Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER XX. DEATH AND THE SHADOW

“DEATH for all of you!”

Lester Hayd pronounced the sentence in a fierce rumble. His glaring eyes were straight toward Lieutenant Wayson, the victim whom he covered; but his words were meant for everyone who stood before him.

“Death!” The word came again, with a booming chuckle. “But before my firing squad receives its order, you will tell me what brought you here tonight. You, Fanchon Callier, are the one in back of it. Step forward and speak.”

The girl moved boldly toward the desk. She stared at the transformed visage of the man whom she obeyed. Deliberately, that all might hear, Fanchon began her statement. The ring in her voice was genuine. She sought to clear herself with persons who had trusted her, yet who might — through present circumstance — believe that she had betrayed them.

“I was in your employ,” Fanchon told Hayd, “doing work which I believed honest. I was an investigator, studying the cases of those who wanted loans from your company. I came regularly to the office and paid pretended loans. With my receipts I was given envelopes, containing the names and addresses of those whom I was to investigate.”

“A good policy,” rumbled Hayd, “for the loan business. You were not the only investigator who worked upon that basis. Proceed.”

“One day,” resumed Fanchon, steadily, “you asked to see me personally. You gave me an ebony box, with a silver key. It was Mardi Gras Day; and you stated that I was to be outside of Gallion’s restaurant at a certain hour. I was to be in costume, masked; and my task was to deliver the ebony box to a man attired as a cavalier, when he passed by. I followed your instructions.”

“So you reported,” declared Hayd. “Come. Declare the facts that followed.” The girl paused deliberately.

“I shall do so,” she declared, “upon one condition only. That you spare the lives of innocent persons here.”

Hayd nodded his agreement.

“I shall do so.” His leer had lessened and his tone was almost eager. “Yes. I agree. Provided you state all.”

Lieutenant Wayson shifted. So did Harry and Andrew. But the girl could not see them, for they were at the wall in back of her. Hayd’s prompt accord had given Fanchon hopefulness.

“LAST night,” Fanchon declared, “I learned that Andrew Blouchet was the man to whom I had given the box. I heard from him that it had contained money; that the cash was the cause of the attack against him.

Before I left, I promised to learn facts that he had sought. I trusted you, Mr. Hayd. I believed that there had been a mistake.”

“You say that you trusted me?” rumbled Hayd. “What made you change that opinion?”

“Jerry Bodwin was called to the theater office,” explained Fanchon. “I was working there evenings, and you knew it. I received a telephone call. I heard a voice that I thought was yours. You promised to give me important facts. The call seemed most timely.”

“I made no such call.”

“I learned that later, Mr. Hayd. You — or the person who spoke like you — told me to register at the Hotel Bontezan under another name, so that I could receive a message unobserved. The message arrived beneath my door.”

“And it said—”

“It stated facts so plainly that I could not doubt. It told me that a certain man could easily have known that Andrew Blouchet would be passing Gallion’s at the hour stated. It declared that the same man had advised Andrew to keep the money and to spend it.”

“You refer to Carl Randon?”

“Yes. The message proved also that he had pretended to be in New York when he was not; that his purpose of supposed absence was to let Andrew Blouchet bear a menace alone. Andrew was to be sacrificed to crooks who sought your life.”

“You say you had proof—”

“Yes — proof of Carl Randon’s connection with you. The writer of the note stated that on the day when you returned Carl’s endorsement to Andrew, you also put away an envelope with papers addressed to you in Randon’s writing. Yet you claimed no contact with Randon.”

“And you believed all this?”

“Yes. Because the note stated that only through Randon could you have known that the ebony box reached its proper recipient. The fact that you were satisfied with my performance of the task was proof absolute that you were in the game.”

Hayd nodded and delivered a pleased chuckle.

“Quite true,” he commended. “I like good logic. Some one performed a piece of creditable deduction. That person must have seen you in the loan office, the day he spied Carl Randon’s report. I suppose the note told you what to do.”

“It did,” affirmed Fanchon. “I was to wait. When the right time came, I was to take my story to Lieutenant Wayson.”

“Your story? Why not the note?”

“Because its writing faded.”

“Most mysterious!” While he gloated, Hayd seemed more pleased than ever. “So that was why you disappeared today. I talked with Carl by telephone. He had intended to abduct you last night. He failed. He believed that our enemies had captured you instead.”

A growl from Ring Stortzel.

“So that was why he talked about the girl,” put in the Chicago crook, from his corner. “I thought Randon had gone screwy. I get it now. He was afraid she’d blab on you, Hayd. So he tried to shift it back on Blouchet.”

“Fairly good guesswork, Stortzel,” commended Hayd, “for one of your crude ability. After all, you were smart enough to eliminate Randon, although he was sure that he could finish you. I had my men there to beat off your cover squad. They succeeded in that endeavor. But they brought back word that you had come free, so I decided that you had killed Randon.”

“The mugs in the car?” exclaimed Banjo. “These torpedoes that you’ve got here with the rifles?”

“Enough!” boomed Hayd. “Continue, Fanchon.”

“I RECEIVED the telephone call,” said the girl, “at eight o’clock tonight. I was ordered to call Andrew Blouchet. To tell him to leave his apartment immediately; that his life was in danger. He agreed to meet me within an hour, at Lieutenant Wayson’s office.”

“So it was you who tipped off Blouchet!” blurted Ring, in a harsh tone. “No wonder Randon was buffaloed! I guess you told Blouchet to leave the glim burning, too—”

Hayd snarled a silencing order. Ring subsided, glaring viciously at the big man whose command meant death.

“I told my story to Lieutenant Wayson,” concluded Fanchon. “I followed final orders from the message. Orders that I could not have forgotten. Yet — yet” — the girl faltered — “the plan has failed. I am to blame—”

“No,” broke in Wayson, in defiance of a growl from Hayd. “The fault was mine, Miss Callier. I was to trap Hayd; to bring you in afterward, that he might be confronted with your testimony. If I had acted smart enough, he would have told his men to put up their guns. He would have turned his prisoners over to me. While he was bluffing, I could have swung the game against him—”

“But you tried it too quickly,” broke in Hayd, with a sneer. “For that, you shall die! My order has been given. Death!”

“You promised otherwise,” pleaded Fanchon. “You said that you would spare those who were innocent. You who were the master mind behind all, who, when Ring Stortzel tried to trace the money he had been paying to you, tried to make Andrew Blouchet out as squeezing Ring — by having me hand him the money Ring was tracing!”

“So I did,” roared Hayd. “But I meant those innocent of meddling! Those who had failed to pry into my affairs! My promise applies to none of you. Death is my final verdict! Ready men. When I begin with Wayson, take the rest!”

ALL seemed unreal within that room of doom. The light was focused upon varied faces. Wayson was stolid as he stared toward Hayd’s gun muzzle. So was Harry Vincent, though he could feel the aim of a covering rifle.

Both Andrew Blouchet and Fanchon Callier were ready to face death. The only cowards present were two men who snarled from their corner: Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot. Their vicious oaths were but a cover for the fear that had seized them. They would have pleaded; but they knew that whines would be useless.

Hayd’s firing squad was a merciless crew. Four evil men looked pleased at the task before them. They had caught their gloating from the master who had trained them. Slaughter was apparently the best part of their business. Grouped in their doorway, they added to the grim fantasy of the terrible scene.

Strangest of all was a sight which no one saw. This was a moving streak of blackness, coming inward from the opened door to the living room. Like death itself, that weird shade entered. Behind it came the solid mass of a living form. It was The Shadow, visible.

The master of vengeance had been at hand when Wayson and the others had entered. Waiting beyond the space past the grandfather’s clock, The Shadow had let the arrival pass; only to follow closely, just far enough away to remain unseen. Yet for many minutes prior, The Shadow had roamed the ground floor of the mansion.

Ring Stortzel had seen a patch of darkness in the hall. He had felt that eyes were watching him from the door. A living phantom, The Shadow had been everywhere. He had watched everything from the time that Ring had joined Banjo. The time had come for his ominous presence to be felt.

The grandfather’s clock was chiming from the living room, its tone a knell that brought a coarse chuckle from the lips of Lester Hayd. The master crook was ready to frame his final order, when a louder sound stayed his word.

Above the chiming came a laugh. A fierce, challenging peal of mirth that filled the tense room with outlandish quivers.

The laugh of The Shadow. A token of a different doom than that which Hayd was about to utter. A defiant, echo-bringing taunt that rose to a shuddering break.

Upon the instant, all eyes swung to the spot from which the gibe had come.

Framed in the open doorway was The Shadow. His eyes were burning straight toward Hayd. His fists held guns that covered the master hand of evil.

WITH the first taunt, Hayd had swung. His revolver was looming in response. His riflemen had copied his example. Five weapons were coming to bear upon The Shadow. Yet he was concerned with Hayd alone. Apparently, The Shadow would take death from others, if he could win that duel.

Gloved fingers pressed triggers simultaneously with Hayd’s tug. The Shadow’s aim was true; Hayd’s, on the move, was wide. Two automatics roared while a big revolver barked. Hayd staggered, while The Shadow stood his ground.

Then, as gun echoes boomed throughout the room, Hayd’s henchmen found their motionless target.

Savagely, four killers pressed the triggers of their rifles.

Puny clicks were all that came. The Shadow’s laugh rang out anew as he turned to cover startled, bewildered foemen, who still clicked away at empty weapons. Hayd, crumpling, uttered a huge bellow.

To him had come the explanation of The Shadow’s strategy. The master of vengeance had tricked the supercrook with his own game.

Planning all moves, it was Hayd who had told Carl Randon to slip dud bullets into Ring Stortzel’s gun.

Hayd had not learned why Randon had failed to gain a kill. The Shadow had recognized that Hayd was a man who would depend upon guns that had been loaded long before.

Ring Stortzel had nearly spotted The Shadow in the hall. At that time, The Shadow was heading for Hayd’s arsenal. He had probed the lock immediately after Ring’s return to the living room. The Shadow had unloaded every rifle in the place. He had carried away spare ammunition, as well.

Watching after Ring’s entry, The Shadow had seen Hayd in the study. He had divined the moment of the master crook’s signal for aid. The arrival of the riflemen had been immediate. They, like Randon, had taken it for granted that weapons were as they should be.

Empty guns had cowed Ring Stortzel and Banjo. The same weapons had made new arrivals surrender.

Hayd, himself, had introduced the only live gun in the lot. The Shadow had, therefore, taken Hayd as his sole target. He had drawn one shot from Hayd, that the bullet would be wide of other persons. He had caught the would-be killer still on the aim.

INTO the room came wild confusion. Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot were springing for their lost revolvers.

There were two men, however, who were ready for them. Lieutenant Wayson and Harry Vincent snapped their own guns from their pockets. While Andrew Blouchet leaped forward and drew Fanchon Callier to cover, Wayson and Harry beat the two crooks to the finish.

There was no chance for parley. Ring and Banjo were snarling their hope of murder as they came up to aim, counting upon their killing instinct to mow down opposition. Wayson, the able marksman; Harry, The Shadow’s agent — both were deliberate and sure. Their automatics roared as one.

Ring and Banjo tumbled to the floor. Wayson had dropped the big-shot; Harry had downed the go-between.

From the living room came splintering crashes. Ring’s outside crew was here. Frankie Larth and his pals, augmented by Banjo Lobot’s chain of henchmen — these minions of crime had thought the signal theirs.

They were breaking in, expecting to rout a tribe of cowering servants.

Instead, they encountered a master battler. The Shadow, swinging into the living room, unloosed a double volley against the first invaders. Larth came pitching forward from a window. Two others toppled outward into the darkness. They were poor fighters, these misfits banded for reserve. When new shots ripped from shattered windows, they scattered wide for cover.

Within Hayd’s study, the four riflemen had started a surge across the room. Quick shots blazed from two guns. Wayson and Harry were ready for this rally. They dropped Craylon and Luder. The other pair surrendered.

Clubbed rifles clattered to the floor; two from numbed fists, the others from hands that shot abruptly upward.

Outside, new guns were barking. Wayson had offset one error with an order that proved useful. He had brought reserves of his own; police who had stationed themselves well distant from the house, ready for any signal. They had heard the gunfire; their cars had sped up from near-by streets.

Leaping to the ground, policemen and detectives spread in chase of scattering crooks. Wild fugitives fired hopelessly. Police revolvers sprawled them. Shouts of surrender came from trees and hedges. The round-up was under way. Officers were battering at Hayd’s front door. The barrier gave. Five men came through, to answer Wayson’s sharp call from the study.

They dashed through an empty living room. The Shadow had seen the sequel in the study. His task was ended. He had gone. Out through the hallway, into the distant wing. Somewhere, he had left the house.

That fact was proven minutes later, to those who had remained.

LESTER HAYD lay motionless upon his desk. The dead rogue’s henchmen were prisoners; two wounded, two unscathed. Ring Stortzel, chief of the rival faction, was dead upon the floor. Likewise Banjo Lobot, the lieutenant who had served the defeated big-shot.

Lieutenant Wayson was in control, with Harry Vincent sharing his congratulations. Andrew Blouchet was proudly extolling the bravery that Fanchon Callier had shown. The girl, though strained by grim events, was smiling to the man she loved.

Into this scene of happy victory came a sudden lull; a hush that was instantaneous, as though each person had caught a psychic impulse of a token that was due.

A weird laugh carried from a distance. Long, shivering, it echoed from the rain-swept night. Rising, it faded into nothingness; yet in its wake remained the lingering impression of a living presence.

Those saved from doom had heard that laugh before — here in this very room. But now it spoke from spaces of the night, from an outer world that had swallowed a vanished being of blackness. There was a final note to that fading mirth, a tone that told of victory.

The triumph laugh of The Shadow!