Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XVI. THE DOUBLE CROSS

EIGHT o’clock had struck while Carl Randon was at Ring Stortzel’s. Harry Vincent, however, had not left Andrew Blouchet’s. The Shadow’s agent had lingered past the hour, in hope that something might develop. Andrew was still counting upon a telephone call from Jerry Bodwin, to bring the announcement that Fanchon Callier had returned.

On the point of leaving, Harry stopped on the threshold when the telephone bell began to ring. Andrew, seated in an easy-chair, gave a sudden bound and dashed to answer. Harry stared across the living room and watched Andrew when he spoke. He saw Andrew gasp; then change expression.

“It’s — it’s” — Andrew paused suddenly, then added: “I hadn’t expected to hear from you… Where… Yes, I am listening… Well, yes… Yes, I am alone…”

He stopped to gesture to Harry, an indication that his friend was not to speak.

“As good as alone,” resumed Andrew. “Vincent was here. He has gone out… No, he does not know who is calling… I see… But, wait; I don’t quite understand—” Andrew’s face was puzzled. Then, in a less perplexed tone, he resumed:

“All right… Certainly, I trust you… Whatever you say goes. Yes. I shall leave at once. The light? Of course… I shall leave it on… Yes, I can meet you at Wayson’s… At headquarters, of course… You are sure you will be there by then?… Yes, of course… I must hurry…”

Andrew hung up. Harry, nodding to himself, made a guess that the call was from Carl Randon. Andrew hurried about the living room, which no longer contained its palm trees and rustic benches. Finding hat and coat, he joined Harry at the door.

“Come along, Harry,” urged Andrew. “We have to leave here in a hurry. I’ll tell you about it later. We are due for a meeting in Lieutenant Wayson’s office.”

ANDREW had left the light on; he closed the door and turned the key. They hurried toward the courtyard steps and descended. On the way, Harry questioned:

“It was Lieutenant Wayson who called you?”

“No.” Andrew answered with a shake of his head. They were going beneath the archway. “No — we are simply going to Wayson’s office. You’ll know about it when we get there.

“Carl has located something?”

Harry’s new question showed that he had gone back to his original guess. Andrew gave a half nod.

“I think so,” he stated. “But don’t ask me any more, Harry. I promised not to tell who called. I was supposed to be alone, you understand. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Harry. I had to make a promise — in a hurry. You’ll know all about it later.”

They were on the street. Andrew edged Harry toward the side of a building. Haste had ended.

“Slide along easily,” whispered Andrew. “Don’t let anyone see us; the police, or — well, anybody. I’m still supposed to be back in the apartment.”

They turned a corner. No one was in sight. Andrew began a brisk pace; beside him, Harry kept along at the rapid gait. The Shadow’s agent was puzzled. He realized that Andrew might have had some purpose in a quick departure from the apartment; but it seemed as though the need for speed was still urgent.

“If you’re heading for headquarters,” remarked Harry, “we might as well stop somewhere and call a cab. It would be quicker in the long run.”

“Never mind the cab,” said Andrew, cryptically. “We’ll be stopping in a little while. As soon as we reach Canal Street.

A few minutes later, they reached the limit of the French Quarter. Coming out into the brilliance of Canal Street, Andrew slackened his pace, puffing. He eased into a slow stroll behind a group of pedestrians who were looking at the theater lights.

“What’s the idea?” laughed Harry. “First you were in a big hurry. Now you have nowhere to go.”

“That’s just it,” returned Andrew. “If you have any suggestion of a way to kill time, make it. Our appointment is not until nine o’clock.”

Harry suggested that they enter a hotel lobby. It was a natural one, for a slight drizzle was commencing and other walkers were beginning to avoid the wet.

Andrew nodded his agreement. Harry started across the street. The nearest hotel was the one where The Shadow had originally registered. Harry saw a chance to leave a message.

THEY entered the lobby and Andrew went to buy some cigarettes. Harry went to the desk and nodded to the clerk. He asked a question:

“Did Mr. Cranston call for that message I left here? If so, I should like to leave another.”

“You are Mr. Vincent?” came the query.

Harry nodded.

“Mr. Cranston was just here,” informed the clerk. “He left a message of his own, for you. He said that it would not require an answer.”

Harry received an envelope. He opened it and scanned inked lines. Coded writing faded; an amazed expression appeared upon Harry’s face.

He was sure that he had learned as much as Andrew; for The Shadow’s message gave Harry news that explained the call which Andrew had received. Pocketing blank sheets of paper, Harry strolled over to the cigar counter and found his friend.

“How soon are you going out to headquarters?” questioned Harry, so low-voiced that no one else could hear.

“Pretty soon,” replied Andrew. “Don’t worry about Wayson being there. This is one of his regular nights at headquarters. He has to make out reports on target practice.”

“Do you want me to go along with you?”

“Yes. You will learn something important, Harry.”

“Does Wayson expect both of us?”

Andrew laughed.

“He doesn’t exactly expect either of us,” he replied. “Forget it, Harry, until we arrive there. I am to be at Wayson’s office before nine o’clock. Let it go at that.”

“But was it specified that I should be there also?”

“No. But I want you to come along and—”

Harry shook his head.

“I had better stay here, Andy,” he said. “You go alone. If you want me, call me.”

Andrew considered.

“All right,” he decided. “That might be better, Harry. You’ll stay right here, though, ready to be paged.”

“Better than that. I’ll leave my name at the desk. No. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Andy. Let’s go over to the Hotel Southern, where the lobby is less crowded. You can start for headquarters from there.”

“Good enough. And you’ll leave your name—”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll call headquarters twenty minutes after you start there. I’ll ask for Lieutenant Wayson’s office.”

THE drizzle was increasing when Harry and Andrew headed for the Hotel Southern. The streets were becoming slippery, a fact that was not to their liking.

Elsewhere, however, two men had found the drizzle welcome. That was back in Frenchtown, a block from Andrew’s apartment.

Carl Randon was waiting in the rain. The drizzle had made the street lamps hazy; it had caused the policemen hereabouts to slow in their patrol. Carl saw an officer who had donned a poncho. He watched the officer slosh past the front of Andrew’s apartment. The way was clear.

Carl gave a sign. He caught the answering wave of an arm from back along the Street. He headed for Andrew’s, knowing that Ring would follow. Near the front of the building, Carl paused. He looked up to see the light in the living room. Carl chuckled.

One thing alone troubled him; the possibility that Ring Stortzel had ordered henchmen to this vicinity. Carl knew that the big-shot might have passed word to Banjo, and that the go-between could have sent it along. Nevertheless, Carl felt secure. He had reasons.

Carl knew that Ring’s wrecking crew had been demolished in that fight where Duvale had figured. The police had traced unknown thugs to Algiers, across the river. It was unlikely that Ring would have another crew on hand; at least, such an outfit would be no closer than the town across the river. Ring would not have had time to summon them on such short notice.

There were no lurkers hereabouts; of that, Carl became certain. When Ring sloshed up to him, he was positive that the big-shot was alone. If he had arranged for men to cover him, they could not be close at hand. That was sufficient for Carl Randon. He had taken certain precautions of his own.

Unlocking the door at the archway, by using the key that Andrew had entrusted to him, Carl whispered to Ring. Stopped beside his fellow-conspirator, Ring grunted that he would follow.

They went through the passage and reached the courtyard. Under an increasing sprinkle, they ascended the stone steps and moved into the second-floor hall. Carl approached Andrew’s door; he glanced back at Ring and nodded. The big-shot came closer.

“Don’t flash your gat,” whispered Carl. “Just have your hand on your pocket. Come along. Right behind me. Ready to draw.”

Carl twisted the key. He shouldered straight into the living room, stepping aside as Ring followed. The door remained open behind them. Carl looked about. The living room was empty.

Carl stared in puzzled fashion. He strode across the room and looked into one bedroom; then into the other. He spoke, in low tone, as he turned slowly toward Ring Stortzel.

“I don’t get it,” began Carl. “Blouchet ought to be here—”

“Yeah?” Rings query was a rasp. “Well, I get it all right, you double-crosser! Make a move and I’ll drill you!”

CARL RANDON swung about. One hand on each coat pocket, he paused to stare into the muzzle of Ring’s big cannon. The Chicago crook had drawn his smoke-wagon. With a look of evil disdain, Ring spat contemptuous words.

“Keep your mitts where they are!” ordered the big-shot. “Don’t bother to shove them up. This lay looks phony. Plenty! Come on, you double-crosser! Give me the lowdown on this guy Blouchet. And spill where you fit into the racket.”

A streak of blackness had come upon the threshold of the apartment, blotting the dull glow from the hallway. That splotch seemed like the approach of some dread phantom — the token of a spectral visitor, encroaching from some unknown region of the night.

Ring Stortzel and Carl Randon were too intent to note that token on the floor. The aiming big-shot; his rooted antagonist — both were tense and staring. They formed a tableau. Ring, well in the room, was forward from the door, while Carl was just outside the rear bedroom. Neither was looking toward the hallway.

A shape had caused that long streak upon the floor. The splotch of darkness had moved slowly inward; it had taken on the pattern of a hawklike silhouette. Out in the hall loomed the shape itself, a tall, living figure of a personage in black. A cloaked form, with slouch hat above. A silent, slowly advancing being whose gloved hands gripped ready automatics.

The Shadow had arrived to view this rendezvous. Edging to the door, he loomed there, plainly in sight had eyes turned in his direction. Each .45 was tilted downward; but those weapons were ready for immediate aim at either Ring Stortzel or Carl Randon. Uncanny, weird, The Shadow could have been taken for a living ghost, except for the damp raindrops that glistened from his cloak and hat.

That moisture alone betokened that this figure was from an earthly plane, and not a being from outer blackness. Yet the eyes that burned from beneath the hat brim offset any comfort that a man of evil could have gained in facing this dread intruder.

The Shadow had come here to stand in judgment; to hear the reply that Carl Randon might give to Ring Stortzel’s insidious challenge. A showdown was due between this pair of plotters. The Shadow was prepared to view the outcome.