Zemba

CHAPTER XVIII THE LAW’S MOVE

HARRY VINCENT was not the only man in Paris who had been chafing under forced restraint. At the Hotel Talleyrand, Eric Delka was also idling away slow-passing time; but he had a companion. Delka was in Robeq’s hotel room; and the detective was also present.

Ever since dusk, Robeq had been on the point of leaving. Garbed in gray coat and gloves, his hat in readiness beside him, the detective had been prepared for an immediate departure. All that he wanted was some word from Sergeant Rusanne; any wisp of information that the law might provide. But no such word had come.

Robeq had smoked innumerable cigarettes. Exhausting his supply, he remarked that he would buy more cigarettes in the tobacco shop below. Delka agreed to wait in the room, in case Rusanne called. Robeq went out. One minute after his departure, the telephone bell rang.

It was not Sergeant Rusanne. It was Monsieur Clandine, and the prefect showed excitement. He recognized Delka’s tone; finding that Robeq was out, the prefect gave the message to the Scotland Yard man.

“Five minutes ago!” exclaimed Clandine, across the wire. “A telephone call. Viola! It was Monsieur Robeq! But it did not sound like Robeq!”

“Robeq called you?” queried Delka. “Impossible! He was here until a minute ago. He just went downstairs for cigarettes.”

“Ah! A hoax!” The prefect’s voice denoted ire. “From some one who has not guessed that Robeq is so close with the law. I expected as much. You ask me why? Because the call did not come through Sergeant Rusanne.”

“Have you called Rusanne?”

“Not yet. But listen to this, Monsieur Delka. The man who did call, said that he had learned Zemba’s hiding place. Within the Palais Vraillard. Peste! How fine a place that would be. I am to send agents, to picket them about. Such was his suggestion. I must do something, even if this proves to be a hoax.”

“Of course. Wait one moment, Monsieur le Prefet.”

DELKA turned. Robeq had come back. Tersely, Delka explained what Clandine had told him. Robeq seized the telephone. He started a rapid conversation with the prefect. At first, the discourse was excited; then suddenly, Robeq stiffened.

“I have the answer!” he exclaimed, to Clandine. “It was The Shadow! Yes… He could have found Zemba’s rendezvous… What shall we do? The answer is simple. We must act!

“No, no… Neither course will do… I have the answer… A picked squad of agents… Ones already at Saint-Germain… Yes. I shall call Rusanne. He can arrange it.

“You wish to join us? Excellent!.. Certainly, there will be time… Delka and I shall be outside. I shall tell Rusanne to come here… Yes, you will arrive as soon as Rusanne…”

Hanging up, Robeq turned to Delka.

“The Shadow is in it,” informed the detective. “Clever chap! I wager that he has actually traced Zemba. He wants to work it alone; but he knows that he may need the law. That is why he called the prefect.

“Clandine wanted to spoil it all, by smashing into the Vraillard Palace. That would be a mistake. At the same time, The Shadow is taking too great a risk. I have found the way to aid him. Instead of deploying our agents half a kilometre distant, we shall close in and enter afterward.”

“Agents may prove clumsy,” objected Delka. “I heard you mention them to the prefect.”

“You are right,” agreed Robeq, “but we are prepared for this emergency. Rusanne has already chosen picked men from every commune and faubourg. We shall have a squad awaiting us at Saint-Germain. Men upon whom we can rely.”

Picking up the telephone, Robeq put in a call to the prefecture. He was connected immediately with Sergeant Rusanne. Tersely, Robeq gave the details. He emphasized the matter of the picked squad. The call ended, he turned to Delka.

“Rusanne has everything ready,” assured Robeq. “He knows his business, that fellow. All will go well tonight, unless—”

Delka raised his eyebrows in query. Robeq smiled grimly.

“Unless the whole thing is a false trail,” he said. “It may be such. Even this famous sleuth, The Shadow, may make false steps. But if he is right, tonight—”

“What then?”

“I shall concede,” smiled the detective, “that The Shadow is greater than Robeq.”

Delka duplicated the smile. He decided that no greater compliment could come from Robeq. The detective was an egotist, despite his capability.

THE prefect of police was speedy in his trip to the Hotel Talleyrand. Five minutes after Delka and Robeq had reached the street, a limousine appeared and parked near by. Robeq approached; then signaled to Delka. They joined Clandine in his car.

“Where is Rusanne?” inquired the prefect, anxiously. “I thought that he would be here before me.”

“He has been giving the orders,” replied Robeq. “It should not take him long.”

A taxi wheeled from the corner. Rusanne stepped from it, recognized the prefect’s car and boarded it. The limousine rolled toward the Seine. Rusanne, perched upon a folding seat, was explicit with his report.

“Eight agents will join us,” he declared, “at an appointed place one hundred metres distant from the Palais Vraillard. They will be stationed beside the empty Maison Jollet, where no one can observe them.

“The chauffeur can park this car in the driveway beside the old Jollet house, where there is ample space. We can then proceed to the Vraillard Palace and enter by the rear door, which opens into the Allee Mantinard.

“I learned all this from those who know the faubourg. The picked squad will be sent from Saint-Germain. We may, however, arrive before them. If so, our wait will not be long. Meanwhile, as an added precaution, reserve agents will begin to form a cordon one kilometre distant.

“The cordon will close after we have entered. That, Monsieur Robeq, is how I interpreted your instructions.”

“You have done well,” assured Monsieur Clandine.

“Except for one point,” objected Robeq. “Yet, in a sense, it is not vital.”

“And what is that?” inquired the prefect.

“The matter of Zemba himself,” returned Robeq. “He may not be there when we arrive. I should like to capture him; nevertheless, he is not the most important. We want those stolen documents. Unquestionably, they are in the Vraillard Palace, along with Zemba’s accomplices.

“Once we have the documents, we have destroyed Zemba’s game. Should he be there, we will seize him. Should he be outside, the presence of a police cordon may alarm him if he comes to the palace. Nevertheless, the cordon may be essential. You did wisely to order it, Rusanne.”

The limousine was nearing the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Rusanne, referring to a pocket map, gave the chauffeur instructions. They turned into a secluded street, followed it a few blocks; then slowed down before a crumbling building that stood darkened and alone. This was the Maison Jollet. The chauffeur wheeled the car into the driveway, up a steep incline of jouncing gravel.

The passengers alighted. No agents were about. Robeq pointed to a high porch; they ascended steps and paused there. Rusanne lighted a match and referred to the street map. He turned and pointed off through a space between some smaller buildings.

THERE, framed against the sky that shone with the city’s glow was a gray building, hemmed in by smaller structures that had encroached upon its once proud preserves. It looked like a fortress, with grim walls and heavy shuttered windows; It stood not much more than a hundred yards away, but lower because of a slight slope in the ground.

“Le Palais Vraillard,” commented Rusanne.

“Awaiting our visit,” nodded Robeq. “Is that the front of the building, Rusanne?”

“I believe so,” replied the sergeant, “according to the map. The Allee Mantinard should be on the other side. The agents will tell us.”

“When they arrive,” put in the prefect, sourly. “What is detaining them, Rusanne?”

“Nothing. They are here.”

Footsteps were crunching on the gravel. The men on the porch descended to meet the approaching soldiery. With military precision, the squad came to a halt beside the prefect’s limousine. A grizzled sergeant stepped forward and saluted. The prefect turned to Robeq.

“You shall take charge,” he stated. “Your orders will be obeyed.”

Robeq bowed; then turned to the sergeant.

“Lead us to the Vraillard Palace,” he ordered. “Proceed cautiously. We are anxious to give no alarm. We are dealing tonight with Gaspard Zemba.”

The sergeant stared for a moment; but made no comment, nor did his men. The importance of the mission seemed to have struck home. Tensely, the group moved from the driveway, one dozen strong, including those who had joined the eight agents.

The law was making its move; a follow-up to The Shadow’s plan. One problem remained: the part that crooks might play. Once again, a three-way meeting was possible.

Etienne Robeq — Gaspard Zemba — and The Shadow!