Zemba

CHAPTER XVI THE SHADOW WITHOUT

NIGHT had arrived. The cloudless evening was bringing spontaneous gayety to Paris, after the drizzly spell. The effect of the improved weather was apparent even in the dilapidated studio of the mythical artist Lesboscombes. There was no patter of rain tonight, upon the roof of this room that lay above the wineshop run by old Monsieur Grotain.

A man was seated in the studio. It was Jacques. The Apache’s pockmarked face was moody. His squatty body was hunched upon a rickety chair, his long arms hanging almost to the floor. Jacques scowled suddenly as the door of the studio opened. He started to come to his feet; then sat back when he saw Georges enter.

The second Apache was wearing a grin that curved like the scar upon his forehead. He nodded a greeting to Jacques; then took a chair of his own. A moment later, both Apaches heard the approach of footsteps. This time it was Bantoire. Leering with evil pleasure, the third Apache showed his ugly teeth.

It was plain that Georges and Bantoire had gained success to-day — something that Jacques had not accomplished. But not one of the three was willing to confide in the others. The trio of cutthroats were awaiting the arrival of Gaspard Zemba. They looked like sans-culottes from the days of the Revolution; murderers plotting bloody deeds.

TIME drifted. Bantoire’s keen ears detected a sound. He looked toward the door; Georges and Jacques followed suit. Another had entered. They were staring at the ugly, distorted face of Gaspard Zemba. Their fierce-mannered chief was angry in mood.

“Why are you here?” came his harsh demand. “Do you fear the agents and the sergents de ville? Why are you not continuing the search that I ordered?”

“It was useless,” grumbled Jacques. “To-day, I began a trail that led nowhere.”

Zemba’s fists were clenching. Bantoire spoke.

“My trail was better,” said the second Apache. “It gave me a goal.”

“Mine also,” added Georges. “One better, perhaps, than Bantoire’s.”

Sharp eyes gleamed from Zemba’s fiendish countenance. His gaze was toward Jacques. The first Apache spoke.

“I went to the Cabaret du Diable,” informed Jacques. “I talked with Corchu, who keeps the cellar there. I knew that he was one of us. He was worried, Corchu was. He asked if I had come from Zemba.”

“And what did you answer?”

“That I had. I wanted to hear Corchu talk; and talk he did. He whined that the prisoner had escaped—”

An oath from Zemba. Jacques nodded.

“Escaped as by a miracle,” continued the Apache. “Out through a closed door, into the Allee des Bijoux. He was gone when Corchu went to carry him to a chamber that lay deeper in the cellar.”

A scowl from Zemba. Jacques added:

“Corchu was troubled. He fears the wrath of Zemba. I said that I would look for him — that man who had escaped — to bring him back. But I could find no trail.”

“That is not surprising,” growled Zemba. “The prisoner was The Shadow. I left him with the guardian whom you call Corchu.”

“L’Ombre!”

The ejaculation came simultaneously from the Apaches. Zemba’s face showed an annoyed scowl.

“His escape was no marvel,” declared the supercrook. “I discovered later that I had lost the key that Corchu gave me. It must have dropped in the cellar. But The Shadow! Bah! I want no news of him. Tell me — what about the quest to which I set you? Has news leaked out concerning my greatest hiding place?”

A headshake from Jacques. A pleased leer from Zemba, as his left hand, displaying its absent finger, came from his pocket with a pack of cigarettes.

“I have news,” stated Bantoire, suddenly. “I began inquiries about our comrades who were slain in last night’s brawl. I asked others where different ones had last been seen. I learned something regarding an Apache named Quintre.”

Georges looked sharply at Bantoire; but the latter did notice it. Zemba’s keen eyes caught the darted gaze. Bantoire was resuming; Zemba did not interrupt.

“Quintre, alone of all the fighters,” said Bantoire, “had been seen in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Why should he have been seen on the Rive Gauche when he belonged in Montmartre, on the Rive Droit?”

There was merit in Bantoire’s question. The Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the Left Bank of the Seine, was a contrast to the Montmartre, far beyond the Right Bank.

“I went to Saint-Germain,” continued Bantoire. “I searched about the places where Quintre had been seen. Bah! There were none that would have suited him. Only mansions of the rich — some homes that once were palaces — for that is where all aristocrats lived formerly.”

A SHRUG of his shoulders indicated that Bantoire had finished his report. A cunning gleam showed upon the face of Georges. His story had been reserved until the last. The fact pleased him.

“I too, inquired about Quintre,” informed Georges. “But not because I searched into the affairs of many who were dead. I had no need to do so. My reason for wondering about Quintre was different.

“Quintre had a comrade, Marlier. Like twins they were, everywhere together. I sought for Marlier, to learn his story of the battle. I found Marlier near the Place Saint-Michel. He was drinking absinthe, mourning for Quintre.

“Pourquoi! Because Marlier had not been with Quintre, to fight beside him. When I asked the reason, Marlier would not speak. Not at first; but afterward, he said that had Quintre been with him, no harm would have befallen.

“Where, you ask, had Marlier been? I learned where. In the very place that Bantoire has mentioned — the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It was there he went after he left the absinthe shop. I followed. He went to a graystone house and entered from an alley at the back. The windows of the house were shuttered.”

“Ah!” The interruption was blurted by Bantoire. “I know the place! Chez Vraillard! La maison de la duchesse!”

It was Zemba whose snarl came next.

“The old palace of the Duchess of Vraillard,” he corroborated. “What else do you know about it?”

“I know nothing,” replied Bantoire.

“Then say nothing,” growled Zemba. “Speak, Georges. What have you learned?”

“Only what Marlier told me,” returned the Apache, wisely. “He did not mention the old palace. Nor did he know that I followed him there. But he told me that he had been on guard last night. He and three others.”

“At the palace?”

“Where else? He was going back to the place, he said. That was why he had not been with Quintre. Then Marlier told me more. He and the others, he said, would guard three at a time; with one man off duty.”

“And what were they guarding? Did Marlier say?”

“Yes. He said that they were guarding those who were within!”

Georges delivered his final statement with a note of triumph. Its meaning dawned upon both Jacques and Bantoire. Georges had found the leak that Zemba feared. “Guarding those within” — it could mean but one thing. The Vraillard Palace was the hide-out where Zemba’s foreign agents were keeping under cover. It was the spot where Zemba’s stolen documents were stored!

FOR one long moment, the face of Gaspard Zemba remained unchanged. It held its characteristic distortion. Then came the transformation. It took on a fury that was greater than ever before. The Apaches stared, their mouths wide with gasps. Never had they seen such murderous ire.

“Marlier!” spat Zemba, his lips contorted into an incredible snarl. “Marlier — a traitor! The others! They may be as bad as he! Les cochons! None can be trusted!”

From the fierceness of his glare, the three Apaches believed that he had included them in his tirade. Then Zemba’s rage faded, to be followed by mutterings as he stood with his left hand thrust into his jacket pocket. Zemba’s face showed evil commendation as he stared toward Georges.

“You have done well,” growled the supercrook. “Perhaps too well. You have learned my secret. The Vraillard Palace is my last place of security. It was well chosen. The police — bah! They would never have suspected it. Robeq — The Shadow — they could never have guessed it, of all the places in Paris that I might have used for my headquarters.

“The guards must be changed, this very night. Three trusted men must take up new duty. What three? You! Jacques, Georges and Bantoire!”

Approval dominated Zemba’s tone. The three Apaches showed ugly grins of pleasure.

“I shall take you there, to the palace,” resumed Zemba. “I shall tell the others — no!” A sudden fury seized him. “They are traitors, perhaps! Once a man has talked, it means danger. We must deal with them as with any other whom we might suspect of treachery. I have a way that will do for them!”

Cunningly, Zemba considered; then spoke his plan:

“Go. All three of you, with Georges as your leader. Meet outside the Vraillard Palace. Enter by the door where Marlier went. Seize the three guards, singly, if you can.

“Should you be challenged, trapped; then ask for Marlier. He knows you, Georges. Tell him that you come from Zemba. He will believe you. Tell him that the guard is to be doubled.

“Once you are believed, all will be easy. You can seize Marlier and his two companions, unaware. Find the most distant compartment in the cellar. Take the prisoners there. Remain until I join you. The rest of the task will be mine.”

Zemba’s teeth showed fanglike as he gloated. “Once I have questioned them, I shall learn if they are traitors. Perhaps they are but fools, like Marlier. But as I said once before, fools are sometimes wise.”

The Apaches were rising. Zemba halted them.

“Wait!” he commanded. “I must leave here first. I must have time to summon others, to station them as reserves throughout the faubourg. Danger may be anywhere in Saint-Germain tonight. Do not leave here for another quarter hour.”

The Apaches watched their chief leave the studio. Chuckling to themselves, they paced about until the given time had elapsed. Then they shuffled from the room, stole down the creaky stairs and reached the street below. They headed for the nearest corner.

MELLOW street lamps made the Latin Quarter a district of hazy light. The Apaches were below the Boulevard Saint-Michel, principal thoroughfare of the Quartier Latin. They kept to narrow streets. They had not traveled far, however, before a shadowy shape glided up from neighboring darkness.

A phantom being, cloaked in black. The Shadow. Somehow, he had traced these three Apaches. Gliding along behind them, The Shadow remained obscure. He came closer as the three crooks stopped beside an old sedan that was parked in an unused entry drive.

Keen ears caught mumbled conversation. Gleaming eyes watched the Apaches board the car. The Shadow glided off into darkness. Reaching another street, he stepped aboard a waiting taxi.

When the carload of Apaches rolled into view, The Shadow’s taxi followed. The automobile was heading northward, the wrong direction for Saint-Germain. It reached the Rue Dauphine and crossed the Pont-Neuf — the “new bridge” which is the oldest bridge in Paris. On the far side, it turned right and kept on until the Pont-Au-Change. Turning right again, the car crossed to the Ile de la Cite, heading directly toward the Boul’ Mich’.

The course was intended to throw chance followers off the trail; and it succeeded, in a sense. Traffic intervened at the Pont-Au-Change. The Shadow’s cab was halted.

Apologetically, the driver leaned back to inform his passenger that he could not overhaul the car ahead. In quiet tones, The Shadow gave a destination; north of the Seine, not south.

The cab finally started. As it did, a whispered laugh sounded softly within the interior. Though The Shadow had lost the trail, he did not seem perturbed. He had heard words that passed between the three Apaches. Apparently, he had learned something regarding their destination.

The whispered laugh died; but its tones provoked a weird hollowness within the moving taxi. Somehow, that mirth had carried a chill that boded ill for the schemes of Gaspard Zemba!