Zemba

CHAPTER XV ZEMBA SENDS A WARNING

CRIME’S aftermath was stirring Paris the next afternoon. Following a drizzly dawn, the day had cleared. Parisians, strolling everywhere, had found one topic of discussion: the latest exploits of the notorious Gaspard Zemba.

Chatters beside the bookstalls along the quays held talk concerning Zemba. Any one following the parapet of the Seine’s left bank could hear the name buzzed time and again. Talk of Zemba, however, was not confined to that two-mile stretch of river front.

The supercrook and his deeds were the subject of discussion in every boulevard cafe. Customers who sat at tables gesticulated and flourished copies of Le Matin and Le Temps. The Paris newspapers had capitalized upon the law’s invasion of the Allee des Bijoux. The Cabaret du Diable, the nearest night resort to the battlefield, had already been thronged by curious visitors.

In contrast to the outside excitement, gloom reigned within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Louis Brezanne had called a new conference. The prefect of police had been invited; also Sergeant Rusanne. Both had arrived, to find the delegates from other countries: Alonzo, Chiozzi, Cleghorn and the others, including Lord Bixley.

“Last night was a blunder!” Brezanne was emphatic when he made this statement. “Bah! Are your agents helpless, Clandine? They held Gaspard Zemba in their grasp. Then — pouf! — he was gone. What excuse have you to offer?”

Clandine glared angrily at his questioner. The prefect resented the minister’s criticism.

“Place the blame upon Robeq!” he exclaimed. “It was his plan to make the attack. Sergeant Rusanne did no more than to supply information to Robeq. After that, of course, Rusanne followed instructions—”

“We shall hear Robeq’s version,” interrupted Brezanne, testily. “Lord Bixley has requested Inspector Delka to invite him to this conference.”

Both Clandine and Rusanne showed surprise. Before they could make comment, a secretary announced the expected visitors. Robeq and Delka entered, to meet the gazes of the men in conference.

THE two arrivals contrasted in appearance, exactly as they had the night before. Robeq was still playing the role of a fop. He was wearing a pale-gray fedora, a topcoat of the same color. He was wearing a small, white chrysanthemum in his lapel. He was carrying his gray-kid gloves and he held a walking stick tucked beneath his arm. Delka, in a dark coat and an old felt hat, looked somber beside his fashionable companion.

A chuckle from Robeq as he noted the antagonistic glances from the group.

“Ah, messieurs!” The detective shook his head reprovingly. “You do not like my garb? You think it unsuited to a detective? N’est-ce-pas? Is it not so?

“Let me tell you, then, where I have been to-day. I have gone to the Cabaret du Diable and to the Allee des Bijoux, to study the ground by daylight. I, Robeq, gawked with the rest—”

“And what did you learn?” interrupted the prefect.

“I learned nothing,” admitted Robeq, his square-face sobering. “Nothing that will help us locate Zemba. I am sure, however, that the rogue has left the Montmartre.”

“A fact which we already know,” said Monsieur Brezanne. “If you had not been wasting your time, Monsieur Robeq, we might have informed you sooner.”

“Regarding Zemba?”

“Yes.” The minister reached to his desk. “We hold a letter that was posted early this morning, from the Faubourg Saint-Denis. It is a new ultimatum from Gaspard Zemba.

“Substantially, he accuses us of having violated his rule.” Brezanne was referring to the letter. “He states that we must, therefore, agree to pay the full sums demanded; otherwise he will leave Paris, carrying away all the stolen documents.

“As guarantee of acceptance of his terms, we must insert a special advertisement in the morning journals. That will notify Zemba that we have obtained the millions that he wants; and are ready for a prompt exchange.”

Robeq’s face had lost its pleasant smile. The detective was repressing a display of anger at Zemba’s boldness.

“You are mentioned in the letter, Robeq,” added Brezanne. “Rather contemptuously, in fact. Zemba remarks that since you have the faculty for visiting districts incognito, you would make an excellent emissary to conduct the exchange.”

Robeq’s temper unloosed.

“The upstart!” he stormed. “Why should we tolerate such suggestions! We have until to-morrow morning. Leave me to my own measures. I shall have Zemba before then!”

Doubtful looks and headshakes. Robeq flung his gloves upon the minister’s desk. Stiffening, he looked about the group.

“You have lost confidence?” he blared. “You doubt the ability of Robeq? Tien! If that is so, I am no longer wanted. Adieu, messieurs!”

With that, the detective swept his gloves from the desk. Briskly, he donned them, turning toward the door. Brezanne made a comment.

“ONE moment, Monsieur Robeq,” insisted the minister. “You came here with a mission. It is your duty to complete it.”

“I am a detective,” snorted Robeq, wheeling. “Not a toady! I came to receive orders, yes. But they were to be from Monsieur Clandine” — he nodded toward the prefect — “and not from Gaspard Zemba.”

“You came to trap Zemba,” said Clandine. “You have failed at that game, Robeq.”

“I have not failed. There is still time—”

“But the risk is too great.” This was from Brezanne. “Because of your attempts, Zemba has shortened the allotted period. Here, Robeq. Before you depart, read the letter for yourself.”

The detective took the letter. His forehead furrowed; his lips fumed.

“These are not terms!” he stormed. “They are indignities! You are to publish in your announcement, the name of some place where I am to be. There, Zemba is to meet me. I am to have the money; he, the plans. Police are to be absent. Bah!”

“There is no risk,” remarked Brezanne. “Your meeting can be arranged in broad daylight. Zemba will have followers close about; but we shall also have agents within a reasonable distance. It will be a zone, so to speak, which you can leave if it looks too dangerous; and Zemba, likewise. Neither of you will be jeopardized—”

“Enough!” interrupted Robeq. “You speak as though I feared danger! Peste! I have no dread of Zemba!”

“Then why not act as emissary?”

“Because Zemba demands it. That is reason enough.”

“But the transfer must be made.”

“Let some one else be a party to it.”

“Zemba demands you be the one.”

Robeq stood motionless, his gloved right hand against his chin. Suddenly his scowl ended. He gave a sharp cry of enthusiasm.

“Zemba does not know me!” he exclaimed. “No one knows Robeq! Send some other emissary let him proclaim himself to be Robeq!”

“No one else would answer,” put in Monsieur Clandine. “Moreover, Robeq, you might be recognized. Zemba was present at last night’s fray. You, yourself, exchanged bullets with him.”

“You are right,” admitted Robeq, seating himself. He turned to Delka. “Zemba saw us during that fight. He must have known that I was Robeq, in spite of my fancy attire. Is it not so?”

Delka began to nod, then pondered.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “You were foolhardy, Robeq. Too much so, in fact.”

“That is true. You kept your head better than I. When you dragged me to safety, you appeared to be the leader.”

“I acted more wisely, under the immediate circumstances.”

“And, therefore, Zemba may have decided that I was not Robeq!”

With his exclamation, Robeq turned to Clandine, expecting approval. The prefect shook his head.

“I still insist,” he declared, “that Zemba knows that Robeq was present. Sergeant Rusanne holds to the same opinion.”

“I do,” agreed Rusanne, slowly. “Yet there is merit in both arguments, Monsieur le prefet. Zemba saw two men. He knows that one was Robeq. He does not know the other.”

RUSANNE made the statement in a tactful fashion. It was plain that he did not want to incur the disfavor of either the prefect or Robeq. Both were smiling, half pleased. It was Delka who first displayed an unexpected inspiration from Rusanne’s diplomatic words.

“Here is an answer!” exclaimed Delka. “Zemba could have decided that I was Robeq! That makes me eligible for the mission. I am willing to take it.” He turned to Lord Bixley: “If you are willing that I should do so.”

It was Robeq who put in a sudden objection.

“Ah, non!” he exclaimed. “It is not right, Monsieur Delka, that you should undertake the risk. True, I should like to continue the quest for Zemba; and it will be spoiled if once I submit to his dictates. I should like very much to trick him—”

“Which you can,” interposed Delka, “if I meet him in your stead. That was your own suggestion, Robeq.”

“Yes. But I meant it for some one other than yourself. One to whom I owed no debt. You saved my life, last night, Monsieur Delka. I should not let you fare alone in my behalf.”

“Then come with me.”

Robeq glanced at Zemba’s letter. He shook his head.

“Impossible,” he declared. “Zemba specifies, that I must come alone. And yet” — he paused; his lips showed a smile — “and yet there is a way. I have it!”

Commanding the attention of every one, Robeq proposed a plan.

“We shall choose a place,” he asserted, “where one would expect to see a few loiterers. Zemba will suspect that detectives may be among them; he will, therefore, study them with care. They will pass his inspection, for none will be police officers.

“But I, Robeq, shall be there. So well disguised that Zemba will not suspect me. Nor will Zemba be looking for Robeq; for he will be awaiting my arrival. Monsieur Delka will come, as Robeq. Zemba will believe that Delka is his man. All the while, I, the real Robeq, will be present. When Delka is safe, away with the plans, I shall follow Zemba!”

LISTENERS buzzed with admiration. As the enthusiasm died, Brezanne questioned:

“What place will you choose for the meeting?”

“We shall decide that this evening,” returned Robeq. “Monsieur Delka and myself, at my hotel.”

“You must know before midnight.”

“Of course.” Robeq turned to Rusanne: “You will be at the prefecture?”

The sergeant nodded.

“I shall notify you there,” declared the detective. “You will have time to insert the announcement in the morning journals. But I plead with you, messieurs” — this to the group — “let us wait until the final moment. Luck may still be with us before midnight. We may yet trap Zemba without the delivery of the money. He will be much more cautious once he has gained his millions.”

While Robeq was speaking, Clandine remembered something. He produced a small satchel and placed it upon Brezanne’s desk. From the bag, the prefect drew out black, knife-slashed garments. Observers arose and clustered close with interest.

“These belonged to The Shadow,” announced the prefect, solemnly. “His hat — his cloak — even these thin, black gloves. Note how loosely the gloves are made, except for the fingers, which stretch to exceeding thinness.”

“So that the hands can manage a pistol,” added Sergeant Rusanne, “yet slip the gloves off and on with ease.”

“How did you gain these trophies?” queried Brezanne. The minister was examining the cloak. “Did The Shadow discard them in the fray?”

“Yes,” returned Robeq, promptly. “Delka and I found them afterward.”

“You saw The Shadow?”

“Not until after the Apaches had practically slashed his cloak away from his shoulders. We saw him as a tall, struggling fighter, in the midst of a fierce scuffle.”

“How did you know he was The Shadow?”

“He could have been no other. The Apaches, moreover, were raging — blurting the name: ‘L’Ombre! L’Ombre!’”

“In Paris,” remarked Alonzo, the Spanish delegate, “he is a shadow. In Madrid, he would be a man.”

The others smiled. Alonzo’s remark was a play upon words in two languages: ombre, the French for “shadow;” and hombre, the Spanish for “man.”

“Last night,” declared Robeq, “he was a shadow, when the fray began. He became a man, at the finish, when he had lost his cloak and hat. Your statement actually covers the situation, senor.”

“Tonight,” added Delka, solemnly, “he may again become a shadow.”

“Without these garments?” queried the prefect.

“He may have others,” reminded Delka. “In fact, he probably has.”

Robeq smiled sourly at the remark.

“The Shadow is a fighter,” he admitted, “yet we may regard him as partly responsible for last night’s fiasco. I hope that he does not interfere again—”

Delka made no response. He was hoping the opposite. He knew from experience that the skill of Robeq could not match that of The Shadow.

The prefect was putting away the slashed cloak, ending the discussion of The Shadow. All turned to Etienne Robeq, as though indicating that he was their one hope. The detective smiled and bowed.

“Come to my hotel this evening, Monsieur Delka,” he said. “We shall plan for tonight and for the morrow. Au revoir, messieurs.”

The conference ended with Robeq’s departure. Eric Delka accompanied Lord Bixley to the latter’s hotel, the famous Palais d’Orsay, that overlooked the Champs Elysees. Lord Bixley had chosen it because the Palais d’Orsay was a rendezvous of English society in Paris.

DURING their journey, Delka maintained silence. New thoughts had gripped the man from Scotland Yard. Delka believed that Etienne Robeq could accomplish nothing tonight; that the French detective’s only hope would be a coup upon the morrow, when Delka would serve as proxy in the meeting with Gaspard Zemba.

Nevertheless, Delka still believed that much could happen upon this last night enough to completely change the situation before the morrow arrived. Delka was counting upon The Shadow.

That master of strategy was still at large in Paris. He — ahead of Robeq and Delka — had managed to reach the Allee des Bijoux and commence hostilities with Gaspard Zemba’s hordes. Delka did not agree with Robeq, when the latter had stated that The Shadow had interfered.

If any one had interfered, Robeq was the one. Such was Delka’s hunch; and it was correct, although the Scotland Yard man would have been amazed had he known the exact extent to which Robeq’s entry had disturbed The Shadow’s plans to deal with Zemba.

The hours that remained before midnight were to prove much more startling than Eric Delka could suppose. Long had The Shadow planned. Tonight, he would approach success!