Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW WAITS

IN his present design, The Shadow was dependent upon one important factor: namely, the reaction gained by known crooks as a result of last night’s failure. Amid the weave of circumstance that involved Andrew Blouchet, Fanchon Callier and others, there were two specific rogues whose plans must be gained. Those two were Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot.

Ring had taken Banjo’s room at the Hotel Bontezan. The chief of a criminal faction had thus picked his headquarters. Similarly, The Shadow had replaced Harry Vincent. Only few walls intervened between the master sleuth and the big-shot whose henchmen The Shadow had routed.

Those walls were doubly welcome to The Shadow. They kept him out of Ring Stortzel’s sight; but they did not prevent him from listening in to the big-shot’s conferences.

Not long after The Shadow had taken over Room 624, there was a knock at the door of Room 618.

Ring Stortzel, seated within the room, was prompt to recognize the touch. He admitted Banjo Lobot.

Ring closed the door and locked it.

“Well?”

Ring’s rasp was an unpleasant one; but Banjo did not seem troubled. The go-between had brought a good report.

“I called up the hide-out,” stated Banjo. “Got hold of one mug there. Didn’t tell him who I was. He was expecting to hear from me, though.”

“That don’t make sense,” growled Ring. “Have you gone screwy. Banjo?”

“Sure it makes sense,” retorted the go-between. “Needler told the guy to wait until he heard from someone. That’s all. And the guys been waiting. His name is Frankie Larth. We’ll be able to use him later.”

“Where’s he staying? Over at the hide-out?”

“No. I told him to beat it. Over to Mobile. I’ll be able to get him. Here’s what he spilled me, Ring. Blouchet hasn’t got the dough.”

“Don’t we know it? I’ve been reading the papers. They tell all about the raid. How masked men made Blouchet open up the safe.”

“Sure. But we needed word from Needler to be sure that Blouchet didn’t have the cash somewhere else. Well, Needler passed the word to this gorilla of his. Frankie gave it to me straight.”

RING STORTZEL grunted.

“We’re back at the start again,” he fumed. “All we know is that Blouchet had some of that dough. But where did he get it? That’s the thing to find out.”

“I talked to Dave Royan on the telephone,” stated Banjo. “He says we may have made the slip there at the Delta Club. The manager may have been mistaken about who passed in the jack.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, the birds at the Delta Club have dough. Plenty of it; and the gaming room isn’t the only place where they spend it. Suppose some canary changed a big bill for the bartender, or their headwater in the restaurant.”

“Well?”

“And suppose it was Blouchet who had the big bill. Like a five-century note, for instance—”

“If Blouchet was walking around with five-hundred-dollar bills, it would mean that he had plenty.”

“Maybe not. It might have been all he had left from some other dough.”

“Well, go ahead, Banjo. Suppose that was it.”

“It’s simple, the rest of it. Some other bozo changed the bill for him. That’s how Blouchet had the fifties. It covers the one he passed at Gallion’s, too.”

Again, Ring grunted. “Not a bad hunch, Banjo,” he remarked, “except for the five-hundred-dollar bill. But how about Blouchet getting the money somewhere before he even went to the Delta Club?”

“Say — that’s something—”

“Like at the loan company? How does that hit?”

“Great! Wait a minute, though — Blouchet didn’t go to the loan company until the day after he passed those fifties.”

“Maybe he’d been there before. You didn’t have him tagged before the Delta Club.”

Banjo snapped his fingers. “You’ve got it, Ring!” he exclaimed. “We can forget Blouchet! Forget him and begin all over again! I’ll keep on the route, just like before.”

“No you won’t. There’s a couple of places to keep away from.”

“The Delta Club is one. I know that. I told Royan to get himself another job. He’s going out to the Club Caprice. It’s a joint just outside the city limits. Swell layout there, run by a guy named Royal Medbrook.”

“That covers Dave. But we’ve got to think about Pierre. We don’t want him at Gallion’s. Another restaurant would be better.”

“Trebelon is buying an interest in the restaurant—”

“He hasn’t put up dough, yet. Tell him to pull out. Get somewhere else. I know the arrangement, anyway. Pierre had to do a lot of talking to convince Gallion in the first place. He can get a partnership in one of those places on Exchange Street.”

“Then I’ve got to talk to Trebelon.”

“Yeah. And in a hurry.”

“I’ll go down there soon. This is a good time to talk to Trebelon.”

BANJO left. A few minutes later, the door of 624 opened and the tall form of Lamont Cranston sauntered into view. The Shadow was carrying a briefcase. Leaving the Hotel Bontezan, he strolled to Exchange Street and picked out a small but well-furnished cafe.

The worried-faced proprietor nodded, a bit puzzled when the tall stranger approached him.

“I have a proposition for you,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “One that will bring a partner into this business. A man with money. Are you interested, Mr. Redley?”

The Shadow had noted the name above the doorway; the proprietor was wearing a fancy watch-fob with the initial “R.”

Redley nodded; but his puzzlement had changed to interest.

“Call Gallion’s restaurant,” stated The Shadow. “Ask for Monsieur Trebelon. Tell him that Banjo told you to call. That will be enough. Say that you must see him at once. When Trebelon comes here, offer him a part interest in the business and ask him to think it over.”

Redley picked up the telephone. The Shadow’s direct statements had impressed him. While Redley was making the call, The Shadow left and kept through Exchange Street to Bienville. He walked half a square left and reached the Rue Royale. He was on his way to Gallion’s. As he continued with swift stride, he passed a man with pointed mustache who was walking in the opposite direction. The man was Pierre Trebelon.

FEW customers were in Gallion’s when The Shadow arrived there. Instead of taking the usual entrance, The Shadow went through a sort of grillroom, which was seldom used except at the evening dinner hour.

He paused while a waiter passed; then cut through and reached the office. The door was closed. The Shadow opened it and sidled into the room.

A little window gave only mild light, which was tempered by the dullness of the day. The Shadow opened the briefcase by the window. From it he produced a make-up kit. Using a mirror in the top of the box, he worked rapidly, molding the features of Lamont Cranston into a different form. With spirit gum, he attached a false mustache that boasted pointed tips. Closing the box, he replaced it in the briefcase.

The Shadow was ready for Banjo Lobot. He wanted to ease the go-between’s arrival, so he stole to the door of the office and opened it a trifle. Peering across the grille, he watched to see if anyone entered by that door. Five minutes was all The Shadow waited. Banjo appeared; he, too, had chosen the deserted door.

Letting the office door swing ajar, The Shadow glided quickly to the desk. He was there when Banjo sidled into the office and gave a short “Psst!” The Shadow looked up; in the dim light, he motioned for the visitor to close the door.

Banjo was fooled by The Shadow’s make-up. He was sure that he saw Pierre Trebelon at the desk.

Sliding into a chair, Banjo told his story in a low, quick tone.

“You’ve got to move somewhere else, Trebelon,” he informed. “Things went sour at Blouchet’s last night. He didn’t have the dough that we expected.”

“Ah, non!” expressed The Shadow, in the manner of Trebelon. “Blouchet has very little money; I should call him a man who is often broke.”

“Why didn’t you slip me that news before?”

“You did not ask me. It was wise, also, that we should not speak to one another.”

“That’s right. Well, Trebelon, the Blouchet business was a mistake. You probably read about the fliv that was made last night. I’m glad to get your opinion, anyway.

“Blouchet has no money. The fifty dollars must have been one thing that he did borrow.”

“You’ve figured it right. Listen, though. You’ve got to move to another place. Can you talk Gallion out of the deal here?”

The Shadow was glancing at a letter on the desk. He picked it up and passed it to Banjo, who held it toward the window; then said:

“I can’t make it out. It’s in French. I see Gallion’s signature, though. What does it say?”

“It says that he will return demain — that is tomorrow. But the letter was written yesterday, from Biloxi, where Gallion has been. It says here that he is not sure that he shall need a partner who—”

“Great! Then when he comes in today—”

“I shall say that it is as well with me. Where is it that I should go instead?”

“Could you pick a joint up in Exchange Street?”

“Certainment! A cafe owned by a man named Redley. I can talk with him today. But be careful when you come there.”

“You bet I will! We’re playing close from now on. Keep your eye peeled for the same mazuma you saw before.”

THE SHADOW nodded. Then, casually, he asked:

“Maybe it would be wise if I should know more about that money? You have watched for the man who has it. Pour quoi? Why?”

“Do you have to know about it?” demanded Banjo.

“Why not?” The Shadow imitated a shrug that he had seen Trebelon make while talking to a customer. “I have once picked the man you did not wish. Perhaps if I had been told, I would have given to you advice.”

“All right.” Banjo was remembering Ring Stortzel’s orders to speak upon request. “Here’s the lay. The mazuma is queer money. Savez vous?”

“Counterfeit?”

“That’s it. But a swell job. It’s being shoved all over the country, everywhere except here in New Orleans.”

“Mais pour quoi—”

“You’re asking why we’re crimping our own game? We’re not. I’ll tell you the answer. We’ve unloaded so much of the goods that it’s time the Feds caught on. We’ve got a hunch they have already. So we want to give them a bum steer.”

“Ah! Bring them to New Orleans?”

“That’s it. So we sent a guy down here to work a green goods racket. You know the stunt, selling some of the queer dough cheap, to a sucker.”

“But the green goods racket! Ah, that is when the dupe receives no money at all.”

“This was different. Our idea was to work the green goods racket on the level. When I say our idea, I mean the big-shot. He sprang the whole thing, out of Chicago. Anyway, it went sour.”

“In what fashion?”

“The guy who had the queer mazuma got in a jam. So he shoved the phony cash off on a goof who didn’t know what it was all about. Then our guy hops a tanker for Buenos Aires, after sending word to the big-shot, about what he’d done.”

“And the man to whom the money was given?”

“Our guy didn’t even have his name. It was some guy he met during Mardi Gras. We don’t know how he handled it. Anyway, Trebelon, that’s why you and the others were brought here to spot the dough.”

The Shadow looked puzzled in his guise of Trebelon. Banjo chuckled sourly.

“It’s a bad mix-up,” he stated. “But the big-shot knows his onions. You see, he figures that whoever got the queer mazuma must be a big-money man. A canary with at least enough cash to be worthwhile. So the big-shot’s idea is to barge in on the bird, snag what real dough he’s got, but leave the queer mazuma.”

“A robbery with money left behind. That would look funny, wouldn’t it? Well, that’s just the way it is supposed to look. It’s going to bring the Feds. They’ll spot the bum jack and lay it on the guy who was robbed. He holds the bag. It looks like New Orleans is the center. The queer money goes to the G-men. While we shove more of it other places. Savez vous?”

“Je compris.” The Shadow nodded. “Oui. I understand. It is very — very, you would say, complicate?”

“Complicated.”

“Oui, But you must leave, Banjo. I have business when Monsieur Gallion will arrive. One moment. With this paper and pencil, write for yourself the name and address of Mr. Redley.”

Banjo complied. The Shadow watched him make a clumsy scrawl. Rising, The Shadow opened the door and peered out. He motioned for Banjo to make his exit. After the crook was gone, The Shadow closed the door and went back to the desk.

Banjo had pocketed the slip of paper; but The Shadow had noted it intently. He wrote a note that was an excellent imitation of Banjo’s hand, and laid the message on the desk. It stated:

At the window, The Shadow changed his make-up swiftly. Once more in the guise of Cranston, he stalked from the gloomy room. He edged out through the door unnoticed and strolled back along the route that he had taken. Within a block, he passed Trebelon, returning.

The Frenchman’s face was puzzled. The Shadow knew, however, that Trebelon would think the riddle solved after he found the note that bore the scrawled signature “Banjo.” Cleverly, The Shadow had managed his proposition. He had arranged it so that neither Banjo nor Trebelon would suspect anything. At the same time, he had heard Banjo’s tale about the reason for crime in New Orleans. Yet The Shadow’s disguised face revealed a meditative expression as he continued on his way.

There were links that fitted; others that did not. The Shadow knew facts that Ring Stortzel had not passed along to Banjo Lobot. He also had recognized angles that Ring, himself, had not discovered. The Shadow was considering definite possibilities, piecing bits of a bizarre puzzle. Another might have thought the pattern complete; but not The Shadow. He saw points that were wrong as well as those that were right.

Instead of returning to the Hotel Bontezan, The Shadow crossed Canal Street and entered the building of the Wide World Loan Company. Afternoon was drifting steadily; but The Shadow became almost entirely inactive. He did not ask to see Mr. Hayd. Instead, he quietly seated himself upon a waiting bench and read a newspaper.

More than an hour passed. It was after four o’clock when a girl walked into the loan office. The Shadow recognized Fanchon Callier. The brunette went to the window where loan payments were made. She produced a book and a few dollars. The Shadow eyed the girl keenly.

Fanchon had made a payment the day before — one that had brought her account up to date. Yet, today, she was making another payment. Watching, The Shadow saw the clerk check a list. This time, he produced an envelope and gave it to the girl along with the receipt.

Fanchon went down the stairs. Idly, The Shadow strolled to the front window. He saw the girl open the envelope and check what appeared to be a list. Then, thrusting the paper into her purse, Fanchon hailed a taxicab and entered. The Shadow’s lips formed a smile.

Going back across the office, he gave his card to a stenographer and stated that he would like to see Mr. Hayd. The Shadow was granted a prompt interview. Soon, he was seated in the president’s office.

“How soon can you come out to my home?” was Hayd’s first question. “I expected to hear from you sooner, Mr. Cranston.”

“Any evening,” replied The Shadow.

“How about tonight?” asked Hayd. “Can you come out to dinner? I could pick you up at the hotel — at five-thirty.”

“Very well.”

The Shadow knew that the hotel to which Hayd referred was not the Bontezan, but the place where The Shadow had first stopped as Cranston. He told Hayd that he would be in the lobby of the hotel. That arrangement made, The Shadow left.

HE went back to the Bontezan, to leave his briefcase and don dinner clothes. It was five o’clock when The Shadow was ready to leave. Five minutes would take him to the other hotel. He had time for one brief study, before he left.

From the closet shelf, The Shadow took the package of money. Beneath the light of the desk lamp, he placed a jeweler’s glass to his eyes and examined four bills of different denominations. He replaced those bank notes with the rest and put the package back upon the shelf.

As he clicked out the desk lamp, The Shadow, standing in the gloom, delivered a knowing, whispered laugh.

New links had fallen into place since The Shadow had left Gallion’s. This one was the last. The Shadow’s chain was complete. He had reached a full conclusion that concerned mysterious events in New Orleans.

The only details which remained were those which concerned certain motives for crime. Such did not matter, since The Shadow knew that the motives must exist.

Twenty minutes past five. Time for a telephone call to Harry Vincent, on the way to the other hotel. For Harry would be back at Andrew Blouchet’s. Such was The Shadow’s final thought as the last whispered echo followed his repressed laugh.

Crime was clear. Those involved were marked. The innocent were placed, as were the guilty. Tonight would come the final checkup. Then would The Shadow act.