Zemba

CHAPTER XI AT THE CAFE POISSON

THE Cafe Poisson stands near the Rue Montmartre, not far from the Boulevard Poissoniere. The name of the restaurant was one that caused comment. Some claimed that it was an abbreviation of “Poissoniere,” after the boulevard; others, maintained that “poisson,” being the French word for “fish,” meant that the cafe specialized in sea food.

The Cafe Poisson, though located considerably south of the actual Montmartre section, had once been well patronized by seekers of night life. It had attracted various types of habitues; and, two years before, when the police had dragged two bodies from the Seine, it was learned that the murdered men had last been seen alive in the Cafe Poisson.

Monsieur Suchet, the convivial proprietor, had sworn his innocence in the matter. Unable to bring a satisfactory indictment against him, the police had allowed Suchet to continue in the restaurant business.

Since then, wags had at intervals altered the sign above the restaurant by blotting out one “S,” thus converting “poisson” into “poison.” Since “poison” means the same in French as in English, the inference against the good name of Monsieur Suchet could be appreciated by Americans as well as by Parisians.

Inasmuch as the victims from the Seine had been stabbed, not poisoned, Monsieur Suchet bore the brunt of occasional jests; and pretended to treat the matter as a joke. Nevertheless, it was noted that Suchet kept a wary eye open whenever agents de police stalked past the open front of his cafe. Since the new exploits of Gaspard Zemba had come to public notice, Monsieur Suchet had been doubly cautious.

There was good reason; for such persons as Monsieur Suchet were supposed to be in Zemba’s favor. The Cafe Poisson had, in a sense, been placed under police surveillance.

EXACTLY twenty-four hours after Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had arrived in Paris, a figure emerged from the Montmartre station of the Paris Metro, having chosen a new underground route to reach this section. Strolling along in casual fashion, the arrival entered a side street. His figure was that of Herbert Balliol.

Again, Harry and Cliff had parted with their friend. They had left Balliol in the lobby of the Hotel Princesse; he, in turn, had fared abroad soon after their departure. After his stroll from the Montmartre station, Herbert Balliol appeared later outside the Cafe Poisson.

After surveying the establishment through blue-lensed spectacles, the visitor entered and took his place at a table. He gave an order to a waiter; then turned about to eye two sergeants de ville who were seated at another table. Though apparently off duty, these officers had a purpose here, namely to watch Monsieur Suchet.

Bald-headed and fat of face; the proprietor was standing behind a small counter. Looking out through the front of the cafe, he saw a figure that alighted from a cab. Suchet’s eyes sharpened; then, nervously, he produced a handkerchief and began to mop his brow. He had seen a venomous, staring face; one that he did not know, but which made him think of the notorious Gaspard Zemba.

A sergeant de ville saw the direction of Suchet’s gaze and looked in the same direction. He motioned to his companion. The two left their table and started out. Monsieur Suchet sank back; but his face showed relief. A hunched figure had started away in time to avoid the officers.

All the while, Herbert Balliol had been seated motionless. Suchet had scarcely noted the new arrival; but he was soon to do so. Some one plucked at his sleeve. It was a taciturn waiter, motioning the proprietor to a rear door of the cafe.

A squinty-eyed derelict was standing there, grinning while he clinked a pair of metal two-franc pieces. The fellow thrust an envelope into Suchet’s hand; then shambled away.

Fumbling, Suchet tore open the envelope. Inside, he found a message. He read it and crumpled the paper. He turned to the waiter who was standing beside him. In a hushed tone, Suchet gasped:

“It’s — it’s from Zemba! Peste! Zemba! Les sergents de ville! They have started after him!”

“You saw Zemba?”

“I saw some one, outside the cafe. Ah! How swiftly he must have acted, to double back and pass this message to a chance loiterer. Zemba is incredible. But come, Oudrin! This means work for you. Change your coat and join me by the counter.”

A few minutes later, Oudrin rejoined Suchet. Close by the counter, the proprietor spoke:

“See that tall man by the table near the entrance? The one who may be an Englishman? He is the one that Zemba wants us to follow.”

Oudrin nodded.

“Take good note of him,” added Suchet. “Trail him carefully, Oudrin. Bring back full word. I shall pass it to others. It will reach Zemba.”

Suchet observed that the tall stranger was eyeing others in the cafe. His inspection ended, he arose and stalked from the place. Oudrin followed. Soon afterward, the sergents de ville returned and resumed their table with disgruntled growls. Suchet smiled blandly.

MEANWHILE, Oudrin had been trailing his quarry northward. He saw the tall stroller enter a taxi. Oudrin engaged one to follow. The trail led to the Place Saint-Pierre. There, Oudrin saw him produce three nickel coins of different sizes, all with holes in the center.

Calculating five, ten and twenty-five centimes, Oudrin guessed that the tall stranger intended to take the railway, with its fare of forty centimes. Oudrin chose the steps that paralleled the cable tram, to the heights of Montmartre, more than three hundred feet above.

As a trailer, Oudrin was competent. He located his quarry and watched the stranger eye the lights of Paris from the heights. Then, a change transpired. With long, swift strides, the man started off for the section of gay night clubs that thronged the Montmartre. Oudrin had difficulty keeping up with him.

Reaching a cabaret, the man entered and nodded to the proprietor. Oudrin chose a quiet spot; then called a waiter and wrote out a short note. It went to the proprietor and came back again. Beneath Oudrin’s question was the written name:

“Herbert Balliol.”

Oudrin grinned. The proprietor here happened to be a friend of Monsieur Suchet. So far, the trailer had found out one important point. His next would be to learn where Herbert Balliol resided. That question was answered half an hour later, when the tall man left the cabaret. Oudrin, following, saw him go aboard a taxi; and heard the address which the supposed Englishman gave:

“Hotel Princesse.”

RETURNING southward, Oudrin arrived back at the Cafe Poisson just as a drizzle was commencing. Most of the patrons had left because of the threatened rain. The sergents de ville had gone. Oudrin gave his information to Suchet.

“The man lives at the Hotel Princesse,” stated the trailer, “and his name is Herbert Balliol.”

Suchet smiled. Oudrin looked puzzled.

“Herbert Balliol?” queried Suchet. “Ah! That is simply the name he uses. Zemba’s note told me who he was. Oudrin, you have been following The Shadow!”

Oudrin stood gaping while Suchet laughed and entered the back room. The proprietor of the Cafe Poisson made three telephone calls in succession. He came back to the counter, rubbing his pudgy hands.

“The word has gone to Zemba,” he said. “You have done well, Oudrin.”

ONE hour later, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland arrived at the Hotel Princesse. They, too, had been to the Montmartre; but they had not encountered Herbert Balliol during his brief visit. As they alighted in the increasing rain, they noted a pair of huddled men in the shelter beneath the marquee.

Harry and Cliff took them for idlers who had simply chosen to edge out from the rain. Actually, the loiterers were shrewd watchers from the underworld; henchmen who served Gaspard Zemba.

Chance had it that another cab went by the Hotel Princesse a few minutes later. A sharp-eyed passenger, peering from the interior, spied the two loiterers. The rider spoke to the driver, who stopped. The passenger alighted and entered the hotel. On the way, he gave sidewise glances toward the watchers.

The light of the lobby revealed the arrival’s face. He was the man who had visited the conference in the foreign minister’s office, one day before. Persons in the lobby took him merely for another guest. Not one would have believed that this could be the celebrated detective, Etienne Robeq.

Noting nothing unusual, the visitor strolled from the lobby. In his departure, he again noted the suspicious characters huddled beneath the marquee. Rain had dwindled. Instead of taking a cab, the passing visitor paced ahead for two full blocks.

Just as the rain began again, he hurried into another hotel, the Talleyrand. This was the one that Robeq had chosen. His course, by taxi, had happened to take him directly past the Princesse.

Reaching a fourth-floor room, he put in a telephone call. In a guarded voice, he announced himself as Robeq. The man to whom he was speaking was Sergeant Rusanne. Robeq’s questions concerned reports from the police. He learned that there were none of consequence.

Seating himself, Robeq produced a small notebook. His firm face hardened as he studied various notations. Beneath the list he added the name: “Hotel Princesse;” then pondered and crossed it out. That done, he turned out the light, seated himself by the window and stared out over the drizzle-shrouded lights of the city.

MEANWHILE, three men had gathered in conclave within a dreary, dimly lighted room where the beat of rainfall sounded from the flat French room above. Georges, Bantoire and Jacques had assembled. They were comparing notes that they had heard.

“He was seen in the Montmartre tonight,” declared Jacques. “That is all that I heard concerning The Shadow.”

“I learned more,” added Bantoire. “Where he was seen, I did not know. But they say that he is disguised as an Englishman, who calls himself Herbert Balliol.”

“I heard it said,” remarked Georges, “that The Shadow is residing at the Hotel Princesse.”

“As always,” commented Bantoire, “one of us knows one fact; another knows another. But none of us know all—”

“None of you, perhaps!” came a rasped voice. The three turned about to stare at the face of Gaspard Zemba. “But I know all the facts. Bah! Why do you concern yourself with this man they call The Shadow?”

“We heard reports,” began Georges, taken aback by Zemba’s silent entry. “Word that had passed through places where we visited—”

“But none that pertained to the quest that I have given you?” queried Zemba, interrupting. “No one spoke of my secret hiding place?”

Headshakes from all three Apaches.

“Good,” gibed Zemba. “The more you fail, the better, provided only that you work to the limit.”

“We are doing so,” assured Jacques.

“Ah, yes?” queried Zemba, sourly, producing a cigarette. “Spending your time listening to rumors that concern The Shadow? How do you suppose The Shadow’s trail was found? I shall tell you. I gave it!”

Surprised gazes, while Zemba’s face leered.

“I found The Shadow,” resumed the speaker, viciously. “Tonight, I followed him. By the Cafe Poisson, I had to dodge. I was seen by two sergents de ville. I placed others on the trail. They gave me the news of The Shadow. The news that you three heard.

“Bah! You know the way I work. A telephone call to one place, where my voice is known; a flash of this hand” — he pressed his left against his dampened jacket, to show the missing finger — “I use that token elsewhere. All word comes to Gaspard Zemba.

“I expected more than was gained. Those who observed The Shadow found out no more than I already knew. I shall take care of him.” Zemba’s gaze glared, while his lips mumbled ugly epithets. “Yes, I shall deal with The Shadow very soon.

“But remember! There is still Robeq. I must deal with him as well. And when I tell you that I know where Robeq is, this very minute, would you believe me? It is true. I have them both, The Shadow and Etienne Robeq. But I must take care before I act.”

PUFFING at his cigarette, the gloater stalked to the door of an adjoining room, which formed his private quarters. Then, to the three who remained in the studio of the mythical artist Lesboscombes, Zemba’s harsh voice came with a tone of warning.

“Remember. The friends of Gaspard Zemba are those who serve him. His enemies are those who do not. Perform your mission. Learn what you can. Discover if those whom I have trusted have talked too much. Accomplish that and you are my friends. Fail, and I shall class you as my enemies.”

The door closed behind the glowering speaker as he stepped into the next room. The three Apaches nodded as they sat in silence. Their hearts were filled with something that resembled dread. They had learned to fear the whip-lashing power of Gaspard Zemba.

They were contemptuous in their thoughts of The Shadow; derisive when they considered the fame of Etienne Robeq. Compared with Gaspard Zemba, those two were helpless puppets.

Such was the opinion of Georges, Bantoire and Jacques.