Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER VI. THE CHANCE MEETING

ANDREW BLOUCHET was both systematic and forgetful. While eating his noon breakfast, he had carefully compiled a list of errands for the afternoon; then he had proceeded to leave the list on his table, when he went out. However, he managed to remember the course that he had planned to follow.

He had to stop at a real-estate office to inquire about the unpaid rental on a small building which he owned. This place had been a source of revenue, until its occupant had jumped his lease. Since then, the real-estate agent had been trying to collect back rent, without success. At the office, Andrew found out that no luck had been encountered.

His next destination was a garage, where his old car was up for sale. Andrew went there to tell the proprietor to hold the automobile. He no longer wanted it sold; he intended to trade it in for a new machine. Andrew had thought of taking the car out; but he found it with two flat tires, so he made his way back toward Canal Street.

He went in to see a stock broker who was holding the remnants of the poor securities that Andrew owned. None were paying dividends; the broker had told Andrew that he would lose much if he sold them, for they were far below par. Andrew had, however, given orders to sell next week. Today, he reversed his decision.

The day was sultry, with rain clouds threatening. Andrew showed no haste as he made the circuit; he stopped long at each place. It was nearly five o’clock when he approached a building just off Canal Street, the edifice which housed the offices of the Wide World Loan Company. Andrew grinned as he looked up toward the second story windows that bore the lettered name of the corporation.

Carefree, Andrew had paid but little attention to persons whom he had passed along his journey. Not once had he paused to glance behind him. Hence he had failed to observe persons who had followed him. On different occasions, pedestrians had kept close to the heels of this young New Orleans stroller.

Before entering the loan company’s office, Andrew stepped into a tobacco shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. He did not notice a long-jawed, frowning individual who watched him enter the cigar store.

Even if he had, Andrew would hardly have recognized the banjo player of Mardi Gras night.

Another tall stranger moved from a throng while Banjo Lobot was watching Andrew Blouchet. This newcomer did not pause at the tobacco shop. Instead, he entered the lobby of the office building and went up the stairs to the loan office. He had been gone three minutes when Andrew came from the cigar store.

Banjo Lobot had not seen the person who had entered the office building; nor did the long-jawed crook follow Andrew. Instead, Banjo chuckled to himself and went away. He either thought it was unnecessary to watch Andrew further, or he was depending upon someone else to keep up the trail.

IT was a certainty, however, that Banjo was not counting upon the tall personage whom he had failed to glimpse at the entrance of the office building. That arrival had already gained an unusual reception on the second floor. He had presented a card that bore the name “Lamont Cranston.” He had been ushered in immediately to Lester Hayd’s private office.

The president of the loan company was busy. Stacks of papers and letters were heaped upon his desk.

He dropped his tasks when The Shadow entered. Smiling broadly, the heavy-browed loan president extended a hand in greeting.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Cranston,” he exclaimed. “I was going to call your hotel, to find out when you could visit my home. Are you free any evening this week?”

“I am not certain,” replied The Shadow, casually. “Suppose we make a tentative appointment, Mr. Hayd. But if you are busy—”

“No, no,” interjected Hayd. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Cranston. There is plenty of time to chat. Plenty of time. Ah! What is it, Muthel?”

The inquiry was to a bespectacled man who had entered. The fellow was one of the office clerks.

“Mr. Blouchet is here, sir,” informed Muthel. “Shall I tell him that you are busy?”

“No!” Hayd pounded the desk. “Tell him that I shall see him at once! As soon as I ring for you, Muthel.”

“Very well, sir.”

Hayd began to rummage upon the desk. He gathered up two sheets of paper that were inscribed with a fancy penmanship. An envelope fluttered from them and fell at The Shadow’s feet. He picked it up and returned it to Hayd, who noted the writing on it and thrust the papers within. Typewritten sheets were next; Hayd shoved them into their proper envelopes. He gathered other documents and put the lot into a wire rack, which he set aside on a corner table.

Hayd was clearing decks for action. Apparently he wanted more space on the desk so he could pound it more effectively. Hayd’s lips were tight. His eyes looked angry. He seated himself; then pressed a button.

Calming somewhat, he turned to The Shadow.

“Stay here, Mr. Cranston,” he suggested. “I shall only be a few moments. I have to deal with a young ne’er-do-well, who has taken advantage of my friendship. He deserves a reprimand.”

MUTHEL entered with Andrew Blouchet. The latter advanced with hand outstretched. Hayd waved him to a chair. Opening a desk drawer, the loan company president drew out a long flat envelope and slid it across the desk.

“There are your papers,” snapped Hayd. “We cannot renew your loan, Blouchet. The amount that you owe us will become collectable at once.”

“Why the sudden change of decision?” queried Andrew, opening the envelope. “I see nothing wrong with these, Mr. Hayd. Look at this” — he spread out a sheet of paper and pointed to the flowing signature — “it is Carl Randon’s endorsement. I understood it would be acceptable.”

“We do not know Mr. Randon,” returned Hayd, tartly. “I am not acquainted with the man. So far as I am concerned, he has no status whatsoever.”

“But he has contacts in New Orleans!” exclaimed Andrew. “He has given business references. He owns property here. He has accounts in three New Orleans banks—”

“And he is a friend of yours?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“That is sufficient,” declared Hayd. “Quite sufficient, Blouchet, to make his endorsement undesirable. We have no quarrel with this man Randon” — Hayd flattened both hands upon the desk — “but we have no confidence in you! I do not know Randon; but I do know you, Blouchet.”

“That’s just it,” remarked Andrew. “I thought we were friends. When I spoke to you last night, you were cordial—”

“At that time, yes,” interrupted Hayd. “But that was prior to your display of a quality with which I have no sympathy. My company does not grant loans to gamblers!”

Andrew stared; then understanding showed upon his face in the form of a wide grin.

“So that’s it,” he laughed. “You saw me going into the gaming room at the Delta Club. That explains it. I forgot that you were a narrow-minded old blatherskite!”

Hayd came to his feet and rammed the desk with an indignant fist.

“Such slurs are uncalled for, Blouchet!” he stormed. “It is not narrow-mindedness that colors my opinion! It is sound policy! Any man who can afford to gamble can also afford to pay his debts!”

“A good argument, Mr. Hayd. Therefore, a man who can afford to pay his debts can afford to gamble.”

“If he chooses, yes. Even though I would not approve of gambling under any circumstance. But since you can not afford to pay your debts —”

“ONE moment. Mr. Hayd.”

It was Andrew’s turn to interrupt. He, too, was on his feet. He was bringing a wallet from his pocket.

Hayd stared while Andrew paused and drew forth a thin sheaf of crisp bank notes. One by one, Andrew counted off ten bills, each of a hundred-dollar denomination.

“One thousand dollars,” chuckled Andrew. “I have already paid the interest charges. I was extending my loan, Mr. Hayd, only that your company might still have me as a customer. That was simply my way of expressing my appreciation for the friendly treatment you once gave me.”

“You — you upstart!” blurted Hayd. “Lucky at the gaming table, eh? Bringing your spoils into my office, to ridicule me.”

“Wrong again,” laughed Andrew. “I did not win last night. I lost. I told you a moment ago that I would not have gambled if I could not have afforded it.”

Hayd was speechless.

“Take your cash,” jeered Andrew. “I’m through with this concern. I’ve been squeezed like others; but no longer. Look for other suckers who will fall for your smug racket. Maybe they’ll listen to your bunk about how you help the deserving man who needs encouragement. Yes, you help the deserving man, all right. You help him to stay as he is — deserving, but broke!”

Hayd was no longer paying attention to the tirade. He was jabbing the bell button, ringing for Muthel. The secretary appeared.

“Show Mr. Blouchet out!” boomed Hayd. “I am through with him, Muthel!”

“Not yet,” gibed Andrew. “Not until you give me a receipt for my money.”

“You can get that at the outside office,” stormed Hayd. “Leave this office at once!” Still laughing. Andrew picked up the money and walked out with Muthel. Hayd sank back in his chair and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He looked toward The Shadow.

“This was most disturbing, Mr. Cranston,” said Hayd. “Most disturbing! It is seldom that we have scenes like this. I must admit that Blouchet’s action was unprecedented. I have never known a man to flaunt money in our faces.

“Sometimes, eccentric persons become angered because they are hopelessly in debt. Poor beggars! It is hard to blame them. But our interest rates are not excessive. Our discount plan is designed to show us only a fair profit. We do not demand security. We deal on endorsements only. It is precarious; we have to charge more than an ordinary interest rate.

“I keep a private fund of my own — one that we do not advertise. It is for the benefit of those borrowers who have shown themselves trustworthy. I have extended loans with interest as low as five per cent per annum, with no endorsement whatever, for men who have deserved it. Often, I have ordered certain loans written off the books, to help out certain unfortunate borrowers.

“But we must deal firmly with those who are not trustworthy.” Hayd pounded the desk emphatically with each word. “No matter how good a man’s credit may be, I will not deal with him if he is a wastrel, or a gambler!”

The Shadow was nodding as he rose from his chair and glanced at his watch. Hayd stepped from behind the desk and shook hands. The Shadow remarked that it was late; that he would telephone Hayd tomorrow. The loan company president conducted him to the door of the private office.

THE outside room was a large one. Several persons were lined up in front of a grilled window, paying interest on their loans. A rail kept them in line. As Hayd closed his office door, The Shadow, now in the main room, saw Andrew Blouchet in line. Only one customer was ahead of him.

The Shadow paused to watch Andrew thrust his crisp bills upon the ledge of the grilled window. He spread the money triumphantly. The Shadow noted the bills as the young man counted them. He also observed another person who eyed the money. This was a girl, next in line to Andrew.

The girl was well-dressed and attractive. She was a pronounced brunette, of medium height. Her eyes were brown and large they opened more widely as they saw the thousand dollars that Andrew Blouchet was displaying. The Shadow saw the girl lean forward, to view the hundred-dollar bills more closely.

The clerk collected the money through the window. He wrote out a receipt and Andrew took it, grinning as he stepped away. The girl approached the window and tendered a few dollars, along with a book for recording of the interest payment.

“Account No. 1286 B,” reminded the girl in a quiet voice. “It was due two days ago—”

“That means a service charge,” interposed the clerk.

“I understand,” nodded the girl, her tone well modulated. “You will find the extra amount there with the payment.”

Andrew Blouchet had wheeled about at the moment of the girl’s reply. The words, “I understand,” had come like an echo from some amazing moment in the past.

The Shadow saw Andrew’s actions. He saw the young man stare as though the girl were a ghost.

Oblivious to Andrew’s gaze, the brunette walked from the window, tucking the account book into a purse. Andrew remained rooted until she had reached the stairs. Then, with quick stride, he followed.

Every registration upon Andrew Blouchet’s face had been an indication that his recognition of the girl was a matter of the highest importance. The Shadow, concerned in Andrew’s actions, was prompt to move toward the stairs. His task was an easy one: he knew that Andrew would not let the girl get out of sight.

Nor would the young man, thus engaged, give heed to any thoughts of other followers.

Downstairs, the trail led away from Canal Street. Close behind Andrew, The Shadow looked for Banjo Lobot, or some other of his ilk. None were in sight. The Shadow kept on his course, taking the devious turns that Andrew made, in accordance with the girl’s route.

Close behind the man whom he was trailing, The Shadow could hear the satisfied chuckles that came from Andrew’s lips.

There was a reason for Andrew Blouchet’s glee. The new owner of a hundred thousand dollars had found an opportunity to begin the solution of a mystery. He had hopes that he would soon gain an inkling to the riddle of the ebony box. A chance meeting had provided the opportunity.

For the girl whom Andrew Blouchet was tracing was the masked ballet dancer who had placed a fortune in his hands, on the night when Mardi Gras had ended!