Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER VII. CROOKS PREPARE

THE girl followed a street that ran parallel to Canal. After a few blocks, she took a side street that led back toward the main thoroughfare. She did not, however, continue to Canal Street. Instead, she entered a quaint arcade that led into the heart of an old-fashioned building.

Andrew Blouchet saw the girl’s course. He paused when he reached the front of the arcade. The Shadow saw the young man smile and stroke his chin. Andrew was watching the girl as she continued.

He had guessed where she was going.

The old arcade was dilapidated and gloomy. The shops that lined its sides were dingy and unoccupied, except for a few that were located near the front. Therefore, the girl was bound for the extreme end of the arcade, where a little courtyard was bathed by daylight that trickled through a glass-paned roof.

Andrew was waiting for the girl to reach the courtyard; for there she would have but two choices. One was to the left, along a side passage that led out to another street. The other was to the right and it offered but one objective — the office of the old Luzanne Theater.

The girl turned to the right. Andrew chuckled. He waited another minute, then strolled through the arcade and reached the courtyard. Here, just to the right, was the front of the Luzanne Theater, a building within a building.

Steps led up to the big lobby doors of the theater; as Andrew had expected, the barriers were closed.

But to the right of the steps, a smaller door was open. A light was shining from the room within. That was the theater office; it was where the girl had gone.

Elation seized Andrew. His old friend, Jerry Bodwin, had taken over the management of the Luzanne. It was after five o’clock; Jerry should be in the office. Here was an opportunity to meet the girl. Andrew paced across the courtyard and entered the lighted office.

So intent was Andrew, that he never noticed a figure that had followed him through the arcade. Even had Andrew been on the alert, he probably would not have seen that gliding shape. The side walls of the arcade were gloomy; the tall trailer had taken to their depths. Like a living phantom, he had moved swiftly through the darkened passage.

At the courtyard, this shape revealed itself. It became the figure of Lamont Cranston, silent in the deserted court. With long, noiseless stride, The Shadow crossed the courtyard and reached the steps that led up into the closed theater. From this vantage point, he gained a view directly into the office.

Yet The Shadow, himself, had taken a position of obscurity. Motionless, he became scarcely noticeable upon the gloomy steps. He was away from the trickling rays of fading daylight. No passer-by would have spied him in the course of ordinary progress.

ANDREW BLOUCHET had found two persons in the office. One was Jerry Bodwin, seated behind a scarred, flat-topped desk. The other was the girl. She had removed her hat and coat, and was busy at a filing cabinet. She glanced at Andrew as he spoke to Jerry. The visitor returned her gaze. The girl, however, showed no sign of recognition. Andrew was doubly pleased.

First, he was sure that the girl did not realize that he was the man to whom she had passed the ebony box. Second, he was convinced that she had not observed him closely when he had paid the thousand dollars at the loan office. Jerry Bodwin was beginning conversation. Andrew listened to his friend.

“You’re becoming reliable, Andy,” chuckled Bodwin. “You promise me that you’ll drop in. The next day you show up, Johnny on the spot. What’s hit you, old-timer?”

“A little prosperity, I guess,” returned Andrew. “Things are breaking a bit better. Well, it looks as though you are getting ready to do business.”

“I hope so,” remarked Bodwin, seriously. “It’s a tough game, though, making a theater pay. Lots of work to do. Fortunately, I have a capable assistant.”

He turned toward the girl, who smiled. Jerry rose from his chair.

“By the way, Fanchon,” he said to the girl, “I don’t believe that you have met Andy. Allow me to introduce you. Miss Callier, this is Mr. Blouchet.”

Andrew had risen; he returned the girl’s smile with a profound bow. Fanchon again busied herself at the filing cabinet. Andrew resumed conversation with Jerry.

“So you don’t open the office until five o’clock?” inquired Andrew, casually. “How late do you work, Jerry?”

“Until ten or eleven,” replied Bodwin. “A long day for me, because I am busy until five. Fanchon, however, has no other job. She handles many of the details.”

“Do you go anywhere after eleven?” asked Andrew.

“Not if I can help it,” responded Jerry. “Unless the next day happens to be an off one. Tomorrow, for instance, will be a busy time. But the day after — well, it will be practically nothing.”

“Good,” decided Andrew. “That will leave you free tomorrow night, won’t it?”

“Yes,” nodded Jerry. “Why?”

“I’m staging a party at my apartment,” explained Andrew. “A lot of friends invited. Henry Boutonne and his wife; Fred Wendley and his fiancee, Marie Sharman. Quite a few others whom you know. Could you join us?”

“Certainly,” agreed Jerry. “It is time the old crowd held a get-together.”

“I’ll turn the place into a ballroom,” declared Andrew. “All I need is an orchestra. Can you arrange for one, Jerry?”

“Easily. Leave that to me, Andy.”

ANDREW looked toward Fanchon; then spoke to Jerry.

“Would Miss Callier be able to come with you?” he asked.

“Maybe,” laughed Jerry. “Are you free tomorrow night, Fanchon?”

“Yes,” smiled the girl, turning toward the desk. “As soon as work is over.”

“That will be early,” promised Jerry. “Fanchon, this will be a wonderful party. Andy lives down in Frenchtown. His place is big enough for a barn dance!”

“How interesting!” exclaimed Fanchon. “I have always wanted to visit the French Quarter.”

“Haven’t you been there?” inquired Andrew, in surprise.

“Scarcely at all,” responded the girl. “My home is in Baton Rouge. I have been in New Orleans only a short while.”

“And you have never dined at Gallion’s?”

Fanchon shook her head. Andrew, however, noted a sudden opening of her eyes when he mentioned the name of the celebrated restaurant.

“Of course I have heard of Gallion’s,” explained the girl. “In fact, I have gone by there, in the daytime. I have always wanted to dine there.”

“I have an idea, Jerry.” Andrew spoke to Bodwin. “Suppose both of you come along with me right now. It’s nearly six o’clock. I am going straight to Gallion’s. We can have dinner together—”

“Save that invitation, Andy,” interposed Jerry. “We have a lot of work here and will have to clear it if we expect to leave early tomorrow. Look for Fanchon and myself at about nine thirty tomorrow night. We’ll be at the party.”

“And the orchestra?”

“It will be there at eight. I’m making a note of it, right now.” Andrew arose and strolled from the office. The Shadow, motionless, saw Fanchon turn and watch the young man’s departure. Jerry Bodwin decided to dictate a letter. Fanchon produced a pad and sat down at the opposite side of the desk. The Shadow glided from the steps and moved across the courtyard.

Andrew Blouchet had gone; but he had named his destination. Dusk had arrived; it was almost evening.

It would be after dark before Andrew left Gallion’s; a fact which pleased The Shadow. He walked to the hotel where he had registered as Lamont Cranston.

MEANWHILE, another was gaining facts that concerned Andrew Blouchet. Harry Vincent, at the Hotel Bontezan, was seated in the gloom of Room 624.

Earphones upon his head, The Shadow’s agent was listening to conversation that came from Room 618.

Banjo Lobot had been absent most of the afternoon. Harry had entered the crook’s room with a special key which had come from The Shadow. Harry had planted a microphone.

He had done this in a manner prescribed by The Shadow. The mike was a tiny one, attached to the metal portion of a special electric light bulb that had come to Harry with the key. No one could detect the device; for the bulk of the bulb hid it from sight. Harry had put the bulb in a ceiling socket.

In his own room, he had attached the receiving end of the dictograph to a floor plug. All on the same circuit, the wiring that supplied current to 618 and 624 had formed a direct connection. Harry could hear all that passed in Banjo Lobot’s room.

The crook had returned; and he was talking to a visitor. Though Harry could not see the man, he managed to form a fair mental picture from the voice.

Harry was not far wrong. The man with Banjo Lobot was squatty and thick of countenance. His gruff voice was raspy; yet at times it eased. The man — as Harry guessed — was one who made a good appearance; despite the thickness of his lips; the evil glare that flickered in his eyes. Banjo, his long-jawed face leering, was reporting to this visitor.

“We’ve spotted the right mug, Ring” affirmed Banjo. “I wouldn’t have sent that wire to Saint Looey, if we hadn’t. I’m glad you’ve showed up. What’re you going to do? Register under a phony moniker?”

“Not a chance,” returned “Ring,” gruffly. “I’m taking this room, Banjo. You’re moving out. I don’t want anybody to get even an idea that Ring Stortzel is in New Orleans.”

THIS statement, when it passed across the dictograph, was most illuminating to Harry Vincent. Ring Stortzel was a notorious Chicago racketeer, who had presumably retired from illicit business. Ring had formerly been a booze baron; there were rumors that he had become the hidden hand in other forms of crime. To date, however, nothing had been pinned upon Ring Stortzel.

“Royan was the first to spot the mazuma,” explained Banjo. “I got a nod from him, up at the Delta Club. Then Trebelon slipped me the same news. The mug who passed the dough is named Andrew Blouchet. We’ve been covering him today, and when he went into the office of the Wide World Loan Company, I—”

“Never mind the rest of it,” interrupted Ring. “Get to the point, Banjo. Where is he keeping the dough?”

“In an old safe, down in his apartment. It’s in the French Quarter.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“As good as sure. Listen, Ring: Needler got into the place this afternoon, sometime after Blouchet had gone out. He went through the joint to make sure that the dough couldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Did he crack the safe?”

“No. He couldn’t figure the combination. It’s an old box, but a tough one. A French make that’s a honey! That was what cinched it, Ring. Needler Urbin knows his onions. I called him up just before you blew in; got hold of him from a pay station.”

“And Needler is sure about the safe?”

“Yeah. It’s an old-timer — the kind that most guys would laugh at, before they tried to tap it. Get it, Ring? Nobody seeing that safe would think that Blouchet would keep anything worthwhile inside it. But try to bust it. Then you know that Blouchet is foxy.”

“Could Needler soup it?”

“Sure. He could blow the safe. But he might bring down half the building with it. Anyway, we’re after Blouchet, aren’t we? I thought your gag would be to make him deliver. Then croak him afterward.”

“That’s the idea, all right; but we’ve got to know that the stuff is there, before we rub him out. If he won’t talk, Needler will have to soup the safe, if there’s no other way of opening it.”

“And keep Blouchet covered meanwhile?”

“That’s it. Here’s the system, Banjo. Corner Blouchet to begin with. Start to give him the heat. If he won’t listen, quit. Blow the safe, if he won’t open it. Snatch the mazuma if it’s there.”

“And what if it isn’t?”

“If there’s no dough — or if it’s way short — Needler will have to bring Blouchet along with him. Take the guy somewhere and give him the heat plenty.”

“You’re leaving the works to Needler?”

“Why not? He’s got the torpedoes. There’s no link between him and us. We’ll keep in the clear, Banjo. That’s what we’ve got Needler for — him and that outfit of his. He’s kept them under cover, hasn’t he?”

“Sure thing. Clear outside the city. They’re in here now, though. Needler’s seen to that.”

“Can Needler get into Blouchet’s?”

“Sure. He’s fixed that part of it.”

RING STORTZEL grunted. His over-large face was showing a gloat of anticipation. While the big-shot schemed, Banjo made other statements.

“I’ve handled my job perfect,” declared Banjo. “The fellows that we planted don’t know what it’s all about, except that they’re to watch for the serial numbers on the mazuma. Pierre Trebelon may be smart; but this is fooling him. The same goes for Swifty Bleek and Dave Royan. The rest of them, too.”

“Have they asked any questions?” put in Ring.

“No,” replied Banjo. “I’m the only one that’s in the know. But suppose they do ask questions—”

“Tell them all you know,” ordered Ring. “It won’t matter if they get wise to the lay.”

“But you said to keep mum—”

“Sure. But that was before the dough showed up. It’s different, now that we’ve spotted Blouchet.

Providing, of course, that he has all of the mazuma—”

“O.K., Ring.”

Ring Stortzel arose.

“Where’s Needler?” he demanded. “Can you get hold of him in a hurry?”

“Sure. By telephone. He can call in the crew at any time.”

“All right. Go outside and get in touch with him. Tell him to post the outfit and then work from inside. Soon after Blouchet shows up. Have him let the mug get settled before he barges in on him. Everything’s clear for Needler, isn’t it?”

“Sure thing! There’ll be nobody in there but him and Blouchet. Unless someone comes along with Blouchet.”

“Let them. A few more won’t matter. It may be all the better. Tell Needler to call in just enough torpedoes to do a neat job. He can leave the rest outside to cover.”

THE conversation ended. From his room, Harry Vincent could hear the closing of a door that marked Banjo’s departure. The rustling of newspaper told that Ring had remained and was looking over a daily journal.

Harry Vincent stared from the window. It was completely dark; New Orleans twinkled with brilliant lights, except for one area that Harry could view close by. There the illumination was less; more like a feeble glow that came from narrow streets, thickly blocked with buildings.

That was the Vieux Carre. The old section of New Orleans carried a sinister spell, as though its very bulk anticipated the crime that was due tonight. Harry paced the room, his hands clenched tensely. There was no way to call The Shadow. He had been instructed to await word from his chief.

The telephone bell tingled one minute later. Harry hurriedly answered the call. His voice was tense. He heard the quiet tone of Lamont Cranston, in response. The Shadow was on the wire. A question that he put seemed irrelevant; but it was actually an inquiry to learn if Harry had a report. Harry replied in the affirmative. The Shadow ordered him to buy some cigars in a store near the Hotel Bontezan.

Donning hat and coat, Harry went directly to the appointed place. While he was purchasing the perfectos, a bell rang from a telephone booth. Harry grinned at the clerk.

“Guess it’s for me,” remarked The Shadow’s agent. “I left word for a friend of mine, telling him that I might be here.”

Harry answered the telephone. It was The Shadow. From within the closed booth, Harry delivered a rapid verbatim report from shorthand notes of the conversation that he had heard between Banjo Lobot and Ring Stortzel.

The Shadow’s quiet tones responded. The master sleuth was giving instructions to his agent. Brief, but precise, those orders made their impress upon Harry. The call ended. Harry heard the click of the receiver at the other end.

Though his task was clear, Harry stood puzzled. He had work to do; a part to play. Yet his duty, though direct, was simple. It offered no solution to the menace that threatened Andrew Blouchet, unless some startling changes might be made in the approaching circumstances.

Yet Harry — through both duty and experience — was ready to obey. He was confident that matters beyond his comprehension would be handled by The Shadow.