of Lence’s departure. This onlooker was a tall, keen-visaged personage who was perfectly attired in evening clothes. His face, firm and well-molded, was almost masklike. His eyes were brilliant as they peered from either side of a hawklike nose.

Visiting the Club Caprice, this worthy had found his name an open sesame to the portals of the gaming room. He had introduced himself as Lamont Cranston. He had been recognized as a millionaire who had previously visited this deluxe gambling den.

Actually, Lamont Cranston was The Shadow. He had arrived in New Orleans ahead of Joe Cardona. Without the need of police information, he had picked the Club Caprice as a most likely spot for any swindler on the hunt for game.

The Shadow had spotted a dozen faces worthy of observation; among them, that of Tracy Lence. He, too, had seen Cardona enter. He was as anxious as Lence to avoid the detective’s gaze. For Lamont Cranston — friend of Wainwright Barth — was known to the Manhattan sleuth.

The Shadow, however, had seen no need for departure. He had adopted the simple ruse of strolling to another place at the roulette wheel. By a natural turn, he had kept his face from Cardona’s view. At the same time, he had watched the door to see who went out.

He had deducted that Roke Rowden’s murderer — if present — would take prompt steps to escape Cardona’s scrutiny. Noting Lence, The Shadow had made no effort to follow the fellow. Instead, he moved another pace at the table and gazed squarely toward Luke Gaudrin. He noticed Luke’s face swinging back toward the table. He recognized Luke as the man who had made friends with Lence.

Having picked out Lence by a process of prompt reasoning, The Shadow eliminated the other persons whom he had watched. He walked about the table and reached a spot by Luke Gaudrin’s side. The young man looked around, saw Cranston nod affably; then nodded in return.

WATCHING the spinning wheel, The Shadow thrust forth a stack of chips and placed them on the corners of four numbers, a one to eight chance. Again he glanced toward Luke. Fumbling a few scant chips, the young man put his money on the same corner, just as the man at the wheel gave it a new spin.

The wheel slowed. The ball clicked as it bounded about; then it plopped into a pocket bearing one of The Shadow’s numbers. The croupier pushed chips toward the winners. Lamont Cranston received his in leisurely fashion; Luke Gaudrin was eager as he grabbed his winnings.

“Playing a system?” he questioned, hoarsely.

“Of a sort.” The reply came with a quiet smile. “Here — follow this one.”

The Shadow spread chips in combination. A single number, a four-square combination; then chips on the first twelve, the red and the odd. Luke duplicated the process with his winnings.

The wheel whirled and stopped. All but the single number cashed. The croupier pushed over stacks of new winnings.

The Shadow, preparing to place new bets, made a slight turn. He caught a glimpse of Joe Cardona, following Rafferty to a corner door marked “Office.” A thin smile appeared upon the lips of Lamont Cranston. The Shadow knew Joe’s purpose here. He concentrated on the roulette table. Luke followed his lead.

“Friend of mine who just left,” remarked Luke. “He had a system. Offered to stake me if I tried it. So it wouldn’t look as if he was doing all the betting. That was his idea of letting me in.”

“I noticed him,” came Cranston’s quiet response. “He’s been around here a great deal lately. You mean Allan Holward, don’t you?”

“No. This fellow’s name was Tracy Lence. Only met him two nights ago. A likable chap. That reminds me: I haven’t learned your name yet. My name is Luke Gaudrin. Yours is—”

“Lamont Cranston.”

Luke stared as he shook hands. He had heard mention of this globe-trotting millionaire. Then came a buzz at the table. The handclasp ended as the croupier pushed over new stacks of winnings. Cranston and Luke had hit another combination.

“Don’t pyramid,” warned The Shadow, in the quiet tone of Cranston. “The luck is due for a bad turn. Smaller bets for a while. Play for an even break.”

“Too bad you didn’t meet Lence,” observed Luke, as they took the loss that The Shadow had predicted. “He was coming out to the house tomorrow night. Going to bring a complete mathematical formula for his system. But he told me tonight that he was leaving town for a few days.”

“Too bad. I should like to have made his acquaintance. So you live here in New Orleans, Gaudrin?”

“Born here. The old mansion will be in the fourth generation when the governor passes it along to me.”

“You live with your father?”

“Yes. He’s a gentleman of the old school. How long do you intend to be in town, Mr. Cranston?”

“Quite a while. Unless I should receive some unanticipated message from New York.”

“How about tomorrow night. Couldn’t you drop out and meet the folks?”

“Possibly. This is rather an unexpected invitation—”

“A chap named Dunwood Marr will be there. Millionaire from Florida. Owns Mexican mines—”

“And specializes in seaplane trips?”

“That’s the man. Do you know him?”

“We have mutual acquaintances.”

“Good. You ought to meet Marr. He’s flying down from Florida tomorrow afternoon. Can I count on you, Mr. Cranston?”

“Yes.”

The Shadow placed a new bet as he accepted the invitation. Luke copied the combination. The result was a win. The run of luck had returned. Eagerly, the young man watched the long-fingered hands as they placed new stacks of chips.

He never glanced toward Cranston’s face. He did not see the thin smile that remained fixed upon those knowing lips. He did not realize that this new friend had deliberately usurped Tracy Lence’s place.

Having picked Lence as the swindler from New York; knowing the murderous con man to be an aid of Cyro, The Shadow was planning to learn the details of the game that the crook had temporarily abandoned.