Mardi Gras Mystery

CHAPTER VIII. THE OPENED BOX

ONE hour had passed. Harry Vincent was seated in an obscure corner of Gallion’s restaurant, finishing a cup of coffee and holding a lighted cigarette. He had paid his check; he was deliberately stalling. For Harry was watching Andrew Blouchet. Such had been The Shadow’s order.

Andrew had dined more heavily than Harry. He had been here when The Shadow’s agent had arrived.

At last, Andrew finished his meal; Harry watched the young man leave the restaurant. Then, without attracting the attention of Pierre Trebelon, Harry also departed.

There was no difficulty in trailing Andrew Blouchet, for it was obvious that he was going toward his apartment, and Harry had learned the location from The Shadow. Moreover, Andrew was easily identified by his leisurely gait and a conspicuous swing that he gave his arms.

At times, Harry saw Andrew’s head turn slightly as the stroller passed a street lamp. On those occasions, Harry caught clear views of Andrew’s face.

Though Harry had never spoken to the man, he believed that Andrew Blouchet would be a pleasant chap to know. Andrew’s expression was a frank one; his manner looked friendly. His face was handsome; and his smile, though almost a grin, had no smirkiness about it. Despite his carefree demeanor, Andrew Blouchet had a determined air that made Harry believe that the fellow would be a good fighter in a pinch.

That fact, Harry decided, might have some bearing upon episodes that were due tonight.

They were nearing Andrew’s apartment, and Harry had lingered far behind. From a corner well-distant, he saw Andrew enter the archway that led to his residence.

Harry resumed his stroll; as he neared the entrance, he stopped and looked at one building, then another.

He saw the address over the arched entrance. By the dim light of a street lamp he found a bell marked “Andrew Blouchet.” He pushed it. There was another outside bell, but it had no nameplate upon it.

A light had appeared in the upstairs apartment on the right. That was Andrew’s. There was no light, however, in the windows on the left. The studio of Duvale, the artist, might have been empty — even unoccupied.

A click sounded at the door where Harry stood. Although the building was an old one, it had been equipped with modern apartment devices. Andrew had heard the ring of the bell; he was admitting the visitor.

Harry entered and closed the door behind him. He went through to the courtyard.

WHILE waiting, Harry had sensed a menace. There, in the hazy light from the street lamp, he had been sure that men were lurking. Hence Harry had been careful to perform no suspicious action. Knowing that crooks might be about, it was not surprising that Harry should have fancied that he was being watched.

But his impression had been more than mere imagination. Lurkers were actually quartered across the street from Andrew Blouchet’s.

Huddled spies began whispers as soon as Harry had entered. Their comments were delivered in low, harsh tones.

“Who’s that mug goin’ up? Seein’ Blouchet, ain’t he? Maybe we ought to tip off Needler.”

“Naw. He’ll be wise. He slid in twenty minutes ago. If he didn’t hear the bell, he’ll hear that gazebo goin’ up them inside steps.”

“Yeah. Needler’s on de second floor. Probably got a couple of the outfit wid him. The rest of de guys is layin’ low, inside de court.”

“Needler ain’t worryin’ if a couple of mugs come in to see Blouchet. Dey won’t count for nothin’ anyway. Dat’s why Needler says to lay off.”

“Until he wants us. The door ain’t going to stop us. The key that Arty’s got will fit the lock. Needler tried it this afternoon, he said.”

From the conversation, it was apparent that the lurkers numbered half a dozen; and they represented only the outside squad. It was also plain that “Needler” Urbin had investigated this territory, nearly a half hour before. Whatever the leader’s plans, he had certainly had time to form them.

MEANWHILE, Harry Vincent, ascending the courtyard steps, had felt himself as ill at ease as before.

He was making a noise as he clambered, whistling softly to himself. This, too, had been The Shadow’s order.

Arrived upon the second floor, Harry stepped in from a sort of balcony that marked the top of the stairs.

From the corner of his eye, he noted some stacked boxes at the end of the balcony. He realized that they would make an excellent hiding place for thugs. He was positive that men were stationed there.

The hallway had one light. Moving toward the end, Harry saw two doors, one on each side. As he approached, the door on the left opened and Harry found himself face to face with Andrew Blouchet.

The pleasant-faced young man surveyed his unexpected visitor. Harry, clean-cut and well-dressed, made an immediate impression.

“You rang my bell,” remarked Andrew. “My name is Blouchet. Did you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes,” replied Harry, with a nod. “I understood that there was an apartment vacant in this building. Yours was the only name that I saw downstairs. I thought that I would make inquiry. My name is Vincent—”

“Glad to meet you.” Andrew thrust out a hand in greeting. “Yes, there was an empty apartment; but I believe that it was taken today. The one across the hall.”

“Some one moved in?” queried Harry.

“Yes,” nodded Andrew. “An artist named Duvale. I doubt that he is there, though. He had very little furniture, because his own had not come in. Probably he went somewhere else for the night.” Andrew stepped across and rapped at Duvale’s door. There was no response, nor was there any glimmer of light from beneath the door. Andrew tried the knob and found that the door was locked.

“Too bad,” he said. “You know, there might be a chance that Duvale is not satisfied with the apartment. He’s using it as a studio, I believe. He probably rented it dirt cheap; and he might listen to reason if you offered him a higher figure.”

“What is the apartment like?” inquired Harry.

“Take a look at mine,” suggested Andrew, “and it will give you an idea. The two apartments are similar.”

THEY entered the apartment; Andrew closed the door but did not lock it. He pointed about the room; Harry nodded approvingly as he eyed the arrangement. He looked toward the two doors in the far wall.

“Two bedrooms,” explained Andrew. “Two of us used to live here.”

“The place is large enough,” commented Harry. “I’m from New York. We don’t have apartments like this, up north.”

“You have an apartment in New York?”

“No. I live at a hotel when I am there. My real home is Michigan. I hope I’ll get back there this summer.”

“You won’t be in New Orleans long?”

“Only for a month. I thought that I would spend that time here in the French Quarter. This old city pleases me. I want to see and learn as much about its history as I can.”

“You have friends here?”

Harry shook his head in response to the question. Andrew Blouchet smiled.

“Why don’t you take this apartment?” he questioned. “I am thinking of going on a trip. I can rent it to you in the meantime. I saved up a little money recently; and decided to go away a while.”

“How soon are you leaving?” queried Harry.

“Not for a few days,” replied Andrew. “But that is just as well, Vincent. I am staging a big party tomorrow night, and I’d like to have you come here. Since you want to see old New Orleans, it would be well for you to get acquainted with some friends of mine who know the city.”

“That would be excellent,” expressed Harry. “But I wouldn’t want to put you out on my account.”

“You won’t. You know, Vincent, we have a traditional hospitality here in New Orleans. When we meet people who share our sentiments regarding the old city, we like to make them feel that they belong.”

“I appreciate that, Blouchet.”

“Moreover, I, for one, make a sound judgment of persons when I first meet them. You have impressed me with your interest in the Vieux Carre. If I can aid you—”

ANDREW cut short. A sound from the door had made him turn. The barricade was swinging inward.

Before Andrew could say another word, a masked man had thrust himself into the room. Rangy, stoop-shouldered, the fellow was thrusting forward a shining revolver. Before Andrew or Harry made a move, the ruffian was followed by two others, masked like himself.

All three were roughly clad. Their masks were blue bandanna handkerchiefs with holes cut in them for eyes. The handkerchiefs went clear to the chins of the men who wore them. Staring, Andrew and Harry saw others in the hall outside.

“Stick up your mitts!” snarled the stoop-shouldered crook. “Back over to the wall! That’s the idea. O.K., Beef. Close the door.”

One of the followers complied. Three men were in the room; two outside in the hall. Harry knew who the long-limbed leader must be. This was Needler Urbin, chief of Ring Stortzel’s torpedoes.

Andrew Blouchet, however, had never heard of Needler Urbin. He had a different guess as to the man’s identity.

“Duvale!” exclaimed Andrew, in a low, tense tone. “So that was why you snooped downstairs and picked out my letter! I should have known it, after hearing you feign a French accent—”

“Pipe down,” broke in Needler, with a snarl. “No lip from you, mug!”

“Playing another part, eh, Duvale?” laughed Andrew. Though he, like Harry, had raised his arms, both showed no fear of their attackers. “You faked the Parisian talk so I wouldn’t know who you were when you started this rough stuff—”

“I said to pipe down!” reiterated Needler, his voice a harsh ejaculation. “Come on, mug! Spill what you know!” Approaching, Needler jabbed his revolver against Andrew’s ribs.

“Give us the combination to that safe. In a hurry. Get me?”

“There is nothing in the safe,” began Andrew. “Nothing, I assure you, that would be of interest to any of your caliber, Duvale. If this is a joke, end it. If not—”

“You want the heat?” queried Needler, with a snarl, “You want me to blow that tin box if you don’t squawk? We’ve got the soup with us. And listen, too; any more funny stuff won’t help you.” The final statement came in a rasp that Harry knew meant business. The Shadow’s agent spoke to Andrew, who was still eyeing Needler calmly.

“It looks tough, Blouchet,” warned Harry. “This is no masquerade. These fellows mean trouble!” Andrew’s smile faded. His eyes, however, held their glare. Looking beyond Needler, he saw the two henchmen drawing blackjacks from their hip pockets. He guessed that those were “persuaders” that would be used if Needler wanted rough stuff.

“How about it, Needler?”

The query was growled by one of the two thugs. Needler held up his left hand.

“Give him another chance,” he said, gruffly. “Come on, Blouchet. If that tin box is empty, we’d like to know it. If you don’t open it, we’ll know you’re stalling.”

Needler had shown strategy with his argument. Andrew, himself, had paved the way. Outguessed, he knew that his only course was to stage a counter-bluff. Harry Vincent realized the same. Andrew’s answer came. “All right.” He shrugged his shoulders as he spoke. “I’ll open the safe for you. If you want to see a collection of useless articles, you’re welcome to.”

BLOUCHET strolled toward the safe, while Needler motioned a thug to follow him. The second ruffian covered Harry Vincent. Needler himself stood watching with lowered gun, while Andrew began to manipulate the combination. Harry stared glumly.

Duvale, the artist; Harry had heard no mention of such a person. When he had listened in to the conversation of Ring and Banjo, he had heard them intimate that Andrew Blouchet was the sole occupant of an apartment on these premises. Because of that, Harry had sent an incomplete report to The Shadow.

Needler had been in here this afternoon; and he was to be inside tonight. Harry cursed his own stupidity.

He should have guessed that Needler might have used some game to enter. He had thought of that possibility too late. Even when Andrew had talked of Duvale, Harry had not guessed the answer that now sprang to his mind.

Needler was Duvale. Andrew had so denounced him. Stationed in the apartment opposite, the leader of the thuggish crew had been in the ideal spot from which to summon his crew. Harry could picture the whole situation. Worst of all, he could see how it had worked against The Shadow.

Harry could vaguely picture his own chief outside, waiting for the arrival of Needler, while a cordon of crooks had closed about the building. Even yet, The Shadow could be bluffed. Should he finally guess that Needler was already inside, his own entry would be stopped by the circle of guarding thugs.

As Harry saw it, The Shadow’s only course would be to wait still longer; for enemies would surely spot him if he tried to enter now. But meanwhile, when Needler found cash in Andrew’s safe, murder would threaten. Andrew’s bluff was all that remained to stave off death; and Andrew could not complete it.

Grimly, Harry Vincent waited, ready to start battle at the final moment. Such had been The Shadow’s order; Harry would follow it to the limit. Even when hope had ended, it was Harry’s duty to obey The Shadow. Death could come; but it would be in The Shadow’s service.

Such was Harry’s feeling regarding himself; his present hope was that, in dying, he might be instrumental in saving the life of Andrew Blouchet.

THE safe was open. With arms outstretched, Andrew was indicating the contents. Except for envelopes and boxes, it contained nothing that appeared of possible value. Avidly, Needler pounced forward. He ripped open envelopes and wrenched the tops from boxes. He found nothing.

Andrew stood smiling, but tense. His expression was forced.

A yap from Needler’s lips. With evil snarl, the crook thrust his hands into a darkened corner at the bottom of the safe. He clutched the ebony box; he had spied it by the glimmer of a silvery corner.

Fiercely, Needler tried to wrench away the cover.

“No use to injure the box,” protested Andrew, boldly. “It is empty. You can tell that by its lack of weight.”

Harry could see that Andrew was bluffing. He admired the chap for his nerve. Needler was finding the ebony box too tough to break. He planked it down upon the top of the safe; and for a moment, Harry thought that the bluff had worked. Then came a triumphant oath from Needler — one that told that the game was up.

Like Harry, Needler had been sharp enough to guess that the box must contain something. But Needler had thought of something which did not strike Harry. Pouncing away from the safe, the long-limbed crook reached the mantelpiece and yanked the silver key from beneath the clock.

“I’d forgotten this,” he snarled. “I saw the key this afternoon, when I was frisking this joint of yours. I wondered what it was for. I’ve got the answer now.”

“So you entered here, did you?” retorted Andrew. He was chewing at his lip as he spoke. “Just another bit of sneaky work on your part, Duvale. Well, you’re all wrong. That key won’t open the black box. Even if it does” — Andrew was fighting for a last bluff — “even if it does, you’ll find the box empty.” The key clicked in the lock of the box. Needler yanked the cover upward.

Harry Vincent, rigid, was ready for a spring, hoping to start a fray before the nearest thug could shoot.

Andrew Blouchet, his last bluff finished, was staring with a frown of defeat. Needler’s snarl was one of evil satisfaction as he swung the lid of the black box.

Then came astonishment. Needler’s snarl ended in a fierce oath of disappointment. Andrew’s eyes popped wide in complete bewilderment. Harry’s heart gave a thump of hope as he realized that the moment of final conflict was due for a postponement.

Needler Urbin had failed to find what he expected. Andrew Blouchet’s bluff had proven more than pretense, even though he had not anticipated such a result. Nearly ninety-nine thousand dollars had staged a disappearance.

The ebony box was empty!