Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE BONTEZAN

THE clock above the desk at the Hotel Bontezan showed the hour of nine. Nearly twenty minutes had passed since Ring Stortzel had delivered death to Carl Randon. No word of the Frenchtown fray had as yet reached this vicinity. All was quiet in the lobby at the Bontezan.

Swifty Bleek was on duty at the desk when he saw The Shadow enter. As Lamont Cranston, The Shadow was attired in street clothes and was wearing a rollable gray felt hat. He was carrying a briefcase; across his arm he held what appeared to be a light overcoat, dampened by the rain. It was actually a cloak.

Bleek scarcely noted The Shadow; for a cashier was going off duty and was speaking to the clerk.

The Shadow, however, eyed Bleek carefully from the elevator, until the very moment when the door closed. His lips showed a slight smile. Bleek had not yet been informed of the episode at Blouchet’s. One of Ring Stortzel’s henchmen was still at his post. Rats had not been ordered to desert the big-shot’s sinking ship. Perhaps Ring still thought himself secure. The Shadow, however, was taking no chances. He had work to do, at once.

“Remember, Bleek,” the cashier was saying, “if a guest stays past eight o’clock, we have to charge them for another night. I just had to enforce that rule a short while ago.”

“You did?” queried Bleek. “Was it that girl who paid her bill?”

“Yes. Miss Demar, I think her name was. She didn’t kick. They don’t very often. If they do, send them to the manager. Let them fight it out with him. Well, good night, Bleek. The job’s all yours. Desk, cashier’s window and switchboard. Hope you enjoy it.”

A buzz came at the switchboard, a minute after the cashier had left. Bleek answered it. He gave a courteous acknowledgment and called to the bell captain.

“Send up to Room 624,” ordered Bleek. “Mr. Cranston is checking out. Tell the porter to arrange for a ticket to Pensacola on the 10:15 train.”

Hardly had Bleek given the order before a man stalked into the lobby. It was Banjo Lobot, his hat and coat dripping wet. A heavy downpour had caught him just outside the hotel. Banjo gave a nervous gesture. Bleek approached and leaned across the desk.

“THE big-shot just staged a rub-out,” whispered Banjo, hoarsely. “Down in the Quarter. Just by luck, Frankie Larth was in town with a couple of gorillas. I got them down there in time to cover.”

“Any trouble?” queried Bleek, anxiously.

“Plenty!” assured Banjo. “Some mugs in a car fired at us; but beat it. Some cops showed up; we had to scram. There’s bulls all through Frenchtown, right this minute! Listen—”

Banjo paused. Bleek could hear the wail of a siren on a police car passing through the block beyond the hotel.

“We’re taking it on the lam,” added Banjo. “But I didn’t stop anywhere to spill the news. Not even at that joint on Exchange Street, where Pierre Trebelon has located. Look, Bleek” — he shoved a folder paper across the desk — “here’s the list of names, and where the guys are. You duck out of here — pretend you’re sick or something — and tip off all of our crew.”

“But what about the big-shot—”

“I’ll get Ring’s stuff out of the room. I’ve got to stay here, in case he calls. He was with me about three minutes after he got away from the Frenchtown job.”

“I’d better wait here then. I can call from the switchboard. I’ll get Ring’s call and put it into a booth—”

“Psst.”

At Banjo’s interruption, Bleek turned around. Some one was rapping at the cashier’s window. The clerk nodded to Banjo, who strolled across the lobby and took off his hat and coat to hang them on the arm of a chair. Bleek, continuing to the cashier’s window, observed the impassive face of Lamont Cranston.

“Here’s your bill, sir,” stated Bleek, with a weak smile. “Sorry, but we shall have to charge you for tonight. After eight o’clock is the line. It’s a rule, sir—”

“Quite all right,” assured The Shadow. While Bleek was digging for the bill, he had taken a sidelong glimpse at Banjo. “By the way, would it inconvenience you to change a hundred-dollar bill?”

“I am not sure, Mr. Cranston. Of course, if you are buying your railroad ticket also, I—”

Bleek stopped short. From a wallet, The Shadow had extracted a sheaf of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and was counting them, one by one, upon the ledge of the window. He had spread the bills in counting them. The serial numbers were in rotation. Not only that, they were numbers that flashed through Fleck’s mind.

These were bills for which he bad been watching! Every one belonged on the list which all the watchers in the chain had memorized. Bleek was staring, riveted, when The Shadow spoke in a quiet, almost apologetic tone.

“My mistake,” he stated. “I have some fifties besides. If you can change one of them, it will be quite all right. I can buy my ticket separately.”

Fifties spread themselves like playing cards in a bridge game. New serial numbers came into view. These, too, were from the list. Bleek realized that all the money displayed by Lamont Cranston was part of the wealth for which Needler Urbin and his crew had battled!

PAYING out change for a fifty-dollar bill, Bleek waited eagerly until The Shadow had strolled to the porter’s office, across the lobby. Banjo was looking toward the cashier’s window. Wildly, Bleek signaled, pointing toward the desk. Bleek met him there, carrying the fifty. He hunched his shoulder to cut off view and showed the bill to Banjo.

“Look!” Bleek whispered tensely. “One of the notes! From that guy Cranston, just checking out. He’s taking the train for Pensacola, at ten-fifteen, and he’s got a load of the mazuma on him! He’s the guy we want!”

“Hold it!” whispered Banjo. “Is that the bird, going over to the telephone booth?”

“Sure! That’s Cranston! He’s making a call.”

“I’m going over to listen—”

“No! Get in the far booth. Pick up the receiver and I’ll cut you in. I’ll listen at the switchboard. Those pay stations are house phones. They have to go through the board.” The board was buzzing when Bleek arrived there. The clerk donned the headphones. He saw Banjo sliding into the end telephone booth. Bleek plugged in and formed a round robin, so that he and the go-between could both hear The Shadow’s conversation.

“Get me the Hotel Southern,” ordered The Shadow, in the quiet tone of Cranston. “Tell them that I wish to speak to Mr. Silford. They will find him waiting in the lobby.” Bleek made the call. Soon a voice responded, after a brief paging at the Hotel Southern. It was Harry Vincent’s tone, slightly disguised.

“Hello, Silford?”

The inquiry came in the calm tones of Cranston. Harry acknowledged:

“Oh, hello, Cranston. Where are you?”

“Checking out at the Hotel Bontezan. Leaving for Pensacola.”

“But you promised me a loan—”

“I know. Don’t worry, Silford. Listen, old man, I was short on money myself. So I borrowed some last night. When I did, I arranged for you to do the same.”

“But I wanted money tonight—”

“You can get it. There’s a chap in town named Lester Hayd. Head of a big loan company. His name is in the telephone book. Last night I had only fifty dollars, except for bank draft for five hundred, I went out to see Hayd. He cashed the draft and gave me three thousand besides, on my own note.”

“But if he runs a loan company, what about the interest rate?”

“The same as regular bank rates.” The Shadow chuckled in Cranston’s dry fashion. “That is, to wealthy friends. I was one; you’ll be another.”

“But I wanted ten thousand—”

“You’ll get it. He has plenty of money, there at the house. He had stacks, all in bundles, and he simply drew off what I wanted. Fifties — hundreds — that’s where I stopped. He had bigger bills than those, in his safe.”

“You’re sure about the ten thousand then—”

“I tell you, Silford, he must have as much as a hundred thousand there. I’ll call him, old man, and tell him to expect you before ten-thirty. But don’t get there until ten-fifteen. Be casual. Don’t let him think you are anxious for a loan.”

The Shadow hung up. He dropped a dime in the post-payment box and clicked the receiver. He gave another number: Hayd’s. Getting the loan magnate on the wire, he told him that Silford would arrive before half past ten. After that, The Shadow went from the telephone booth, back to the porter’s office.

BANJO arrived at the desk. He spoke in a triumphant whisper to Bleek.

“Forget those calls. Hold them until later. After I hear from Ring. He’s due to call up any minute.” Bleek interrupted.

“Look! Cranston is leaving!”

“Let him go. He’s out of it. The switchboard’s buzzing, Swifty. See if it’s Ring.”

Bleek hopped to the switchboard and answered. He nodded to Banjo. The go-between headed for the telephone booth. The Shadow saw the move from the door. Reaching the street, The Shadow entered a cab with his bags.

“L.&N. Depot,” he told the driver. “I’m checking these suitcases there. Wait. I have somewhere else to go.”

In the hotel telephone booth, Banjo was spilling the news to Ring Stortzel. The big-shot was growling his approval of the go-between’s conclusions.

“We should have spotted it,” came Ring’s voice across the wire. “Remember? We talked about the loan company? But they didn’t pass out the mazuma. That was because Hayd had it at his house.”

“He must have been the bird who spent some at the Delta Club.”

“Sure. And he let some go to Blouchet, on a loan. We don’t want Blouchet. We want Hayd; he’s the fellow Randon was working for. Meet me in fifteen minutes, Banjo. You know the place. We’re going out to Hayd’s. What did you say the guy’s name was? Silford?”

“That’s it. I get you, Ring. Hayd has never met him. What’ll I tell Bleek to do?”

“Call in everybody that can come. Have them meet up with Frankie Larth, so he’ll have a full outfit. I’ll call Frankie and have him hold back until the right time. Ten o’clock for us, or earlier. Ten-fifteen for them. They’ll take care of this boob Silford.”

OVER at the Hotel Southern, Harry Vincent had put in a telephone call of his own. He was through with the part of the mythical Silford. He was calling Andrew Blouchet, at police headquarters. Harry gained a connection with Lieutenant Wayson’s office.

“Harry!” Andrew’s exclamation came across the wire. “Hurry out here! I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“Is Carl Randon there?”

“No. Listen, Harry: Carl has been shot! Killed, in my apartment—”

“Murdered?”

“Maybe yes; maybe no. We’ve found out some facts about Carl, Wayson and I have. Get out here in a hurry; tell the cab driver to roll. We’re going places!”

Harry smiled tensely as he left the telephone booth. He knew what Andrew had learned; and from what source the information had come. He understood, also, something of what lay ahead. Once again, a grim game was in the making, as on that night at Andrew Blouchet’s.

Another snare, perhaps, with many persons involved. One in which odds would seem strangely one-sided, against those who did not realize the full game. But of one thing, Harry was certain. There would be measures to offset the foe.

For this game was of The Shadow’s making. The pay-off was due. The Shadow had planned; and Harry was confident that his chief would win.