Zemba

CHAPTER XII HARRY MAKES A CAPTURE

IT was late the next afternoon. Drizzly weather had brought an early dusk to Paris. Harry and Cliff were seated in their hotel room, gloomily discussing past events.

“Something is wrong,” asserted Harry. “If ever there was a needle in a haystack, it is this fellow Zemba.”

“A needle without a thread,” added Cliff, “and Paris is a mighty big haystack.”

“Every one knows about him. Every one knows he is here. Did you hear those Frenchmen laugh, up at the Moulin Rouge, when the girl sang the song about Zemba.”

“An old song,” recalled Cliff. “It was written about some other criminal, years ago: ‘Is he fair or bronzed? Small or square? Fat or thin? Ah! Who will picture Zemba?’ That was the translation, wasn’t it?”

“Part of it. Then there was a gag about the police receiving a mysterious package. All they found in it was Zemba’s missing finger.”

“I never could get the French idea of humor.”

“Nor I. But this Zemba business is too serious to be funny.”

Harry was standing by the window. He turned about and put the situation squarely to Cliff.

“The Shadow doesn’t have a lead!” he exclaimed. “You know how we usually work, Cliff. Some special duty for each of us. Here, in Paris, the chief could be using twenty men instead of two, if he ever had matters on the go. But that’s the trouble. You and I are useless; and there is just one answer. Not a thing has broken.”

“When it does,” remarked Cliff, “it will be plenty hot.”

“But so far, it is cold. Time is getting short, too.”

“You’re right about that, Harry. Somehow — well, maybe I’m not expressing it just right — somehow, I’ve lost confidence.”

“In The Shadow?”

“No. Just in circumstances. It’s different with you, Harry. You’ve been in on plenty of cases where the going was slow for a while. But with me, it’s always been a bang-up proposition.

“Well,” decided Harry, “we won’t get anywhere in this mood. It’s time for dinner; but we’d better take turns in the dining room, in case the chief calls us. We haven’t heard from him since noon.”

Drawing a silver ten-franc piece from his pocket, Harry flipped it. Cliff called “Heads” and the coin came with that side upward. Harry grinned and nudged toward the door. It was Cliff’s first turn to eat.

WHEN Cliff strolled from the suite, he was thinking of The Shadow. On that account, he gave a slight glance toward a doorway near the elevators. That door — number 504 — was the entrance to the suite that Herbert Balliol occupied.

Catching a glimpse of the barrier from the corner of his eye, Cliff spotted a motion. The door was closing slowly. As it shut, Cliff gained a sudden impression of a face that had peered from within.

Cliff was about to hesitate; he overcame the impulse and continued his walk along the hall. By the time he had reached the elevator, he had done some quick thinking. Cliff knew that an intruder was in 504 and that the proper step was to trap the man. It could not have been The Shadow peering from the doorway. The pretended Herbert Balliol was unquestionably absent from the hotel.

Strategy was also wise. Hence Cliff curbed himself and rang for the elevator. The lift arrived and carried him down to the lobby. There Cliff made promptly for a telephone and rang up Harry. Tersely, Cliff told what he had seen. Harry responded with a query:

“Did the fellow lock the door after he closed it?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Cliff. “I was too far away to notice any click.”

“Come up again,” suggested Harry. “Try the door from the outside. If it’s unlocked, go into the room.”

“And if it’s locked?”

“I’ll let you in later. You can count on me to be inside.”

“But how—”

“Leave that to me, Cliff.”

Upstairs, Harry dropped the receiver as he made that final statement. He knew that Cliff would follow his instructions; and there was no time to go into details. For Harry, thinking quickly, had gained an idea.

OUTSIDE the window of this suite was a balcony. Similar projections existed all along the level of the fifth floor. Cliff, like Harry, had noticed them; but Harry had observed a point that had escaped Cliff. The balconies, though wide apart, were all supported by a broad cornice that ran the full length. That offered Harry a prompt route to Room 504.

Extinguishing the light, Harry climbed out to the balcony. Cold, driving drizzle swept against his face. The hotel wall was dark; but the cornice, being of marble, showed grimy whiteness in the gloom. It was a wide pathway; but a dangerous one, for the stone was slippery. Nevertheless, Harry felt that he could manage it.

Detaching his stout belt, he girded it about a thin iron post midway in the side rail of the balcony; then thrust the free end of the belt through the buckle.

Climbing over the rail, he gripped the loose end of the belt with one hand and clutched the brick wall of the building with the other. Carefully, he edged along to the next balcony.

All the way, Harry was prepared for a slip. He was backing away from his own balcony, ready for a quick scramble to safety should he loose a foothold. The belt, he believed, would serve him in the pinch; but the test never came. As he reached the end of his life line, Harry slid his other hand along the wall and encountered the rail of the next balcony.

Harry would have regained the belt for further use, if possible; but he saw no way to obtain it except by a return journey. However, he had gained complete confidence through this first foray. He let the belt slide down and rest upon the cornice. Scrambling over the rail of the new balcony, he reached the other side and began a beltless trip for the balcony beyond it.

Reaching his goal, he made another similar trip and this time arrived upon the balcony that was outside of Room 504. Crouching in the darkness, Harry tried the window. It was open a few inches at the bottom. Beyond it were curtains. Counting upon them for cover, Harry moved the sash upward.

Though there had been no orders from The Shadow concerning the protection of Room 504, Harry felt that he was acting in accord with his chief’s interests. Those in The Shadow’s service were expected to use their own initiative when occasion demanded.

This was an unusual case; one that puzzled Harry. He could not remember any time when an unknown intruder had so boldly penetrated to The Shadow’s own abode. That fact, however, made Harry’s action seem all the more necessary.

Huddled in the darkness of the window sill, Harry could hear a creeping sound within the room. At the same time, he caught a very slight noise from the door. Cliff had arrived and was trying the knob. Apparently, the door was latched. The prowler had heard it and was taking some action.

Creeps came closer. Hunched shoulders arrived before Harry’s eyes. The Shadow’s agent suppressed an elated breath. The prowler was backing toward the window, watching the door.

Alarmed by the noise made by Cliff, he had gained no inkling of Harry’s arrival. Curtains swished; the hunched man was taking a hiding place within Harry’s very grasp!

The whole set-up flashed through Harry’s brain. The prowler had latched the door. He thought that the person trying it was the owner of the room. That was why he wanted to hide by the window. In a few seconds, he would be wondering why the door did not open, since the owner would naturally have the key. Harry decided to allow no time for speculation.

TIGHTENING, Harry lunged forward, squarely upon the man in front of him. A sharp snarl, a twist of a hunched body as Harry struck his adversary. Then, as they sprawled to the floor, the curtains came sweeping with them. The wooden curtain rod thudded on Harry’s shoulders and bounded to the floor. Harry scarcely noticed the blow, so intent was he to overcome the man whom he had gripped.

Seldom had Harry ever dealt with so wiry an antagonist. The snarling man twisted, yanked his arms free and tugged at Harry’s fists when they clutched his throat. For a moment, the hunched fighter wrestled loose. Then luck came to Harry’s aid. His opponent’s hand tangled in the curtains. Grabbing the fellow, Harry rolled him over, half smothering him in the folds of the drapery.

That stroke ended the fight abruptly. Snarls became gasps. Through the curtains, Harry caught two arms and twisted them behind a bulgy back. Then, with a powerful lift, he hoisted his foe clear of the floor, curtains and all; and half carried, half hauled him to the door.

Letting the gasping man slump to the floor with the curtains, Harry clamped one knee against his back and reached up to the doorknob. He turned it and whispered a warning to Cliff as his teammate entered.

As soon as the door was closed again, Cliff switched on the light. He grinned as he saw Harry crouching upon a subdued mass that looked like a mammoth cocoon. Joining Harry, Cliff also grabbed the prisoner. Together, they unwound the curtains; then stared at the gasping captive who sprawled into view.

Harry had bagged a venomous-looking antagonist. In garb, in countenance, the man looked like a mammoth rat that had crawled from one of the famous sewers of Paris. Even his clothes, greasy trousers and a threadbare jersey, looked slimy, for they were dampened by the outside drizzle.

The prisoner was scarcely over five feet in height; his hunched, almost deformed posture made him appear even shorter. But his long, ugly teeth; the leer of his gasping lips; the clawish appearance of his hands — these, plus his wiriness, showed him to be a dangerous character. Hitched to the man’s belt was a sheath that contained a long knife. Harry had kept the rogue from drawing that blade; and that capable effort on Harry’s part had been a vital factor in the victory.

They dragged the ratlike man to the center of the room. Cliff plucked the knife from the sheath, while Harry kicked the crumpled curtains away from the door. Their prisoner was sitting up, glaring in an ugly fashion. He was wise enough, however, to know that he could not escape.

“Looks like an Apache,” commented Cliff. “You snagged him, Harry; let me do the quizzing. I know enough of the lingo to get by.”

Dropping English for French, Cliff put a series of questions, sprinkling his words with some phrases of Parisian slang. The snarly prisoner made no reply. Dropping his hands to the floor, he pushed himself upward in apelike fashion and backed away, crouching as he glared from one captor to the other.

“He looks like a dim-wit,” observed Cliff, to Harry, “unless he’s bluffing. If he wasn’t so tough, I might be ready to think he was dumb; but as it is—”

A snarl interrupted. It came from the lips of the sweatered rat. With face livid, the prisoner glared toward the door. His hand shot to the sheath from which Cliff had so wisely whisked the knife. With one accord, Cliff pounced upon the hunched Apache and thrust his arms behind his back. They, too, turned toward the door.

The portal had opened and closed again, silently. Upon the threshold stood the tall, tuxedoed figure of Herbert Balliol. Serenely, through his bluish glasses, the entrant was surveying the scene. His lips formed a half smile as he placed a cigarette between them. The Apache voiced a snarl:

“The Shadow!”

CLIFF and Harry were startled by the words; but the smile upon the features of the supposed Herbert Balliol remained fixed. To Harry came the realization that the smile denoted pleasure because of this expression of recognition. The Apache’s words were a giveaway; they told that persons in the underworld had identified Herbert Balliol with The Shadow.

“L’Ombre, oui.” The words from Balliol’s lips were calm. Then, in a flow of French, he questioned: “Who sent you here to pry into my affairs? Gaspard Zemba?”

The ratlike Apache made no reply. The voice of Balliol hardened. Quickly, fiercely, the tall arrival delivered a voluble flow of French that carried more than its quota of Apache jargon. Threatening, accusing, the phrases were too speedy for even Cliff to thoroughly grasp them. But they worked upon the Apache.

The hunched rat spat back weakening replies. Loosening in the clutch of Harry and Cliff, he crouched back toward the wall. Hoarsely, he gave answers. Each one produced new, harsher questions. At last the tall inquisitor ceased the quiz and spoke to Harry and Cliff.

“Bind him.”

There were heavy straps about a suitcase in the corner. Cliff and Harry procured them. While they were trussing up the Apache, they listened to the easy tones of Balliol, this time in English, speaking words which they took as both information and instructions from The Shadow.

“This rogue is from Zemba,” came the steady tone. “At Zemba’s order, he scaled the wall, from one balcony to another. His purpose was to enter and search this room. You did well to capture him, Vincent.”

Harry smiled. He concluded that The Shadow had entered the room while he and Cliff were still discussing the prisoner.

“He states that he is to return to the Allee des Bijoux,” resumed the speaker. “That street is located in the Montmartre. There is nothing concerning jewels about the street, but there is an Apache’s caveau there. It happens that Gaspard Zemba will be in that caveau at the extreme end of the cul-de-sac.

“Obviously, the place is a trap. Zemba will, therefore, be prepared for my arrival. However” — lips were smiling — “he will expect me to come alone. He will be disappointed. You two will precede me. Not to enter, but to guard the mouth of the blind alley.

“When I arrive, I shall signal you, but when only you are needed. You will follow and protect me from any enemies who approach. Those ahead of me — including Zemba, if he is among them — will be my own particular problem.”

Harry and Cliff were nodding as they finished the binding of the hunched Apache. At a further command, they rolled the prisoner into a large closet and gagged him before they closed the door. Turning, they saw the tall figure of Balliol motioning them to the hall. They understood.

FIVE minutes later, Cliff and Harry left the Hotel Princesse. They entered an ancient taxi and ordered the driver to take them to the Cabaret du Diable, in the Montmartre, which was located close to the Allee des Bijoux. Hardly had they started their ride before another cab pulled away from a curb and took up their trail.

A few minutes later, Herbert Balliol appeared beneath the marquee of the Hotel Princesse. He entered a cab and also told the driver to take him to the Cabaret du Diable. A pair of loiterers heard the order and slouched away through the drizzle. They were the men posted there by Zemba.

In the leading cab, Harry and Cliff were unrestrained in their enthusiasm. The time for action was close at hand. Zemba’s lair had been located.

“He knows that only one person would dare to enter there,” commented Harry. “It is doubtful, though, that he actually expects that one person to take the challenge.”

“But The Shadow is coming,” returned Cliff. “He’ll give us time to get located. But he won’t be far behind us, Harry.”

Cliff was correct in that statement. Harry, too, was convinced that Herbert Balliol had also taken a taxi from the Hotel Princesse. But neither had guessed that a second cab was riding between the first and the last; trailing them, yet well ahead of the final taxi.

Knowledge of that cab would have troubled them, particularly if they had seen its passenger. At that very moment, the second cab was only fifty yards behind. Almost beside the face of its driver was another countenance that peered forward through the drizzle, showing an ugly leer.

They might have guessed that face had they seen it. The countenance that showed behind the windshield of the second cab was the face of Gaspard Zemba. Harry’s prisoner had spoken; spies had sneaked away to report; but already this hidden watcher had entered the game on his own!