Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XIX. CROOKS PLAY THEIR PARTS

IT was quarter of ten when a taxicab pulled up near the home of Lester Hayd. The vehicle stopped amid dripping rain. The driver received his fare and a tip. He heard the door close as his passenger alighted.

The driver headed back to town.

Only darkness remained at the spot where the cab had stopped. The only sound from that sector was the patter of the raindrops. Whoever had alighted remained invisible in the heavy night.

Yet the cab’s passenger must have moved in the direction of the house, for no one appeared within the range of two street lamps that cast their rays upon sidewalk and street.

Moreover, two pedestrians walked by a few minutes later. They encountered no one in the darkened patch. Besides, there was a sequel that occurred a short while later. It came close to the looming wall of Hayd’s mansion, where unlighted windows marked an empty room. A swish in darkness; the slight click of metal, working at a window catch. Then the almost noiseless raising of a sash.

Those trifling sounds took place just as a taxicab rolled into Hayd’s driveway. The headlights of the taxi gleamed upon the window where the sound had occurred. The passing rays showed blackness, only. A blackness which glistened, more like moistened shrouding cloth than the glittery glass of a windowpane.

But neither the driver nor his passengers noted the odd phenomenon.

Two men alighted. One paid the driver. They ascended the steps and a light flashed on to greet them.

The glow showed their faces. One was Ring Stortzel; the other was Banjo Lobot. Their arrival had been heard. Ring nudged Banjo as they waited at the door.

“Remember,” whispered the big-shot, gruffly, “you’re Silford. I’m just a friend; I’ll sit down and wait for you. The first chance I get, though, I’ll barge in.”

The door opened. The butler bowed to the visitor and looked from one to the other. He seemed surprised to observe two persons.

“I am Mr. Silford,” stated Banjo. “This gentleman is with me. Mr. Hayd is expecting us.”

“Of course.” Craylon conducted the pair into the hallway and closed the door behind them. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

They went through the living room; there, Banjo stopped Craylon, the butler. Turning, Banjo spoke to Ring.

“I have to see Mr. Hayd privately,” he explained. “You wait here for me.”

“All right, Silford,” rejoined Ring.

Craylon ushered Banjo into Hayd’s study. Banjo introduced himself as Silford to Hayd, and mentioned the name of Lamont Cranston. He took off his hat and coat, shook hands, and sat down.

Craylon went from the study. He closed the door and continued through the living room.

RING was looking at a magazine. As soon as the servant was gone, the big-shot arose and sidled to the hall. He peered across his surroundings suspiciously. Over beyond, he saw a stretch of darkness by the wall. Ring fancied that he saw motion there; then realized that he was wrong. No one was about, so far as Ring could discern.

The big-shot noted one door at the rear of the hall. It was the entrance to the room where Hayd housed his collection of weapons. Ring, however, knew nothing of Hayd’s hobby.

Satisfied that no servants were about and that Craylon was gone, the big-shot stalked back into the living room and waited close by the study door.

Banjo’s part was to stall as long as possible; and the go-between was doing it well.

One dozen minutes passed, while a huge grandfather’s clock ticked slowly from its gloomy corner in the big living room. Ring saw a darkened space beyond the clock; one that would have made a good hiding place for a spy. He took a chance and went over to examine it. He found the space empty.

Turning about, Ring stared toward the door of the living room. He had gained a sudden hunch that someone was standing there. He was ready with a pretext, to ask questions about the clock, if Craylon entered. But Ring saw no one at the door; he laid his impression to imagination.

“Jittery, I guess,” he mumbled. Ring gripped the big smoke-wagon in his pocket. “First, it looked like someone in the hall. Then here by the clock. Now it seems like the door of the room.” He glowered at the clock. It began to chime the hour. Ring sidled back to his chair and watched the door while he listened to the strokes of the big gong. This period of waiting was not to his liking. He did not like the place. The big-shot noted thick, tufted rugs all about. He eyed blackened spaces along the walls, and remembered the gloominess of the hall.

Any one might move about here, gliding from one lurking spot to another. Ring was sorry that he had not ordered members of his crew to wedge their way in through the windows. There would have been plenty of places for them to hide, once inside.

Five minutes after ten. Ring decided to end the stall. He figured that Banjo was finding it tough. Moving toward the door of the study, Ring placed a chunky hand on the knob. He turned it, pressed the door opened and entered. With his other hand, he yanked the big revolver with which he had slain Carl Randon.

LESTER HAYD was at the desk, chatting with Banjo Lobot. Both were smoking cigars; apparently they were enjoying their conversation.

Banjo had stalled better than Ring had hoped; the big-shot could have waited longer before making his entry. But Ring was of the sort who craved action. He had held out much longer than Banjo had anticipated. The go-between knew the big-shot’s tendency.

“Stick em up!” growled Ring, closing the door behind him. He included Banjo in the threat, to protect the fellow’s role of Silford. “Stick em up — and keep em up!”

Both Hayd and Banjo obeyed. A sudden expression of understanding came upon Hayd’s face. Ring saw the loan president dart a glance at Banjo. The drawn-out conversation must have become a giveaway, once Ring had appeared upon the scene. Ring laughed harshly and spoke to Banjo.

“Cover,” he ordered. “This mug is wise. We’d better talk to him together.”

“About what?” queried Hayd. His tone showed surprise. “Is this attempted robbery? If so, I see no need for discussion.”

“No?” Ring snarled the question. “Listen, mug. I’ve got a lot to spill! Right here in that safe of yours, you’ve got a wad of dough that means trouble for you. It means you’re the guy I’m after!”

“It’s phony mazuma,” added Banjo. “Maybe that will tip you off to the lay.”

“Wait a minute, Banjo,” put in Ring. “I’ll do the talking. That stuff isn’t queer dough. It’s real. I gave you a sales talk to hand your outfit. That’s all.”

“Perhaps you can settle this dispute,” remarked Hayd, in an annoyed rumble. He sagged slightly in his chair. His right knee slid forward and pressed a button just within the edge of the desk. “I have very little money here. What I do have is certainly not counterfeit.”

“You know all about it,” sneered Ring. “What’s more, you can guess who I am. Ring Stortzel is my name. I’m just one of the big-shots who had to pay through the nose to a guy who knew too much.

“Dough. More dough. Right along, to a blackmailer in New Orleans. A gazebo who threatened to turn me over to the Feds. Who had enough stuff on me to make me listen. I sent cash to the places you told me to. Time after time. Always remembering that you’d be wise enough to be watching the fellow who picked it up, in case I sent spotters. You threatened to sink me if I tried to trace you through them. I’ve been in New Orleans all this time, trying to get that dough back.

“You gave it away, though, that you lived in New Orleans. So I sent you a wad of listed cash. Real bank notes, with their serial numbers in order. Put a lot of spotters here to watch for them. That’s how I traced the racket back to you. It’s curtains for you, Hayd, and I’m taking that dough of mine and everything else I can find—”

Ring stopped short. Hayd was delivering a rumbled chuckle. The bulky magnate gestured with his upraised left hand.

“You’re covered,” he remarked. “Both of you. That little spiel stretched over all the time required. My servants have responded to my signal!”

RING and Banjo swung about. They stared at the door to the weapon room. It had opened, unheard because of Ring’s heavy growl. Craylon, Luder and two other servants were standing with leveled rifles, taken from a ready rack.

Ring snarled while Banjo uttered a grunt. They let their revolvers fall. Hayd motioned them back against the wall. They obeyed.

“Go on,” ordered Hayd. “What else do you have to tell us?”

“Nothing,” snarled Ring. “You’ve crossed us, Hayd! Too bad I couldn’t make Randon talk.”

“Randon?” queried Hayd. “Who is he?”

“You ought to know!” roared the big-shot. “You sent him to get me! I bumped him instead! Down at Blouchet’s—”

“Randon!” exclaimed Hayd, suddenly. “Blouchet’s friend! So you go in for murder! I see. You were the man responsible for that raid at Blouchet’s—”

A bell was tingling. Hayd paused. He spoke to Craylon.

“Go to the front door,” he ordered. “See who it is. If the persons are all right, show them in, Craylon. Luder — you cover from the front door of the room, in case other rogues are here. But I doubt that they would ring the door-bell.”

Ring doubted it, too. The big-shot was fuming from his corner. He had sprung the game too soon. It was not quite quarter past the hour, the time when Frankie Larth and the reserves were due. Ring knew that the rain might have delayed them. Traffic was slow tonight.

“It may be the real Silford,” suggested Hayd. “Well, we shall see. He may be surprised by this scene.” Hayd paused to chuckle. “Nevertheless, he will be useful as a witness.” Craylon was returning. He stopped at the door. He nodded with assurance.

“It is Lieutenant Wayson,” he stated, “of the New Orleans police force. There are others with him outside. He wants to talk to you, Mr. Hayd.”

“He has traced Randon’s murderer here!” exclaimed Hayd. “Good! Show them in at once, Craylon. Luder” — his voice was louder — “in here again.”

Craylon went out to the unguarded hall. He returned with the square-shouldered police lieutenant. He stepped aside to let Wayson enter. Close behind the lieutenant were two others — Andrew Blouchet and Harry Vincent. Then came a fourth — Fanchon Callier.

The three men and the girl were in the room before they saw the others present. Hayd alone had been visible before their entry. Wayson stared at the sight of leveled rifles; then, following the direction of the guns, he saw Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot.

“I’VE nabbed two killers for you, lieutenant,” chuckled Hayd, in his heavy laugh. “That one — he calls himself Ring Stortzel — has admitted himself as the murderer of Carl Randon. He came here to rob me—”

Hayd stopped short. Wayson was motioning the others back toward the living room. At the same time, he was moving his right hand toward his pocket.

“Have your men put up their rifles,” ordered the police lieutenant. “These two crooks belong to the law. I shall take charge of them.”

Hayd had seen a startled look upon the face of Fanchon Callier. With a sudden sweep, the loan president whisked a revolver from the desk drawer. He leveled his revolver at Wayson. Two of his riflemen changed the direction of their aim. Ring and Banjo were still covered by a pair of guns, while three weapons held Wayson, Harry and Andrew.

Hands went up. Lieutenant Wayson, the only man ready for the draw, knew that a move might spell death for him and his companions. Slowly, the newcomers followed Hayd’s order to line along the wall.

Ring and Banjo stared in new astonishment. For a short interval, their beliefs had changed. They had thought Hayd’s welcome genuine; they had gained the impression that they had come to find the wrong man.

At last, deception had ended. The biggest of big-shots stood revealed. Lester Hayd was the crook who had preyed upon others; the master mind of crime whom Ring Stortzel had sought to slay. Backed by a quartet of ready henchmen, a murderous crook had tossed aside his mask.

Grimness showed upon the faces of the new entrants who stared at Hayd’s livid, gloating countenance.

Most disconcerted of all was Harry Vincent. He had come here with the others, believing that Lester Hayd could be trapped unawares. Instructions had been gained by the law. Lieutenant Wayson — for good reason — had followed them to the letter.

Wayson had believed that proof was needed concerning facts that he had learned. He had been told how he could gain that proof — by a prompt and open visit to Hayd’s home. Harry, like Wayson, had believed that information had come from a reliable source.

Harry had believed more than Wayson; for where the police lieutenant had acted upon what seemed sound judgment, Harry had been convinced that they were obeying the wish of The Shadow.

Something had gone wrong. A snare had been sprung. One of two answers were the only possibilities that came to Harry’s startled mind. Either they had been duped, without The Shadow’s knowledge; or The Shadow’s own plans had gone awry.

In either event, the cause would be hopeless. For the evil leer that had spread upon the face of Lester Hayd was one that promised no mercy. A murderous supercrook was ready to order slaughter, under circumstances which even The Shadow could not alter.