Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER X. THE NEXT MORNING

IT was long after daylight when Harry Vincent awoke to puzzle momentarily about his surroundings. He smiled as he realized that he was in the rear bedroom of Andrew Blouchet’s apartment. Looking out into the battered courtyard, Harry saw a pacing policeman. He remembered that another officer had gone on duty out front.

Some one was rapping at the main door of the apartment. Harry donned slippers and dressing gown that Andrew Blouchet had provided for him. He started out to answer the knock. On the way, he encountered Andrew, coming from the front bedroom. Harry let Andrew admit the visitors.

A tall, square-shouldered man of military bearing stepped into the room. He nodded to Andrew and shook hands. Andrew introduced him to Harry. The newcomer was Lieutenant Wayson of the New Orleans police force. Under his arm he was carrying two morning newspapers.

“Seen these?” questioned Wayson.

Headshakes from Andrew and Harry. Wayson handed them the newspapers. Avidly, they began to read the front page reports, of the battle that had taken place last night.

“The chief of detectives asked me to drop in,” remarked Wayson to Andrew. “I told him that you were a friend of mine. He showed me the statements that you and Vincent had made. He thought that maybe if we chatted a bit, some new clues would turn up.”

“I doubt it,” returned Andrew. “I gave a pretty complete statement last night. So did Vincent.”

“I know,” nodded Wayson. “The chief was pleased. Said it was lucky that two of you were here. Told me that Vincent was an old friend of yours.”

“We’re not exactly old friends,” put in Harry. He was remembering a statement that Andrew had neatly inserted when talking to detectives after the fray. “We met a couple of years ago, when Andy was in New York. Of course, we corresponded occasionally.”

“And I told Harry to make a trip to New Orleans,” added Andrew. “He arrived a couple of days ago and was dumb enough to go to the Hotel Bontezan, instead of coming here. Well, Harry, this is where you’re going to stay for the rest of your visit.”

Harry nodded his agreement. Wayson’s attitude showed that the story had been accepted without question. One reason for that was the fact that the police were concerned with the mystery of another participant in last night’s episode.

“What about Duvale?” quizzed Wayson. “Haven’t you any idea who he is? Where he came from?” Andrew shook his head.

“We can’t figure him,” Wayson went on. “The apartment owner doesn’t remember much about him. Neither do the moving men. All he left was his smock and his beret, along with that old easel. Boy! Those killers sure burned holes in the smock! But Duvale wasn’t inside it when they did! No bloodstains.”

Pausing speculatively, Wayson shook his head. Then he added:

“Duvale may have been as crooked as the others. He had guns on him. Probably he had it in for that mob, and wanted to queer their game. You know, the more I think of it, that theory sounds good. It would account for the crooks taking a stab at you.”

“It would?” echoed Andrew, in a tone of surprise. “How?”

“They may have thought that you had a lot of dough,” explained the lieutenant. “That safe of yours in the corner would have been a good come-on. Maybe Duvale picked you as the decoy, so he could bring those birds in here. Where he could take a whack at them.”

Andrew’s eyes lighted. Harry noticed it and saw that his friend was pleased. Andrew had been cagey all along; and Harry had stayed close to every lead that he had given when talking to the police.

“WELL,” chuckled Wayson, “you chaps were lucky. But we’re going to keep this place watched for a while. In case Duvale comes back; and in case some thugs come around, expecting to find him. He did a good job, whoever he was. They won’t like him for it, though, any pals of those crooks who lost out last night.

“Then there’s a chance that somebody might have it in for you two chaps. So keep in touch with me. I’m always available, in case you need me. I’ll take on a bodyguard assignment, if necessary.”

“Thanks, lieutenant,” expressed Andrew. “By the way — what about the ones who were rounded up? Haven’t any of them talked?”

“Not yet,” replied Wayson, “and I doubt that they know much. We found out the name of that leader of theirs. He was Needler Urbin and he’s got a bad record, in Chicago. We figure he and his bunch were laying low, across the river in Algiers, until last night. But we haven’t gotten any report of a hide-out. Worst of it, the trail ends with Needler.”

Another knock at the door. Andrew answered it. A postman entered, with a square-shaped package addressed to Andrew, who signed for it. The letter carrier also handed Andrew a post card.

“This was downstairs in the box,” he said, “so I bought it up. It must have been put there in the morning delivery.”

“And it’s close to high noon, right now,” chuckled Wayson. “You fellows took a long sleep, didn’t you? Well, I’ll drop around for a few minutes, sometime this evening.”

“Fine,” decided Andrew, warmly. “I’m giving a big party, lieutenant, and you’ll have a chance to see some other friends of yours.”

Wayson followed the postman. Andrew closed the door and glanced at the mail. He read the post card and handed it to Harry.

“Good chap — Wayson,” remarked Andrew. “He’s a police instructor — small-arms expert. Has a lot of time to get around, while he isn’t busy with police school. He knows the French Quarter like a book. By the way, the post card is from my friend, Carl Randon. He sent it from New York.” Harry looked at the post card. It was one that bore a picture of the Metropolitan Opera House. On the front, Carl had written a few remarks, embellished in fancy penmanship. He stated that he had attended the opera “Aida,” the night before, and had enjoyed the singing of an opera star named Cazzeroni.

A sudden thought struck Harry. Opera was one of his diversions; he remembered that Cazzeroni had been taken seriously ill, not long before. Opening the day’s newspaper, he found a comment on the star’s condition. It said that Cazzeroni was improving; it mentioned the date when the singer had been stricken.

Harry compared the item with the date on the post card. He nodded slightly to himself and slid the post card under a magazine that was lying on the table.

ANDREW had been busy opening the package. It had come by first-class mail and was heavily sealed.

It was a registered package and Andrew had suddenly come to regard it as important. Seals broke; Andrew ripped away an inner paper. A startled exclamation escaped him when he saw the green flash of currency.

Andrew hesitated as he looked toward Harry. Then, with a slight laugh, he pulled the money from its package and began to count the bills. Harry, too, was showing interest. These were large bills; their total came nearly to ninety-nine thousand dollars.

Harry looked curiously toward Andrew.

“I’ll have to explain,” declared Andrew, slowly. “Harry, I’ve been holding back facts. That’s probably no news to you, because you knew that I was bluffing last night, when I said my safe was empty. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t tell the police too much.”

“About what?” queried Harry.

“About everything,” replied Andrew. “About my money. About what little I knew concerning Duvale. Do you know, Harry, I think that fellow must have gotten in here ahead of the crooks.”

“To rob your safe?”

“Yes. I could have named him as a thief, today. But I didn’t want to peach on the fellow. If he hadn’t stolen the money, we wouldn’t be alive. It was that empty box that floored the burglars for a starter. But as it stands now, Duvale is a great chap. Here’s the money back again.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. I might as well tell you the whole thing, Harry. To begin with, the money wasn’t really mine. I didn’t steal it, though. Listen to my story.”

METHODICALLY, Andrew told of his adventure on the final night of Mardi Gras. He told of the advice that he had received from Carl Randon; how he had followed it, though reluctantly. He added that the first of the mystery money had been spent at the Delta Club; that he had later used a fifty-dollar bill at Gallion’s.

“Two things trouble me,” asserted Andrew. “First, and most important, the girl. Harry, I was afraid that she would be held responsible by someone. Still, Carl had said that slow spending of the money would enable me to return most of it in a pinch.”

“To return it,” remarked Harry, “you would have to find the girl.”

“I have found her!” said Andrew seriously. “I know her name. She is Fanchon Callier. She works for Jerry Bodwin, at the Luzanne Theater. She is coming here tonight.”

Harry looked incredulous.

“I remembered her by her voice,” affirmed Andrew. “I am sure she is the girl who gave me the money. Apparently, she has not yet encountered trouble. That deepens the mystery, Harry.”

“What was your impression of the girl?”

“She is very lovely. Attractive, with dark-brown eyes. A brunette, from Baton Rouge. At least she says she came from there.”

“Why should you doubt her statement?”

“Because she said she was unfamiliar with the Vieux Carre. Yet it was outside of Gallion’s that I first met her.”

“Perhaps she recognized you.”

“I don’t think so. Harry, I am bewildered. Anything is possible. Fanchon may have intended to give the ebony box to some other person, who wore a costume like myself. On the contrary, she may have deliberately chosen me.”

“Why the latter?”

“I don’t know. Except that the money was traced — by those crooks who came here last night. They could not have been after anything else.”

“Perhaps you were seen spending money.”

“I spent only a few hundred at the Delta Club and Gallion’s. Wait, though! I paid in a thousand dollars at the Wide World Loan Company. And that was where I saw Fanchon! Harry — she could have told those crooks that I had the money. That could be why they came here to reclaim it. She may have admitted that it might have gone to the wrong man.”

Andrew shook his head, while Harry remained silent. Then Andrew added:

“No, I can’t believe it. Fanchon is too charming a girl, too real a girl, to work with murderers. It must have been the money itself that brought my trouble. I am afraid of it.” Andrew looked at the cash as he spoke. An odd expression came upon his face. He snatched up bills and examined them.

“These are Federal Reserve notes!” exclaimed Andrew. “Not United States Treasury certificates! Harry, this is not the money that I had! The amount is exact, but the bills are not the same! What does it mean?”

HARRY considered.

“Some one must have taken the money for your protection,” he decided. “At the same time, that person must have conceded that it belonged to you. So he has returned it; but in different currency. The best thing for you to do is keep it.”

“Do you think it was Duvale’s work?”

“Possibly. At any rate, there is no question about this money. It was sent to you by mail. You would be wise to hold it, Andy.”

Andrew nodded. He gathered the money, opened the safe and bestowed his wealth within. After locking the safe, he turned to Harry.

“Let’s go uptown,” suggested Andrew. “I’m going to get dressed in a hurry and start out to find Jerry Bodwin. I want to make sure that nothing has happened to Fanchon Callier.”

“I’ll have to go to the Bontezan,” nodded Harry. “So I can check out there.”

Twenty minutes later, the two friends were strolling past the Cabildo. They crossed Jackson Square and continued past the market places. Near Canal Street, they separated. Andrew was intent upon his plan to find Jerry and hold casual conversation. Harry was anxious to reach the Bontezan.

Arriving at the hotel, Harry entered his room and attached the dictograph receiver. No sound came from Room 618. Seating himself at a writing desk, Harry made out a concise report upon all that had happened last night, and since. He placed his report sheets in an envelope. To them, he added the picture post card that Andrew Blouchet had received from Carl Randon. Harry had brought the card with him from the apartment.

Downstairs, Harry made his way through the crowded lobby. Guests were many at the Bontezan. Rooms were in demand. Harry checked out. Hardly had he done so before a tall individual stepped up to the desk and made quiet inquiry:

“A vacant room? I was promised a better choice than the one I obtained this morning.”

“Name, please,” said the clerk at the desk, “and room number.”

“Lamont Cranston,” replied the tall guest. “Room 341.”

“I am transferring you to Room 624.”

FIVE minutes later, The Shadow was alone in Room 624, reading Harry Vincent’s report. Andrew Blouchet’s story interested The Shadow. It supplied details upon which he required further facts. When he came to Harry’s reference to Carl Randon’s post card, The Shadow studied the card itself.

A fixed smile appeared upon his thin lips, as he noted the ornate scrawl. This card had certainly been inscribed by Carl Randon. It matched the specimens of the writing that The Shadow had seen when Andrew Blouchet had come to reclaim Carl’s endorsement from the Wide World Loan company.

Opening the closet door, The Shadow found a wide, high shelf. It was to his liking, for it offered a deep recess in which some object could be hidden. Opening a suitcase, The Shadow extracted a bundle, exactly the size of the package that had come to Andrew Blouchet that morning.

The question of the vanished cash was answered. It was still in the possession of The Shadow. As Lamont Cranston, a man with unlimited credit, The Shadow had drawn replacement funds from New Orleans banks and had mailed them to Andrew Blouchet. But he had not deposited the currency which he held as a substitute.

Those telltale bank notes had forced one issue. That meant that they could produce another episode in the future. They were a lure to men of crime; bait for which crooks would fall, if coaxed again to a place where they feared no intervention.

Safe in the custody of The Shadow, that cash would cause no strife until the proper occasion. Then it would appear again, in plenty. For the present, however, the game must be a waiting one. The Shadow had found many threads to crime. His task was to unravel them before he prepared another active move.

Strange complications had clouded the crime factor. The laugh which whispered from The Shadow’s lips was proof that he could see clearly ahead.