Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER IV. THE NOD IS GIVEN

CRIME was pending in New Orleans. Insidious crime, betrayed only through surface indications which The Shadow alone had detected. Whatever the game at stake, it must be great. No trifling criminal activity could have brought such smooth workers as Pierre Trebelon and Banjo Lobot to this city.

Besides these, there were others. Bleek, the hotel clerk, was an indication of that fact. Evil was brewing; but had not yet struck. The Shadow had arrived before crime became rampant. His task was to veil his presence while he learned full details of approaching events.

Strange episodes frequently brought inklings that concerned crime. The Shadow, when delving into hidden games, was always looking for traces of unusual adventures, experienced by persons who seemed detached from criminal activities. There was one man in New Orleans whose affairs would have interested The Shadow. But that individual was carefully keeping such information to himself.

The man in question was Andrew Blouchet.

Living alone in his Frenchtown apartment, Andrew had been harboring his new resources. His wants were few; he had refrained from touching his huge fund of one hundred thousand dollars. Carl Randon had gone North; during the quiet days that had succeeded Mardi Gras, Andrew had spent but little money.

At last, the temporary period had ended. Completely out of other cash, Andrew had dipped into the contents of the ebony box. Since he had taken this step, he was ready for a splurge. Hence Andrew, faring forth, had stuffed his wallet with crisp bank notes. He was ready to appear once more in the company of money-spending acquaintances.

SOME twenty-four hours after The Shadow’s arrival in New Orleans, Andrew Blouchet entered the portals of the somewhat exclusive Delta Club. The members of this private establishment were mostly men of means. It had been months since Andrew had appeared at the Delta Club, for the simple reason that he had not paid his dues.

Once admitted, Andrew went to the treasurers office and offered to pay up his back dues. The treasurer, a genial chap named Gilling, was pleased to receive the money. Andrew tendered him two fifty-dollar bills and received twenty in change. Gilling took the money without question, as Andrew had expected.

Andrew had already shown one of the bills to a bank cashier, who had assured him that it was genuine.

Receiving a paid-up membership card, Andrew strolled from the office with Gilling. Entering a room where social groups were clustered, Andrew encountered a stocky, square-faced man who clapped him on the shoulder with great enthusiasm.

“Hello, Andy!” exclaimed the stocky man. “Haven’t seen you for months! Why haven’t you looked me up?”

“I intended to, Jerry,” responded Andrew. “I didn’t know just where you were located.”

“Haven’t you heard?” queried Jerry. “I’ve opened the old Luzanne Theater. Starting some legitimate shows there, beginning in a week or so.”

“I thought you were doing publicity for some of the clubs. Have you given up that work, Jerry?”

“Not at all, Andy. That’s my daytime occupation. Along about five o’clock, I go to the theater office and stay there during the evening. Drop around and say hello.”

“All right, Jerry.”

The two separated. Moving away, Andrew observed two older men engaged in conversation. Both saw him and nodded cordially. Andrew approached and shook hands. One of these men was Theodore Durflee, a portly, jovial-faced banker. The other was a man whom Andrew had mentioned to Carl Randon: namely, Lester Hayd, president of the Wide World Loan Co.

Hayd was tall and bulky of build; his heavy, dark-browed face marked him as dynamic. His handshake, a strong, impressive grip, went well with his appearance. Hayd, like Durflee, was glad to welcome this returned member.

“I wanted to see you, Mr. Hayd,” remarked Andrew. “About a little business matter—”

“Come to my office, Andrew,” interrupted Hayd, with a smile and shake of his head. “That is where I talk business. You are welcome any time.”

“All right,” agreed Andrew. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go along and perform the duty of meeting some other members whom I have not seen in a long while. I was just talking with Jerry Bodwin. I hadn’t seen him for months.”

“He told you about the Luzanne Theater?” queried Durflee. “I understand he is reopening it.”

“So he said.”

ANDREW went on his way, while both men nodded approvingly. It was Durflee who made remark.

“A likable young fellow,” said the banker. “Blouchet is the type of member whom we need.”

“Precisely,” agreed Hayd. Then, with tightened lips: “The Delta Club is slipping, Durflee. The committees have lost their senses. I do not approve of their methods.”

“You mean their policy of running a gaming room?”

“Yes. Gambling does not belong in a private club.”

Durflee rubbed his chin. Like Hayd, he was looking across the social room, toward curtains from which the click of chips was audible.

“We can’t help it, Hayd,” declared the banker. “We have influential members who like to gamble. New Orleans is wide open, with plenty of so-called clubs which are very pretentious. We must manage somehow to keep our members here.”

“There should be no compromise with an evil situation,” objected Hayd. “Two wrongs do not make a right. The only benefit of the gaming room is that it enables us to note which of our members are undesirable.”

“By those you mean the ones who enter the gaming room?”

“Yes. To me, those curtains are the dividing line. My opinion of a man is lessened — sometimes utterly destroyed — when I see him go through that further door. It stands as a dividing line between respectability and disrepute.”

“There is merit in what you say, Hayd. My chief objection to the gaming room is of a different nature, however. It has attracted persons who do not belong in the Delta Club. Doubtful characters who have managed to acquire guest cards. If I were a member of an important committee, I would—” Durflee broke off his statement to turn toward an attendant who had approached him. The man was holding out a calling card.

“A gentleman who asked for you, Mr. Durflee,” explained the attendant. “He sent his card in to you—”

“Lamont Cranston!” exclaimed Durflee. “My friend from New York! I must see him at once—”

Looking beyond the attendant, Durflee spied a tall personage who had strolled in without waiting. It was The Shadow, in the guise of Cranston. Durflee recognized him. Hurrying to meet his friend, Durflee shook hands with The Shadow.

“WELL, well, Cranston!” exclaimed the banker. “You did right not to wait outside. I’m mighty glad to see you. How long will you be in New Orleans?”

“A few weeks, perhaps,” replied The Shadow, quietly.

“You shall have a guest card at this club,” announced Durflee. “I shall speak to Gilling about it. He is the treasurer of the club. Cranston, I want you to meet Lester Hayd, president of the Wide World Loan Co.”

The Shadow shook hands with Hayd. The bulky man was pleased to meet so important a friend of Durflee’s. In his guise of Cranston, The Shadow presented an impressive appearance. He was immaculately attired in evening clothes. His quiet manner, his easy carriage, marked him as a person of distinction.

Conversation began between the trio. From Durflee’s remarks, Hayd gathered that Cranston was a millionaire and a traveler; also a collector of many rarities. Hayd became enthusiastic.

“We must get together, Cranston,” insisted Hayd. “I own a most unusual collection of Louisiana literature. Everything from magazines and pamphlets to steamship schedules and tickets used in the old Louisiana Lottery.”

“The last item is interesting,” chuckled Durflee. “It shows that you have at least a historic interest in gambling, Hayd.”

“That collection,” remarked Hayd, seriously, “is one reason why I am so opposed to gambling. Those lottery tickets tell their tragedy, Durflee. They show how thousands of poor, miserable persons were swindled of their earnings in hope of impossible gain.”

“The lottery did deteriorate in its later days,” nodded Durflee. “Many dupes bought counterfeit tickets without knowing it.”

“Many did,” assured Hayd. “Very many. The abolition of the Louisiana Lottery was a most admirable piece of legislation.”

“Yet men still gamble,” remarked Durflee, indicating the door of the gaming room. “There go some new customers, Hayd. Humph! There is young Blouchet among them.”

Hayd stared. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips became grim in disapproval.

“Too bad,” clucked Durflee. “I did not know that Blouchet was a gambler.”

“Nor did I think so,” returned Hayd. “It changes my opinion of him. I am afraid, Durflee, that Blouchet will have reason to regret his action.”

The Shadow had picked out the man whom the two speakers indicated. He, however, was concerned with another who had also entered the gambling room; a tall man whom The Shadow had trailed here tonight. Starting from the Bontezan Hotel, The Shadow had traced Banjo Lobot to the Delta Club.

He had seen the fellow stop in an Exchange Street grogshop and receive a headshake from a bartender.

He had followed him to a hotel, where a bellhop had given the same signal. The Shadow was right; Banjo had a route. The course had led to the Delta Club; Banjo had gained admittance with a guest card. It was then that The Shadow had sent in his name to Theodore Durflee.

CONVERSATION ended abruptly between The Shadow, Durflee and Hayd. Durflee saw Gilling going to the office, and decided to go and speak to him there. Hayd was summoned to the telephone by a call from his loan office, which stayed open evenings. The Shadow found himself alone. With a quiet smile, he strolled into the gaming room.

He saw Andrew Blouchet at a roulette table, a huge stack of chips in front of him. A turn of the wheel; Andrew lost. He laughed and put new heaps of chips upon the board. Next, The Shadow spotted Banjo Lobot. The tall crook was lounging about, watching the play.

A hunchy, droop-faced attendant was near the table. The Shadow watched Banjo catch the fellow’s eye.

He saw the droop-faced man form a word with his lips. The word was: “Wait.” Banjo bought a few chips. The attendant walked about, and finally left the gaming room. In leisurely fashion, The Shadow, followed.

The attendant’s course was toward the treasurer’s office. On the way, The Shadow spied Durflee; but the banker did see him, in turn. When the attendant reached the office, he entered. The Shadow calmly strolled in behind him.

Gilling was at the desk. Looking up, the treasurer saw two persons; an attendant, and a gentleman in evening clothes. He gave the latter precedence.

“What is it, sir?” inquired Gilling.

“My name is Lamont Cranston,” began The Shadow. “Mr. Durflee said that he would speak to you.”

“About the membership card? Certainly! Here it is, Mr. Cranston. A guest card, for one month. Renewable later.”

The Shadow received the card and began to read it. Gilling spoke to the attendant.

“I was just going to send for you, Royan,” he said. “I have just come from the gaming room and there is some money that I would like you to look over.” Noting that The Shadow was still present, Gilling smiled and added a statement to the new guest:

“This man — Royan — is an expert at detecting counterfeits. I hired him because of his ability, and he has been very useful during the month that he has been with us.”

Royan was studying different bills. He came to a crisp one of fifty-dollar denomination. He checked it carefully, then handed it to Gilling.

“Who turned in this one?” queried Royan, in a doubtful tone. “I’m not sure of it, Mr. Gilling.” The treasurer looked at a penciled memo.

“It came from one of our regular members,” he stated. “A young chap named Andrew Blouchet.”

“Has he left yet?” questioned Royan.

“I don’t think so,” replied the treasurer. “Of course, we have his address. Here it is, right with his application for reinstatement. He paid up his back dues tonight. And that reminds me” — Gilling paused to dig into a drawer — “here are two other fifties that he gave me.” Royan examined the other bills. The Shadow caught a glimpse of their numbers and saw that they were in a series. He watched Gilling fold the reinstatement form and place it in the desk drawer. Royan suddenly gave the bank notes back to Gilling.

“They’re the McCoy,” decided Royan. “With only one of them to look at, I wasn’t sure. But with three, I had a chance to compare them, Nothing phony about that cash.”

THE SHADOW lingered a few moments after Royan had gone. After that, he strolled from the office, in time to spy Royan making a notation on a slip of paper.

Reaching the gaming room, Royan stopped inside the door. The Shadow, following unobserved, paused just before he reached the curtain. From where he stood, however, he could glimpse Banjo Lobot.

Royan caught Banjo’s eye. The attendant gave a nod. Lobot cashed in his chips and walked toward the door. As he neared the curtains, he passed Royan. The attendant slipped a tiny wad of paper into the go-between’s hand. The Shadow stepped to one side; he was lighting a panatela when Banjo stalked past. When the man was gone, The Shadow strolled over and found Durflee. The banker introduced him to other club members.

An hour later, Andrew Blouchet left the Delta Club. The Shadow departed shortly afterward. Still in the guise of Cranston, he arrived at Gallion’s restaurant. There he spied Andrew, indulging in a late meal with two friends from the club. It was Andrew who paid the check. The Shadow saw him give the waiter a fifty-dollar bill.

The three men left; their group broke up outside the restaurant. The Shadow remained to finish a dish of “shrimp a la creole.” While thus engaged, he observed the arrival of Banjo Lobot.

The long-jawed crook ordered his usual drink; then looked toward the door of the office, where Pierre Trebelon was standing. The waiter had brought Banjo’s check. The Shadow saw Trebelon slide a slip of paper beneath it.

In person, Trebelon brought the change to Banjo’s table. Lowering the paid cafe check, he let the piece of paper drop from beneath it. Trebelon strolled away as Banjo crumpled the paper and thrust it into his pocket with his change.

Then came the final touch. Back at the door of the office, Trebelon turned about. Momentarily, the mustached Frenchman caught Banjo Lobot’s eye. Slowly, but briefly, Trebelon delivered a nod. Banjo finished his drink and left.

When The Shadow departed from the restaurant, Banjo Lobot was gone. Tonight, however, the master sleuth had no intention of following the crook’s trail. Nor did The Shadow intend to return immediately to his own hotel. Instead, he strolled deeper into the French Quarter.

On a secluded street of the Vieux Carre, The Shadow’s tall form seemed to fade. Near the blackness where his figure had merged with gloom, a soft whisper sounded. Its tone was a sinister laugh. Though still in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had blended with the night.

The Shadow had found a new step in the game. Thrice had he seen Banjo Lobot receive the nod from different accomplices. On two occasions, the act had concerned one man. The Shadow — like those whom he intended to balk — had gained a lead to Andrew Blouchet.