Zemba

CHAPTER XIX WITHIN THE PALACE

OBSERVERS had viewed the Vraillard Palace from the front. The bulky, gray building itself blocked the sight of the Allee Mantinard, which was the chosen route for entrance. Hence the invaders who represented the law were unaware of happenings behind the huge stone building.

There, close under the sheltering mass of grayish walls, Harry and Cliff were waiting for a signal. They were beside an obscure rear door, whispering between themselves.

“The time is nearly up, Cliff. The Shadow said five minutes—”

“And there’s only half a minute longer. I hope the chief hasn’t run into trouble.”

“That’s not likely, Cliff. The place is as quiet as a cemetery.”

“That’s why I don’t like it. It may be a trap. An unlocked door — nobody about—”

“That’s only a blind. The palace is supposed to be deserted.”

“But the windows are shuttered. Why shouldn’t this back door be locked?”

“Zemba’s orders, probably. He may be coming here. He wouldn’t want to bungle around, while he unlocked the door—”

Harry broke off. He had heard a sound. The door was opening inward. A single word was spoken, in a whispered voice:

“Come.”

Harry and Cliff entered the thick blackness of a basement. Beside them, they could distinguish a slight motion; but the darkness was so complete that they were unable to perceive the shape of the leader who had summoned them.

A flashlight blinked, in guarded fashion. It showed a curious cellar with vaulted archways that spread out like a catacomb. Some of the archways were open; others were blocked by wooden barricades, with doors set in them.

The flashlight, sweeping, picked out an open arch. Then it blinked at intervals, its bearer leading a forward course through the opening in the wall. The Shadow’s agents followed.

The place was like a labyrinth; Harry and Cliff promptly conceded that The Shadow had done speedy work within these vaults. Five minutes had been the time allotted; and in that period their companion had traced the course he wanted. The flashlight stopped its blinking progress. Its rays settled upon a door that was one step above the level of the cellar floor.

The door had a large, old-fashioned lock. Harry decided that The Shadow must have picked it at the first attempt, for the door opened without resistance, when a hand came into the light. It was the left hand, plain and unadorned. Frequently, The Shadow wore a talisman on that hand; a ring that contained a fire opal. Here in Paris, he had discarded that gem while playing the part of Herbert Balliol.

A wise procedure, from Harry’s viewpoint. Sometimes that fiery girasol worked against The Shadow. He needed it only as an occasional token, when dealing with persons who required a symbol by which to recognize him. It was seldom necessary when The Shadow was depending upon his agents as sole helpers.

THE flashlight was extinguished. They were moving up a flight of curving stairs. Dull illumination greeted them. They arrived in a barren hallway, where a single wall bracket provided light. Harry and Cliff looked to see if their chief had donned his cloak. They saw the face of Herbert Balliol, minus the blue-tinted spectacles.

A smile of Balliol’s lips answered Harry’s mental query. The Shadow had no need for shrouding garments of black. The total darkness of the cellar had been sufficient. Apparently, The Shadow intended to go through with the game in the guise of Balliol. The reason became evident.

“We are ready.” The whisper was Balliol’s, but toned to solemnity within the hushed space of this gloomy hall. “I have found the rendezvous. Observe that door, toward the back, beneath the grand stairway to the second floor. That is where the rogues have their headquarters.”

Harry and Cliff noted the door. It was slightly ajar; from its edges came dull streaks of light. Harry guessed that The Shadow had already spied into the room beyond.

“There are four men in the room,” resumed the whispered voice. “Also a large safe, which must contain the stolen documents. We shall surprise the men; while you two hold the culprits covered, I shall work upon the safe.

“Zemba is not here; but that is no cause for alarm. I shall be prepared to handle him. Your work will be to keep the others helpless. Remember that our prisoners are hunted men. They will be under tension. To preserve it, we should maintain strict silence.”

Guns were coming from carriers beneath Balliol’s tuxedo coat. Harry and Cliff produced their own automatics. A whisper told them to remain where they were. The tall form of Herbert Balliol crouched and crept forward.

Amazement held Harry Vincent as he watched the stealth of the advance. Harry knew The Shadow’s remarkable ability at silent approach, when garbed in black and covered by darkness. Rarely, however, had he witnessed The Shadow’s demonstration of this ability.

There was something incredible about the motion of Herbert Balliol’s form. Only a master worker could have stalked his prey in such a perfect fashion. Not the slightest sound reached the ears of The Shadow’s agents.

When their creeping leader reached the door, he paused and moved his left hand up and down. It was the signal for readiness. Harry and Cliff strained forward.

Straightening, the tall form of Balliol became electric in its action. With a twist, a shoulder struck the partly opened door. With a spin that matched the gyration of a whirling dervish, the invader launched himself into the lighted room. Ready to aid The Shadow, Harry and Cliff sprang forward. They reached the doorway two seconds after their leader had plunged through.

FOUR seated men had been startled by the invasion. Grouped about a comfortably furnished room, they were staring, wild eyed, at the tuxedoed figure of Herbert Balliol. Automatics were swinging in the invader’s fists. Though their gasps were savage, the trapped men were too astonished to act.

Before they had a chance to join in concerted effort, they saw three antagonists instead of one. Harry and Cliff had arrived. A total of six guns. The men in the room realized their helplessness. Their hands came up. Harry and Cliff each picked out a pair to cover.

A smile fixed itself upon the lips of Herbert Balliol. Silently, in keeping with The Shadow’s coolness, the tall invader pocketed his own automatics. He strolled about the group, frisked guns from pockets and tossed the firearms into a wastebasket.

Returning to the door of the room, he closed it to the exact point where it had been before. Without a word or gesture, he stalked across the room and stooped before a small, square safe that was wedged deeply into the interior of a large, old-fashioned fireplace.

Eased by the calmness of their leader’s action, Harry and Cliff surveyed the men before them. Harry was covering a fuming Spaniard and a disgruntled American. Cliff held a nervous Italian and a stolid man whose nationality was doubtful. These were the agents who had served Gaspard Zemba in other lands. Willoughby Blythe, the English spy, had never joined the group.

Besides the door through which the invaders had entered, there were two other portals, which faced each other from far corners of the room. Doorless, these openings formed yawning cavities to darkened rooms beyond; but they were curtained, to relieve the emptiness. The draperies, however, were parted slightly; and Harry was half facing one while Cliff held a similar view of the other. The prisoners had their backs to the doorways.

Hence The Shadow’s agents held complete control against surprise invasion. As for the door through which they had entered, its present condition — still ajar — would enable them to detect sounds from the hall. Both Harry and Cliff felt sure that The Shadow would remember that outer door while he was working at the safe.

Moreover, they were struck with admiration of The Shadow’s method. The total silence was impressive; it made the prisoners jittery, wondering what would come next. Harry and Cliff could notice troubled eyes that darted blinking glances toward the form of Herbert Balliol. Long fingers were manipulating the dial of the safe. Trapped rogues were plainly worried.

THICK walls; shuttered windows; solid floors — these were elements that made the old palace soundproof. No one in that upstairs room could possibly have heard sounds from outside or beneath. Not even The Shadow. Hence there was nothing to tell of new invaders who had just arrived.

The Allee Mantinard was a shut-in, darkened street; and the rear of the Palais Vraillard topped a slight slope of ground. Hence the prefect of police and his companions had reached the palace easily; their approach guarded, despite the muffled tread of the accompanying agents. It was outside the door, however, that word came for a halt. The order was given by Robeq.

Removing his gloves, the sleuth approached and tried the low door to the basement. A grunt was his comment on the fact that the barrier was unlocked. He returned and whispered to the others to remain where they were. Robeq entered the cellar. A few minutes later, he returned.

“I see no guards,” he whispered. “Either the place is unwatched, or The Shadow has been here to trap the men on duty. Come, Delka; we can investigate. The rest of you move inside. Keep closing up behind us.”

Delka moved ahead with Robeq, while Rusanne deployed the agents. Monsieur Clandine had placed himself in the position of an observer, believing that such competent men as Robeq and Rusanne could handle matters best. Flashlights were bathing the basement walls. Advance was speedy.

Logically, Robeq and Delka were taking the open passages. Assured by the safety of numbers, they discarded caution. Prowling about, they both came upon the door by the step. Robeq decided to investigate. He gave a hoarse whisper to Rusanne, telling the sergeant to extinguish lights. Opening the door, Robeq found the steps. He and Delka ascended.

They came to the gloomy hall above. Peering cautiously, Robeq’s sharp eyes spotted the door of the room where The Shadow’s forces had invaded. Robeq whispered to Delka, telling him to wait. The detective advanced through the hall.

IT was Delka’s turn to stare with profound amazement. Harry Vincent had credited The Shadow with infallible prowess in the art of stealth. Delka, in turn, gave the palm of honor to Robeq. The detective had a surprising manner of approach.

His body became rigid. His arms extended as he threw his shoulders back. Fingers and thumbs were stiffened and outspread; his arms, themselves, extended like balancing poles. With the long gait of a tight-rope walker, Robeq crossed the hall. Not a creak betrayed his process.

Delka saw him ease when he reached the door. He watched the detective peek through the crack. Then Robeq withdrew. Turning, he repeated his long, slow stride, feeling the floor with his toes before shifting weight from one foot to the other. Joining Delka, Robeq drew the Scotland Yard man down the basement stairs. They found Sergeant Rusanne in the gloom. The prefect was a few steps below.

“The Shadow has trapped them,” whispered Robeq. “He has men with him. They are holding four rogues covered while The Shadow is trying to open a safe.”

“Is Zemba there?” inquired Clandine, anxiously.

“No,” was the reply. “That is why we must reveal ourselves. You enter first, Monsieur le Prefet, with Sergeant Rusanne. Declare yourself to The Shadow. He will recognize you. Do not be hasty, for Delka and I must bring the agents.

“Once we have congratulated The Shadow upon his deeds, I feel sure that he will cooperate with us. The prisoners will be ours. We shall find the documents in the safe. Then we may proceed to lay a trap for Zemba.

“I said to avoid haste.” Robeq delivered a chuckle. “That, I believe, will be wise. We should not disturb The Shadow in his present operation. He may be able to open the safe if given time. Probably only Zemba knows the combination. It would be excellent to have the documents regained before he chances to arrive here.”

Monsieur Clandine spoke his approval. With Rusanne, he ascended the stairs and the two paused in the hallway, a few paces away from the top of the stairs. The prefect’s bearded face showed tension; Rusanne was strained.

The bantam-sized sergeant looked eager to complete this job. But the plan was to wait. Listening, the two could hear motion on the stairs. Robeq and Delka had drawn in the agents and had closed the door below.

OUTSIDE the Vraillard Palace, there was no one left to witness another arrival at the small rear door. There, another figure had crept from somewhere. How long he had been lurking hereabouts, no one could have told. But it was likely that he had lingered across the Allee Mantinard, where hiding places were many.

The profile of the newcomer’s face was outlined against the whiteness of the door. Above his huddled body, that visage stood out. Its gloating expression was one that betokened expectation of a coming meeting. Lips were twisted in a distorted leer; eyes were narrowed to form a vicious glare.

Like a creature of evil, this last arrival was creeping in upon those who had gone before. Though alone, he displayed a malicious confidence, as though triumph, long wanted, had come at last within his clutch. Though widely sought in Paris, this solitary arrival did not have the air of a hunted man.

For he was counting upon aid when he had passed the door. He was the one who had dispatched three Apaches to an earlier mission within the Palais Vraillard. The face that showed against the whiteness of the door was that of Gaspard Zemba!