Zemba

CHAPTER XVII THE SHADOW’S MOVE

WHILE The Shadow was concluding a brief journey that had commenced in the Quartier Latin, Harry Vincent was seated alone in the suite which he shared with Cliff Marsland at the Hotel Princesse.

Time had passed slowly to-day. Neither Harry nor Cliff had received any word from The Shadow. They knew that Herbert Balliol was not in his room. Hence they had come to the natural assumption that he had gone alone to the Montmartre.

That particular district seemed the logical place to pick up the trail of Gaspard Zemba. Nevertheless, Harry could not help but wonder how The Shadow could accomplish results by a new visit. The police had searched the Allee des Bijoux thoroughly. As for the Cabaret du Diable, The Shadow would scarcely venture there in the guise of Herbert Balliol. Nor could he go cloaked until after dark.

Since evening had already fallen, Harry supposed that The Shadow was at last finding real opportunity to move. Yet Harry could not help wondering about other possibilities. Gaspard Zemba, for instance. Had the crook returned to the Cabaret du Diable to learn that his prisoner was gone? Perhaps; yet it was likely that Zemba had been wise enough to keep away from a place where police would be so much in evidence.

AFTER a long wait for word from The Shadow, Cliff had gone down to dinner, leaving Harry in the suite. Soon Cliff would be back. It would be his turn to wait. Drowsy, Harry was stretched in a big chair, deciding what he would order for dinner, when the telephone interrupted his reverie.

Harry picked up the receiver. He spoke. Instantly, his nerves tingled. A voice was upon the wire. A whispered tone that carried recognition. It was The Shadow!

“Report.”

The single word was a command. For a moment, Harry was confused; for he had nothing to report. Then he smiled as he realized that nothing, in this case, might mean something. He stated simply that he was alone in the suite; that Cliff was downstairs at dinner.

“Instructions—”

Harry keyed up as he heard the whispered word. Then he was all attention, listening, thrilled with eagerness as he heard the statements that followed. Orders that meant action. News that offered opportunity. The Shadow’s terse whisper ended. Harry delivered the reply:

“Instructions received.”

The call ended, Harry grabbed his hat and coat and hurried from the suite latching the door behind him. The first job was to get Cliff. There would be no dinner for Harry tonight; but that did not matter. All the way down to the lobby, Harry was filled with exuberance. His enthusiasm waned, however, when he reached the dining room.

Cliff was not there.

FOR a full five minutes, Harry peered everywhere, but saw no sign of his companion agent. At last, he gave up the search. Troubled, Harry returned upstairs. In the suite, he paced back and forth, wondering what had happened to Cliff.

A dozen minutes followed. A key clicked in the door. Then Cliff entered, admitting himself with a duplicate key. He closed the door and stared at Harry.

“Where were you?”

Cliff was surprised at the accusing tone of Harry’s question.

“At the Cafe d’Angleterre,” replied Cliff. “I left word at the desk that I would be there. The dining room was crowded.”

“I should have asked at the desk,” fumed Harry. “Or you should have called up here when you went out. We’ve both made a bull.”

“How is that?”

“The Shadow called. Twenty minutes ago. Immediate instructions. We’ve got to start at once, Cliff. I’ve packed my automatic. Pick up yours.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the Faubourg Saint-Germain.” Harry spoke rapidly as he watched Cliff dig deep into a trunk to obtain a gun. “To a little street called the Allee Mantinard. It’s directly in back of the Palais de Vraillard.”

“The Palais de Vraillard?”

“Yes. A big, graystone mansion that belonged to the Duchess of Vraillard. We’re to wait across the way, for word from The Shadow.”

“You can’t mean that the palace is the—”

“That’s exactly what I do mean. It’s Zemba’s hide-out. I gathered that from what The Shadow told me in his instructions.”

“Then we’ve got to hurry—”

A chuckle stopped Cliff’s statement. It came from within the room. Harry and Cliff wheeled toward the door, the latter gripping his automatic. Surprise, then relief, showed on their faces as they saw the tall form of Herbert Balliol.

“Cliff was out,” began Harry. “I lost a chance to locate him. That is why we’re delayed—”

“Haste will be unnecessary.”

The comment came in the steady tone of Herbert Balliol. Calmly, the entrant waved Harry and Cliff to chairs. Then he explained:

“I intended to have you follow me. I, too, was delayed. I came back here in the hope of forestalling your departure. It is fortunate that you had not left.”

Harry and Cliff smiled at the good luck.

“Since I have chosen to stop our action” — the quiet voice was firm — “I shall take other precautions. As you recall, our efforts last night were partially nullified by the forces of the law. It would have been preferable had the police arrived sooner — or later — than they did.

“Therefore, I shall arrange for proper police assistance. Remain seated and listen while I prepare a strategic move. One that will interest you.”

A SMILE appeared on the lips of Herbert Balliol. A twinkle from the eyes behind the blue spectacles. Going to the telephone, the tall strategist picked up the instrument and called a number. Both Cliff and Harry wondered what The Shadow planned.

“Hello…” Balliol’s lips were still smiling; but his voice had changed its accent. “Hello… Monsieur le prefet? Ah! Good! I had hoped that I might find you at home.”

The words were spoken in smooth French, a fact which made both agents nod. They knew The Shadow to be an expert linguist. But his next statements were a total surprise; one that made Cliff and Harry gasp at their chief’s bold cleverness.

“You ask who I am?” The tone was bantering. “Ah, Monsieur le prefet! I am he who you have long wished to meet. Etienne Robeq, from Marseilles!

“Ah! You show surprise!” — a pause; then a chuckle — “you had not expected to hear from Robeq… Of course, not… Because you thought that Robeq would fail…

“Ah, non, M’sieu’. Never. Robeq has succeeded… With a capture? Not yet; but soon… Yes, I have located Gaspard Zemba… His hide-out? No. It is in no caveau… It is a palace… Where? In the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

“The Palais Vraillard… But wait! It is for me, Robeq, to act first. Here is the plan… Yes, I shall enter… No, I need no aid… I wish only that you would place agents within half a kilometre of the palace…

“Within the next half hour… Yes. They must be cautious… You will follow my order? Good! What is that, monsieur? Why did I not call the prefecture?”

Harry and Cliff saw eyes sharpen; then lips purred the suave answer:

“Ah! Of course, Monsieur le Prefet… But I did call there and Sergeant Rusanne was not at the prefecture… Ah, non! It would not be wise to call him… I have talked with you. That is sufficient…

“It is you, monsieur, who must act with me… Tell nothing to the agents except that they are to obey Robeq, when he announces himself… Very good, monsieur…”

As the speaker concluded his call, he resumed the manner of Herbert Balliol. Harry and Cliff watched the receiver settle on its hook. They expected comment from The Shadow. Words came.

“The prefect was puzzled,” was the comment. “Perhaps he had good reason. He had not expected to hear from Etienne Robeq. I had been saving this ruse until good opportunity. It fits Robeq’s way of working from under cover. Furthermore, he listened when he heard that I had gained the trail to Zemba. But come! We must be starting, in order to arrive before the agents.”

FIVE minutes later, three persons were riding in a taxicab toward the Pont-Neuf. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland — between them, the tall figure of Herbert Balliol. To both Harry and Cliff, this expedition was a newer experience than any they had ever gained before. One that would probably never happen in New York; but which was possible in Paris.

They were riding with The Shadow. He, in turn, had discarded his guise of black. Usually, Harry and Cliff were told to act alone. The Shadow’s own actions generally depended upon the cover of darkness. One course for the agents; another for The Shadow. Such had been the first plan tonight.

The new ruse had altered that procedure. Harry, speculating, believed that he had found the reason. Last night, The Shadow had stationed his agents; then had come alone. Matters had gone badly, however, in the Montmartre. That seemed the answer to The Shadow’s sudden shift to a different system.

Moreover, Harry could remember episodes in London. There, at times, The Shadow had worked more openly than usual. He could afford to do so, in cities where he appeared only at intervals. London and Paris were different from New York. In America, crooks were always on the lookout for The Shadow.

Harry smiled with confidence. He looked toward the profiled features of Herbert Balliol. The blue spectacles were gone; even in the gloom of the cab, that steady face added to Harry’s belief that success would be gained.

Cliff was leaning forward to toss a cigarette from the window. Turning, Cliff caught Harry’s gaze and responded with a knowing nod. He, too, was confident. Instructions from The Shadow, followed by the chief’s own arrival.

Both Harry and Cliff feared no ill, while The Shadow, himself, was with them. Yet they had but little inkling of the future. Though they did not guess it, they were due for complications. They were tackling Gaspard Zemba, one of the most powerful enemies whom The Shadow had ever encountered.

Startling surprises; grim dangers; the threat of death itself — all these would be due tonight. Dread circumstances would confront these aids of The Shadow; episodes that would require all the skill of their chief to bring them through alive.