Zemba

CHAPTER XX INVADERS MEET

A NEW flashlight was blinking quickly in the cellar of the old palace. Its gleam had begun only after its owner had crept far into the interior. Satisfied that no others were about, the last arrival had begun his operations.

The light showed the door to the stairway. A harsh chuckle told that the newcomer was satisfied. Creeping about, he approached archways that were blocked by wooden barriers. One door refused to budge when he tried it. Another portal balked. But the third opened almost at a touch.

Entering a deeper portion of the cellar, the creeping prowler closed the door behind him. His flashlight blinked at intervals as he penetrated farther. Suddenly it was answered by another click. A powerful electric lantern blazed from a cavity in the wall. The glare revealed the crouched figure of Gaspard Zemba.

An instinctive snarl came from fuming lips. Zemba’s left hand started to come from its jacket pocket, bringing a revolver. The electric lantern went out. Bantoire’s voice delivered a hoarse welcome from the spot where the light had been.

“Chief!”

Zemba’s flashlight glimmered. It showed Bantoire; then, the flashlight, too, was extinguished. Zemba’s order followed:

“Turn on the lantern, Bantoire; but turn it toward the floor. We do not want too much light.”

Bantoire obeyed. He saw Zemba come into the range of light. He noted that his crooked chief was carrying a square package, which formed a cube measuring about eight inches in each direction. Zemba placed the object carefully upon the floor.

“What did you accomplish?” he snarled. “Come, Bantoire! Tell me!”

“We bagged them,” reported Bantoire. “There’s where we put them. It leads to the wine cellar.”

He pointed to the yawning opening from which he had come, to indicate a flight of curving stone steps where cobwebs clung to musty walls.

“They argued,” sneered Bantoire. “They said that we were traitors, not they. Georges settled that by rapping Marlier with a gun butt. The others kept silent after that. Guillon and Puyan. Bah! They knew what was good for them!

“Georges and Jacques stayed below, to watch the prisoners. I remained here. I signaled them when Sudette arrived. He was the fourth guard, coming to relieve Marlier. He tried to flee. I captured him.”

“Which way did he try to escape?” demanded Zemba.

“Yonder,” replied Bantoire, pointing to another stairway that led upward. It was fully thirty feet distant. “It would have been bad had he gained it. Georges investigated afterward. Those stairs are a route to the rendezvous. They lead to a side room; beyond it are curtains. Georges saw that the room beyond was lighted. He heard men talking.”

“Peste!” Zemba’s voice showed anger. “Why do you tell me all this? This palace is mine. You are a fool to explain where stairways lead. Come, Bantoire! Signal to Georges and Jacques. I shall speak to all of you.”

Bantoir approached the stone steps and gave a low, suppressed whistle. Footsteps followed. Georges and Jacques arrived in the light. Their ugly faces showed grins when they spied Zemba. Then the hardened expression of their leader’s countenance made them show soberness.

“There has been trouble here,” snarled Zemba. “While you have been awaiting me, others have entered.”

ASTONISHED gapes. The Apaches exchanged gazes, realizing for the first time that their penetration to the cellar depths had rendered it impossible for them to know what might have happened at the outer door.

“The Shadow has entered,” sneered Zemba. “Next, the police, headed by Robeq. They have agents with them. All have gone upstairs.”

Apaches uttered angry snarls. Zemba shook his right fist, to silence them.

“Forget those men you captured,” he ordered. “They will be safe below. Have you gagged them?”

Nods from the Apaches.

“Good! Then go to the stairway in the outer cellar. Open the door and listen. I shall go up by these other stairs.”

Zemba pointed to the path that Bantoire had mentioned as leading to a side room by the rendezvous.

“Wait until shots are fired,” was the next order. “Then attack by the stairs. Open fire when you meet the agents. Show them no mercy.”

Jacques displayed a wicked grin.

“I shall bring the machine gun,” he chuckled. “The little one, from the wine cellar. With Georges and Bantoire on either side—”

“Enough!” snared Zemba. “Make your own plans for the attack. Remember. My shot will be the signal.”

“But you will be alone!” exclaimed Bantoire. “Suppose they pursue you? They will drive you down the secret stairway, chief. Then we—”

“Bah! Do you think I do not know my business?” Zemba’s right forefinger pointed to the square package. “What do you think this box contains?”

“A bomb!” expressed Georges.

“You are right.” Zemba’s evil leer had returned. “My shots first; then this — but only if necessary. Bullets alone may start them in the opposite direction. All agents are cowards. At any rate, none will pursue Gaspard Zemba!”

The finger pointed to the electric lantern. Bantoire extinguished it. Jacques whispered that he would descend to gain the submachine gun. Zemba’s order came for the other two to await him. Footsteps shuffled upon stone; then faded, to be followed by a creepy creak. Zemba alone, his package with him, was ascending the secret stairs.

As yet, all had remained the same in the upstairs rendezvous. There was a reason. The tall figure of Herbert Balliol was still crouched in front of the compact safe. Harry and Cliff, watching him at intervals, decided that their chief had struck a tartar.

The Shadow was uncanny in his ability at detecting strong-box combinations. This safe, however, was unquestionably a formidable one. It belonged to Gaspard Zemba, who had been willing enough to leave it in the care of other crooks. Honor among thieves was a myth so far as Gaspard Zemba was concerned. It stood to reason that the safe would be a tricky one.

Suddenly, Harry became tense. The Shadow had apparently given up his task. Harry saw the tall, tuxedoed figure arise and turn. Then he observed that Herbert Balliol’s face was staring directly toward the door of the room. A quick hand whisked an automatic from its tuxedo pocket. With that, the door swung inward.

“Greetings, monsieur!” came a quick voice. “Greetings! We are friends!”

A smile appeared upon the features of Herbert Balliol. His gun hand lowered; his head delivered a bow. Then came a gesture to Harry and Cliff. They could relax their vigil. Still covering their prisoners, The Shadow’s agents gave quick glances toward the door. They saw their leader advance with an extended hand.

“Monsieur le Prefet.” The words came with a perfect French accent. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Herbert Balliol; these gentlemen are friends who have aided me in an expedition against Gaspard Zemba.”

“You are The Shadow?”

Balliol’s smile broadened.

“Perhaps,” he remarked dryly. “Ah, M’sieu’, you have brought others with you.”

“This is Sergeant Rusanne.” The bearded prefect indicated the bantamweight beside him. “He is my trusted aid. But there are others also. I shall summon them, with your leave.”

A bow of Balliol’s head. The prefect turned and motioned at the door. Promptly, Delka and Robeq appeared. Then came the agents, clustering in the hall. Rusanne gave the latter orders; they clumped to stationary positions inside the room, with their sergeant and another blocking the door.

Delka and Robeq had entered ahead of the agent. The prefect was introducing them to Herbert Balliol. Delka smiled when Clandine referred to Balliol as The Shadow. Delka had met The Shadow in the past and regarded him as a friend, no matter what his guise might be.

“And this,” announced the prefect, with a profound bow, “is Etienne Robeq, most celebrated of all the detectives in France.”

PRISONERS stood scowling as they observed the introductions. The Shadow, quiet, in the guise of Balliol; Robeq, stiffened and alert, like a soldier of the Foreign Legion. Four trapped men were hopeless in the presence of the two whom they most feared.

Two strategists had met within a room where the law held control. Backed by five others, with eight agents besides, this double victory stood complete. All told, there were fifteen armed invaders, against a pitiful quartet of prisoners whose revolvers had been wrested from them.

Such was the present situation; and Monsieur Clandine wore a smile. The bearded prefect felt that anything could be accomplished now that Etienne Robeq and The Shadow had come together. This was a meeting that Clandine had long desired.

But had the prefect glanced toward the curtains at the far left corner of the room, his delight would have become momentary dismay. Another was present at this meeting; one whose presence was unsuspected; an enemy whom Monsieur Clandine would fear so long as that foeman lived.

Peering from beyond the draperies was a triumphant, gloating face. A countenance that the prefect would have classified at sight. The visage of Gaspard Zemba!