Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XIV. THREADS IN THE NIGHT

HARRY VINCENT was still standing by the doorway that led to the front bedroom of Andrew Blouchet’s apartment. He had been waiting ever since he had made that call to The Shadow at Lester Hayd’s. In his call, Harry had summed the situation.

He had told of Andrew’s conversation with Fanchon; he had described his own impressions of the girl’s response. A keen observer, Harry had recognized that Andrew’s regard for the girl was reciprocated by Fanchon herself.

Fanchon knew that she had brought danger to Andrew. Though she had not given him a final solution to riddle of the ebony box, she had at least promised to divulge the secret later, if she could. It was plain that in the interim, Fanchon would have to talk with someone.

Someone whom she had either trusted or feared. For Harry had been prompt to discern the trace of troubled doubt that Fanchon had displayed. He had done his best to transfer that impression to The Shadow, even though the opportunity had been brief. Harry felt satisfied on that point.

His present worry concerned Carl Randon. The sleek-haired man had left soon after Harry had called The Shadow. Sooner than Harry had anticipated. In fact, Carl had been gone for nearly twenty minutes.

Half an hour would be the limit. Ten minutes more — Harry heard the telephone bell ring.

Music drowned it. Andrew was distant; he did not hear the ringing. Harry answered, closing the door from inside the bedroom. He reported quickly to The Shadow. Carl had left; and would soon return.

The Shadow gave prompt instructions. Harry set down the telephone, with the receiver off. He hurried out into the big room.

Jerry Bodwin was dancing with Fanchon Callier. Harry spoke to Jerry, telling him that he was wanted on the telephone. Jerry went in and answered. He came out a minute later, his face keen with excitement.

“A New York producer is in town,” he told Fanchon. “He wants to meet me, at the office. Can you come with me, Fanchon? It may mean a contract — you will have to type the details—”

“Very well,” responded the girl, with a nod. “But I must tell Mr. Blouchet that we cannot wait for Mr. Randon.”

“I shall tell him,” put in Harry, promptly. “You two had better hurry along, if it is important.”

“Tell Andrew we’ll be back,” remarked Jerry.

They left; Harry stopped Andrew, who was hurrying over. He explained that Jerry Bodwin had an appointment at his office. He added that both Jerry and Fanchon would be back.

Strolling to the front window. Harry saw Jerry and Fanchon hailing a taxicab that had made an opportune arrival upon the gloomy street. He spied a patrolman pause to note the car; then pace along. Officers were still on duty in the vicinity. The timely arrival of the cab looked like a coincidence; but it was not.

Harry knew that The Shadow had dispatched it from outside the hotel, which was only five minutes driving distance from Andrew’s.

Ten minutes passed. Carl Randon returned. The Shadow’s scheme had worked. Andrew told Carl that Jerry and Fanchon would soon come back. He mentioned that they were at the theater office. Carl seemed annoyed when he heard the news. Harry saw him go into the bedroom and close the door. He knew that Carl intended to make a telephone call.

MEANWHILE, Jerry Bodwin and Fanchon Callier had arrived at the Luzanne Theater. Jerry had opened the office. Eagerly, he was anticipating the arrival of the New York producer.

“Justin Oswood is a big-timer,” Jerry was telling Fanchon. “If he wants to back this theater, I—”

A ring of the telephone interrupted. Jerry answered; his tone became one of surprise. He covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Fanchon.

“For you,” he told the girl. “An odd voice — one that sounds like a fake. Better find out who it is.”

Fanchon took the telephone. Her eyes opened as she heard the tones across the wire. They had changed from the disguised, almost falsetto query that Jerry had heard. Fanchon recognized the low, but emphatic tones of the speaker whom she heard. Jerry looked on, watching the girl as she spoke.

“Yes… Yes…” Fanchon was tense. “I had hoped to hear from you… Yes… Something very important… Yes, it would be better to talk to you tonight, than tomorrow… I see.

“Yes… Of course, I can go there… I shall wait to hear further from you… Yes…”

The girl hung up and turned to Jerry.

“My — my cousin is not well,” she said. “She has been calling here all evening — that is, since we were out—”

“Your cousin?” echoed Jerry.

“Yes. Estelle.” Fanchon’s reply was faltering. “I thought I told you she lived here in New Orleans. I—I really ought to leave, Jerry. At once because—”

“But what if Oswood comes—”

Another ring of the telephone bell. Jerry answered it. He spoke enthusiastically. Fanchon smiled in relief as she heard him addressing Justin Oswood. Jerry hung up. He began to dive around and pick out papers.

“Oswood’s at the Hotel Southern,” he told Fanchon. “He wants to see me privately. So go along, Fanchon, if you are in a hurry. But be careful. I saw some rather tough looking fellows around tonight. Down in the French Quarter, mostly; but there maybe crooks anywhere. So stay on lighted streets and use a cab.

“Funny, too. It looked like one fellow spotted us when we were riding away from Andy’s. A tall fellow, at the first corner. A long-faced chap who moved along after we passed. I guess he was dodging that patrolman—”

Jerry looked up. Fanchon had gone. With a laugh, the theater manager put his papers in a briefcase, locked the door and picked his way through the darkness of the unlighted arcade. When he reached the street, he noted a coupe that rolled up and stopped. Jerry glanced at the car; but did not recognize the driver.

The man at the wheel, however, noted Jerry’s face by a street lamp. He watched the theater manager turn the corner; then started along in his car, after eyeing the total blackness of the arcade.

The man in the coupe was Carl Randon. He had left Andrew Blouchet’s, after making his telephone call.

He was sure that Fanchon Callier had left the theater office ahead of Jerry Bodwin. Carl Randon headed back toward Frenchtown.

MEANWHILE, Fanchon had walked to the Hotel Bontezan. Entering the lobby, she went to the desk and signed the register. But she did not inscribe her own name. The one that she wrote was Estelle Demar. That name had been mentioned to her over the telephone; that was why she had quickly chosen to say that she had a cousin named Estelle. It had been the simplest way to answer Jerry Bodwin.

“Swifty” Bleek, the fat-faced hotel clerk, was the man at the desk. He assigned Fanchon to Room 312, but showed no sign of recognizing the girl. This henchman of Ring Stortzel had only one duty: to watch for certain money and pass the word through Banjo Lobot. Late guests were frequent at the Hotel Bontezan. To all appearances, Bleek saw nothing significant in Fanchon’s arrival.

Banjo Lobot was in the lobby, reading a newspaper. He saw the girl go up in an elevator and noticed her in casual fashion. A short while later, however, Banjo went into a telephone booth and put in a call to Room 618. He closed the door, while the connection was being made. After that, his words could not be heard in the lobby. Banjo was taking no chances in making a call to Ring Stortzel; for Bleek, the only man on duty, had charge of the switchboard.

AT the Hotel Southern, Jerry Bodwin was talking enthusiastically with a well-dressed personage whose face, though wan and strained, had a certain keenness that dimly resembled the hawklike characteristic of Lamont Cranston. This was Justin Oswood. The two were seated in the lobby, discussing matters that pertained to the theater.

Their conference ended abruptly. Justin Oswood bade Jerry Bodwin good night. He reminded him, however, that he would like to have complete figures in the morning, before leaving New Orleans.

Jerry nodded, and left the lobby. He was going straight to his apartment, to spend a few hours working out details. He had no thought of returning to Andrew Blouchet’s.

Justin Oswood followed, a few minutes later. He, too, was carrying a briefcase. Entering a taxi, he told the drowsy driver to take him to the Hotel Bontezan. On the way, the passenger opened the briefcase and began to make odd changes in the contour of his face.

He held a flashlight to a mirror, guarding the glow with his hands. The quick change was satisfactory, even though it had been accomplished in the gloom. When Justin Oswood alighted at the Hotel Bontezan, he had become Lamont Cranston.

Swifty Bleek saw The Shadow stroll through the lobby and enter an elevator. He knew this guest; and thought nothing of Cranston’s late return. Soon afterward, Banjo Lobot entered. The tall, long-jawed fellow had gone out for a brief stroll after his call to Ring Stortzel. Banjo entered an elevator and went upstairs.

IN her hotel room, Fanchon Callier was standing by the window, peering out toward the thickly built French Quarter. The girl’s face was strained; her expression showed increased worriment as minutes passed.

Suddenly, the girl heard a slight scraping at the door. The sound was clumsy. She turned about.

An envelope had been thrust beneath the door. Eagerly, the girl seized it and tore it open. She spread out the pages that she found within. Her lips became set as she read the written lines. Going to the desk, the girl turned on a light and pondered over the message she had received.

Then, firmly, but slowly, she wrote an answer. Her reply was brief. She sealed it in an envelope and pushed it out beneath the door. Fanchon watched. She heard a slight sound from the hall and shuddered.

The envelope was whisked from sight; faint footsteps faded.

The troubled look remained upon the girl’s face; then Fanchon turned out the lights and went to the window. Staring once more toward the Vieux Carre, she sighed. Somehow, although her mind was settled, Fanchon Callier could feel regret.

DOWN in the lobby of the Hotel Bontezan, one elevator operator relieved another, saying:

“Better nudge Bleek, there at the desk. He’s gone to sleep.”

“Don’t I know it?” queried the other. “He’s been dozing for the past ten minutes. A couple of guys have been up and down, without him being wise.”

“Who were they?”

“I didn’t notice. It’s Bleek’s job to keep his eye on the customers.”

ON the sixth floor, from the door of Room 624, The Shadow saw Lobot at the entrance to Room 618.

The long-jawed crook was whispering with Ring Stortzel. The dictograph could not pick up the sound.

Since the hour was late, Ring and Banjo had apparently decided that a conference would be unwise.

A paper passed between them; it could have been a receipted bill, for Ring slipped Banjo some cash.

The door closed. Banjo stole along the hallway.

When he reached the lobby, Banjo saw Bleek alert behind the desk. Giving a nod of approval, Banjo went out to the street. He did not know that Bleek had been dozing from the time when he had first seen the go-between enter. If any suspicious stranger had entered and left, Bleek could not have seen the person.

Back in his own room, The Shadow, too, was gazing toward the dim glow of the Vieux Carre. A whispered laugh came from his thin, fixed lips. From among many incidents tonight — some important, others meaningless — The Shadow had used the threads he wanted. Tomorrow, he could act. For The Shadow’s plans were made.

Threads in the night. Human threads, that formed a curious tangle. The Shadow had unraveled them, to form a finished woof. What some knew, others did not recognize. Yet The Shadow, analyzing each particular part, had learned all. He was dealing with varied purposes; but throughout, he held a marked advantage.

Nothing stood as indication that paths would snarl between now and the time when The Shadow planned to force the final issue. There was the probability that certain plotters might escape the net which The Shadow had prepared. The mesh was large; small fish could slip through, though they would be few in number. They, however, could be dealt with afterward.

Chance, alone, could trick The Shadow. It was an element which he never neglected. But should ill fortune enter in the game, The Shadow still would find a way to meet it. The resources of this master sleuth were many.

Yet even The Shadow did not foresee the strange complication that was due upon the morrow. A consequence was in the making; with death a coming factor. The Shadow, perhaps, would have to rely upon luck of his own.