Zemba

CHAPTER XIV THE DOUBLE CAPTURE

HARRY VINCENT was a witness to the quick events that followed. He saw the chances that were lost. Deadlocked with an opponent of his own, Harry could not participate in the quick shifts that occurred.

He saw a long, aiming arm beneath the strained face of Herbert Balliol. He saw that pointing hand go up, struck by an Apache’s fist. Despite himself, Harry groaned, for with the Apache’s stroke, he saw the gloat on Zemba’s face, far beyond. He saw the gun beneath that evil visage, as it spat a single shot.

The Shadow’s chance was gone. Another gun was booming; that of the man who had sprung forward from the ranks of the law. Harry saw the grim, square jaw of Etienne Robeq. He was firing revolver shots at the leering face of Gaspard Zemba.

Instantly, Harry realized that fighter alone had ammunition; that he was aiming toward one whose last bullet was gone! The single shot had not stopped the newest entrant. The tide was turned!

In that moment, Harry would have sworn that all was up with Gaspard Zemba. That, however, was because Harry had failed utterly to size the situation. It was not until long afterward that he finally realized how badly he had guessed.

It was Eric Delka, farther back, who had sensed partially what might happen. He had called a warning to Robeq; but the man beside him had sprung forward despite it. Delka had seen a last surge of Apaches, spring up from walls along the street. They had recognized that agents were present. They piled upon their natural enemies. With that surge, revealing flashlights again went scattering along the cobblestones.

A complete black-out changed everything. In an instant, three faces were lost. The Shadow — Etienne Robeq — Gaspard Zemba — all were lost in total darkness. Then, as Harry felt the grip of the Apache who held him, he heard Cliff’s quick voice close by.

“Harry! Where are you?”

“Here!” Harry twisted and shoved the Apache squarely toward Cliff’s direction. “Take him out, Cliff!”

A gurgle. The Apache’s arms went wide. Cliff, who had just downed his own opponent, was speedy in his response to Harry’s plea. He had grabbed the Apache’s neck. Under Cliff’s choking grip, the rogue had given up the battle.

Harry heard the Apache thud none too gently as Cliff propelled him to the street. Then the two agents were together. Blindly, they dived for the spot where they had last seen the face of Herbert Balliol. Their one purpose was to save The Shadow.

Scuffling sounds. Harry gave a call. A warning hiss sounded in the darkness; a token that The Shadow was all right. Then, sprawling bodies stumbling, Harry and Cliff found themselves above a cluster of outstretched Apaches.

Back toward the Cabaret du Diable, Apaches were still struggling with agents. Delka, fighting in the blackness, had given a shout; he had heard an answer in Robeq’s tone, right beside him. He knew that the detective had dived back to join the fighters who represented the law.

Agents were retreating, firing revolvers. The only security was to be behind them. Delka dragged his companion with him. He wanted to assure Robeq of safety. Once in the light, Apaches would stand no chance.

Harry and Cliff in response to The Shadow’s hissed signal, were making in the opposite direction. They wanted to be away before new agents arrived; and they had just enough time to make it. Hardly had they passed the distant corner before four officers came into view. The agents stopped, just away from a corner light.

THE situation had altered oddly. A swift fight had been held in one long block of a single street. That narrow thoroughfare had practically emptied. Agents were at both ends of it. Those by the Cabaret du Diable were still being harried by a few lurking Apaches. Delka had dragged a lone man out to safety. He was chiding him in well-intended terms.

“This place is no Sahara Desert,” insisted Delka. “Your way of fighting may work in the open; but not in front of a squad of agents. Why handicap your own men?”

“It was Zemba,” came the reply. “I had him covered.”

“I saw it. You fired at him.”

“Four shots. Bah! I was too hurried. Give me a rifle, any day, in preference to this toy pistol!”

“Too short a barrel for the range.”

“Yes. But I was swinging down upon him. Blame the agents for throwing away their flashlights. Well, let them take their time. They are too late. Zemba has escaped.”

Fighting had lulled. Apaches, the few that remained, were lurking, hoping that the agents would become unwise. But the officers were too wary. They held both ends of the street. They were satisfied.

True, the center of that thoroughfare marked the mouth of the Allee des Bijoux. But the alley was a blind one. Any one who backed in there would be trapped. So the agents waited; and the Apaches lingered also.

Oddly, something was happening in the Allee des Bijoux. A figure was moving; slowly, laboriously. It had come from the darkness of the beleaguered street. One fighter, tired, half crippled in the fray, was seeking temporary refuge. Gaining it, he slumped.

New footsteps crept inward. Another combatant had sought this same seclusion. He had heard the man ahead of him. He listened to the sliding sound of the sagging body. He approached. He reached the flattened form. A flashlight glimmered. It showed two faces.

The face on the sidewalk; grimy, bloodstained, was that of Herbert Balliol. The visage above, leering with its grinning lips was the countenance of Gaspard Zemba. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland would have been horrified had they remained to see this outcome.

The Shadow in the toils of Gaspard Zemba!

The flashlight blinked out. The stooping figure gripped the inert form upon the paving and hoisted it upward. Moving into the cul-de-sac, Zemba reached a flight of steps upon the right. Descending with his burden, he rapped at a metal-sheathed door.

At first there was no response; then the door opened slightly inward. A husky voice whispered:

“You can’t come through this way! The agents are here in the Cabaret du Diable! Hide in one of the caveaux—”

“Open the door farther!” snarled the burden carrier. “Look! At my left hand!”

The barrier moved inward. A wizened-faced man stared at sight of hand pressed flat against a grimy coat. Fingers were close together; but the next to the last was a single-knuckled stump.

“Gaspard Zemba!”

WITH this exclamation, the man within stepped back and allowed the arrival to enter. Chuckling, the grimy-coated visitor came into a basement room and deposited the inert figure of Herbert Balliol in a corner away from the light. He signaled for the guardian to close the door.

“Lock it,” he ordered, “and keep this fellow here. Give me the key. Then I can return later, after the agents have gone.”

“But if they wish to search—”

“Remove the man before they do. You will have the key to the upstairs door. You should have another to this lower door.”

“We do have another—”

“Then why be disturbed about this one?”

The inner guard grinned sheepishly. He watched the leer upon Zemba’s face as the grimy-coated man bent over the form of Herbert Balliol. He saw Zemba’s left hand in his pocket; he saw the right hand go to its pocket with the key.

“He will live.” Zemba’s face showed evil pleasure. His right hand came from his pocket. “That is good. I wish to question him; and I have ways to make men speak. Even such men as this one.”

The speaker was rising. Something slipped from his pocket, because of an inward stuffed flap. It made no clatter as it fell, for it struck the edge of the rumpled coat that was worn by the stunned man upon the floor. The guardian did not notice the glimmer of the object. It was the key that he had given Zemba.

Nor was the ugly-faced captor in a position to see the key. He was turning, ready to be led above. The guardian showed him the route; up an inner stairway, past a high counter where they stooped to avoid being seen by agents. Then to a loft above the noisy dance floor of the Cabaret du Diable.

The guardian breathed a sigh of relief after he saw the figure of Gaspard Zemba shift from a window and move across the neighboring roof. He was a member of the underworld. He had obeyed the bidding of Gaspard Zemba.

He hoped that he would gain future reward for his loyalty to the evil chief. But he did not forget that he had a prisoner below. The guardian locked the upper door when he went down to the cabaret floor.

MEANWHILE, a last sortie had taken place outside the Cabaret du Diable. The last Apaches in the side street had driven out upon the agents. The attack had been short-lived. Two Apaches were shot down; the others surrendered. The law entered to search the street and the Allee des Bijoux. Eric Delka was one of the first to advance. He stopped suddenly, as his flashlights picked out blackened garments. He turned and saw Etienne Robeq beside him.

“Look, Robeq!” whispered Delka. “The Shadow was in the battle. Here are his hat and cloak!”

“Good!” came the reply. “Bundle them up. Deliver them to Sergeant Rusanne. I shall call him about the matter. Tell Rusanne to show them to the prefect.”

Searchers, moving about, found wounded Apaches and carried them away. The agents also searched the caveaux, to no avail. They found the door into the Cabaret du Diable. They guessed where it led and decided to make a query inside. They went around to the front for that purpose.

Agents within the cabaret gave testimony to the fact that all had been quiet there. The proprietor was as great a rogue as the guardian who had charge of the room below. He swore that no one could have entered from the Allee des Bijoux and the agents believed him. The fact that the last Apaches had made a break for it seemed sufficient proof that there was no outlet.

THE light was out in the room below but a figure was moving in the darkness. A match glimmered. Its glow revealed the face of Herbert Balliol. The prisoner, recovered from his slump, was studying his surroundings. He managed to rise from the floor. Something clattered on the stone. Lowering the match, he found the key.

Eyebrows arched; lips formed a smile. Another match flame showed the door. Carefully, the prisoner unlocked it and crept out into the Allee des Bijoux. Lips still held their smile at the thought of such great luck. This simple escape was easier than any that The Shadow had ever experienced.

Herbert Balliol’s figure seemed obscure as it moved outward through the deserted Allee des Bijoux. Then it paused. Keen ears had heard motion ahead. Some one else was moving through the darkness. A meeting was imminent. The listener acted. His long arms shot forward.

A scuffle in the darkness. Quick blows; hard, twisting grips. The fighters rolled to the cobblestones. One lay still. The victor arose, found a flashlight that the vanquished had dropped. He clicked the light. The rays showed an upturned face; that of Etienne Robeq.

Sweeping the flashlight up and down, the pretended Herbert Balliol studied his prisoner’s attire. He saw the sleek raincoat; the kid gloves that adorned the hands.

With a slight chuckle, he pocketed the flashlight and kept on his way. He waited at the entrance of the cul-de-sac until he heard his half-stunned opponent stir. Then he departed, through deserted spaces.

It was Eric Delka who later encountered a man groping his way from the Allee des Bijoux. He used a flashlight and discerned the pale face of Etienne Robeq. He heard the detective give a sour laugh.

“I met The Shadow.” Robeq’s tone denoted chagrin. “He sprawled me in the alley and kept on his way. I did not realize who he was until after I recovered.”

“He must have recognized you,” smiled Delka. “It’s lucky it wasn’t Zemba. He would not have shown you such consideration.”

“I should like to meet him. Come, Delka. Let us make another search.”

AT the Hotel Princesse, Harry and Cliff were anxiously waiting in their suite when the door opened and they witnessed the return of Herbert Balliol. He still showed signs of strife; but his smile persisted as he stated briefly the facts that had occurred.

“Tonight was unfortunate,” he concluded. “Nevertheless, it is some satisfaction to have escaped from Zemba’s toils. As for Robeq, he is not hurt. Our mutual quest will proceed.

“I shall release the little Apache who is prisoner in my room. Let me have his knife. I shall give it back to him. He has not enough nerve to use it. He was simply a fake prowler whom Zemba sent to lead me into a trap.”

Harry and Cliff were speculative as they discussed matters afterward. The evening had started with unusual prospects. Action, however, had produced a medley of results, with no conclusion.

“The breaks were against us,” observed Harry. “But we can count on The Shadow to bring new opportunities.”

“The chief will find a way,” agreed Cliff. “He took a long shot and it failed. The next time will be different.”

“Zemba didn’t manage to keep him.”

“That’s one grand break. Too bad, though, that it wasn’t Zemba that the chief met in the alley. Instead of Robeq.”

Harry nodded; but his gaze was puzzled. Somehow, matters had twisted tonight, in a manner that Harry could not quite understand. Deep perplexity was gripping him, despite the fact that Cliff did not share the impression.

Harry felt sure of one point alone. He knew that The Shadow would certainly find the way to another and more important encounter. He believed that Robeq would once more be concerned. Such a three-way meeting, under better circumstances, might well decide the final issue.

Harry was right in his general assumption; but he was wrong in his visualization of the details. A new meeting of three factors would take place. The Shadow — Gaspard Zemba — Etienne Robeq. Their paths would surely cross.

But when that final issue was produced, strange elements would enter. Deep beneath the surface lay startling facts. Details which were fully understood by only one person among all who were concerned.

Only The Shadow knew.