Zemba

CHAPTER XXI TWISTS TURN THE GAME

“AH, Monsieur L’Ombre, you have done exceeding well. Pay no further attention to that safe. We shall dynamite it, later. That duty belongs to the police.”

It was Clandine who was speaking. Having delivered his polite announcement, the prefect turned and indicated the prisoners.

“As for these four,” he added, “I shall ask your permission to take them with me. They shall be delivered to Monsieur Brezanne, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Their own governments have sought their capture.”

Then, facing the tall form of Herbert Balliol, the prefect again queried:

“Have I your leave, Monsieur L’Ombre?”

“You have my leave,” replied Balliol. “But you have asked permission of The Shadow.”

“And you are The Shadow!”

A shake of Balliol’s head. A pleasant smile.

“There stands The Shadow!”

CIandine gaped. Balliol was pointing directly toward the famous detective, Etienne Robeq.

“Impossible!” gasped the prefect. “What! Robeq is The Shadow? Then who are you, Monsieur Balliol?”

“I?” The query came with a laugh. “I am Etienne Robeq!”

CLANDINE stood stupefied, glancing from one to the other. Eric Delka was completely bewildered. As for The Shadow’s agents, a light was dawning upon them. Harry Vincent had remarked upon the oddness of The Shadow’s actions. Cliff remembered Harry’s comments. They were gaining an explanation at last.

“I shall make the case plain,” declared Herbert Balliol. “As I have just said, I am Etienne Robeq. I came to Paris to seek the notorious Gaspard Zemba. I learned that my presence here was known. I stayed away from the prefecture. I knew that word was leaking somewhere.

“A strange rumor had reached the underworld. Talk of The Shadow — a belief that he might be in Paris. I learned later that tension, alone, had begun that rumor. But it chanced to be correct. In my search for Zemba, I happened, one night, to glimpse The Shadow. He was cloaked in black. I saw him in an alleyway not far from the Boul’ Mich’.

“I supposed that The Shadow had found some trace of Zemba. The next night, I watched the same spot. That was the night when Zemba arrived in Paris after his murder of Boris Danyar. A taxicab arrived, with Zemba aboard. Another came, carrying The Shadow.

“I was sole witness to the fight that followed. I joined it to aid The Shadow. Gaspard Zemba escaped us. Both The Shadow and I departed. Again, I saw his taxicab.”

The real Etienne Robeq paused. He looked toward the supposed Robeq, who smiled his approval of the statements. Both had relaxed. The former Herbert Balliol, in particular, had dropped his part of an Englishman.

“Apaches saw The Shadow that night,” resumed the real Robeq. “But I, alone, noted his taxi. I traced it. The driver talked. He told me that his passenger went to the Hotel Moderne. Going there, I learned that a guest named Herbert Balliol had checked out hurriedly, to take the midnight train to Brussels.

“Viola! He could have been The Shadow. I went to other hotels. There was no Herbert Balliol. An idea inspired me. I went to the Hotel Princesse. I registered there as Herbert Balliol.”

Harry and Cliff exchanged understanding glances. They expected what was coming.

“The doorman at the Hotel Moderne aided me,” laughed Robeq. “He promised to send all inquirers for Balliol to the Hotel Princesse. The next day, these two arrived. They joined me.”

Smiling, Robeq indicated The Shadow’s agents. Then, with a shrug of his tuxedoed shoulders, he resumed:

“You ask why I became The Shadow? I shall tell you. I thought that perhaps Zemba would trail him also. I wanted to meet Zemba. I knew that my action would not harm The Shadow. Instead, it gave me a way of covering up the fact that I was Robeq.

“Seeking The Shadow, Zemba would find Robeq! But instead of men from the underworld, my visitors proved to be friends of The Shadow. Men who would have gone their own way had they not found Herbert Balliol. Knowing that they must take me for The Shadow, I kept up the pretense.

“My position was strengthened. I had two men who would obey my commands. So I went to the Cafe Poisson and sent a note to the proprietor. He thought it was from Zemba. It told him to have me followed. Thus did Zemba learn of Herbert Balliol, the man whom he thought was The Shadow.

“Zemba laid a trap in the Allee des Bijoux. We captured a prowler who was sent to give the word away. Zemba was afraid to visit The Shadow; he wanted The Shadow to come to him. It was I, Robeq, who went, with The Shadow’s men to aid me. I believed that we could nullify the trap.

“Zemba was there; but the conflict proved to be a draw. The cause seemed hopeless until tonight. I still played the part of The Shadow, but I had learned nothing. Then, tonight, these two men received a message from the real Shadow!”

TRIUMPHANTLY, Robeq pointed to Harry and Cliff. The final truth had come to that pair. They knew at last why The Shadow had called; then had appeared and changed his plans. The Shadow had called first; then Robeq had come, in the guise of Balliol.

“I understood everything!” cried Robeq. “The Shadow had learned Zemba’s true hiding place. He wanted his agents here. Good! But I, Robeq, could not stay out. That is why I called you, Monsieur le Prefet. I wanted the police to be about.

“And all the while” — Robeq’s smile was broad — “I had begun to realize how clever The Shadow was. He, too, had been forced to change his plans. So he became Etienne Robeq! Why? Because he knew that I, the real Robeq, had made it a policy to keep away from the prefecture.

“I saw you, Monsieur L’Ombre, during the fray in the Montmartre. I guessed the part that you were playing. I knew that when I called Monsieur le Prefet tonight, he might in turn call you. He did; and you cooperated. So we are here, in Zemba’s headquarters, our quest completed, so far as stolen goods are concerned. Our next step, Monsieur L’Ombre, is to capture Gaspard Zemba!”

The real Robeq extended his hand to the false Robeq, who smiled and received it. Harry and Cliff put away their automatics, for the agents were in charge. The Shadow’s agents stepped over to join the former Robeq, whom the real detective had identified as The Shadow.

“Your version of the story, Monsieur L’Ombre,” suggested the police prefect. “It may have details which Monsieur Robeq has not given us.”

“Quite true.” Drawing himself a full inch taller, the former Robeq faced his listeners. “However, Robeq has told enough. I have another matter to discuss. It concerns Gaspard Zemba!”

Listeners were intent. None were glancing toward the far curtain; but glances to that spot would have been futile. The face of Gaspard Zemba had withdrawn. His form could no longer be seen beyond the drapes.

“Gaspard Zemba” — keenly, the listeners harkened to the pronouncement of the name, since it came from The Shadow’s lips — “Gaspard Zemba is a man of many devices. But even he was deceived by your strategy, Robeq. He thought that you — as Herbert Balliol — must actually be The Shadow.”

Robeq nodded, pleased at The Shadow’s corroboration.

“Zemba believed that you were The Shadow,” resumed the speaker, “and, therefore, he wondered what had become of Etienne Robeq. What do you suppose that Zemba decided? I can answer. He came to the conclusion that Robeq had taken to the underworld; that there — on certain occasions — he actually showed the boldness of pretending that he was Gaspard Zemba!

“So Gaspard Zemba connived a scheme of his own. He decided that he could play a similar game. If Robeq could be Zemba; then Zemba could be Robeq. Like yourself, Robeq, Zemba made the mistake of supposing the game to be a double one. But that was incorrect. The game was played three ways!”

A sudden startlement flickered upon the features of Robeq as he surveyed this speaker whom he thought was The Shadow. The others saw the look and understood it. Before any could make a move, the climax came. The man whom they thought to be The Shadow began to speak again. This time his voice took on an insidious snarl; his square face instantly displayed a hideous leer.

“Fools!” he challenged. “You never guessed my game! You thought first that I was Robeq! Now, you take me for The Shadow! I am neither! I am Gaspard Zemba.”

WITH that, he swung his left hand upward, spreading thumb and fingers. All were straightened stiffly, a peculiarity that Eric Delka had often noticed with this man who he thought was Robeq.

“You want proof that I am Zemba?” came the snarled query. “Look! At this third finger! I no longer have use for it!”

With the second finger of his right hand, the revealed Zemba snapped the third digit of his left. The top portion of that third finger popped away. It struck bare floor beyond a rug and clattered there, an empty shell of metal that had been fitted to the stump which now showed upon its owner’s left hand.

“You saw that finger often,” snarled Zemba, to Delka. “But you never suspected it to be a fake. The coloring was perfect. It fitted tightly, held by suction. It filled my glove, which it wore often. But enough! Come, Rusanne! Show these fools how helpless they are.”

Grinning like a little ape, Sergeant Rusanne swung to the agents. He barked an order. The entire squad used their revolvers to cover Robeq. Clandine, Delka and The Shadow’s agents. The four prisoners who had been trapped by Harry, Cliff and Robeq, were automatically freed!

The odds had twisted about. Instead of fifteen holding four; fourteen now covered five. The picked squad of agents was composed of crooks. Sergeant Rusanne, the prefect’s trusted aid, was a tool of Gaspard Zemba!

A laugh came from the supercrook.

“How did the underworld know that Robeq was in Paris?” jeered Zemba. “Through Rusanne! How were documents stolen from the French government? Through Rusanne! Yes, Rusanne, with Zemba in back of him!

“How did I know everything? Why did I play the part of Robeq with security? Because I had Rusanne. Remember, Monsieur le Prefet — when I first appeared as Robeq, we arranged that all contact should be through Sergeant Rusanne!

“That was how I learned of meddling tonight. Because you heard from Robeq directly — and not through Rusanne. Of course, you called me; you did not know me to be Gaspard Zemba. So I told Rusanne to have his picked agents ready.

“These are Apaches whom Rusanne summoned from their caveau, where I have kept them in readiness. There are no agents anywhere about. Fools, you fell for everything that I proposed. To-morrow, Delka was to meet with Zemba, to transfer the money and receive the plans. Certainly, he would have met with Zemba. For he would have met me. No chance for any interference, while I — accepted as Robeq — was arranging the details.”

A MOMENTARY pause. The ex-prisoners had been frisking the new captives. The five helpless men were thrust back toward the fireplace. Zemba ordered Rusanne to send the false agents into the hall. He had enough men to hold these prisoners helpless.

“To-morrow,” scoffed the supercrook, “I shall gain my millions. It will be easy. Rusanne and I shall arrange it. Monsieur le Prefet has gone from Paris, so Rusanne will say. I shall state that Delka is at my hotel.

“We shall keep you as hostages until we gain the millions. After that — death. All of you will be useless. There will be no one to trouble me.” Zemba’s face hardened suddenly. “None except The Shadow. Peste! I had forgotten him — that masquerader who has tried at intervals to pass himself as an imitation of Zemba. Bah! He could never succeed with it. Not while he has this finger!”

Zemba leered and pointed to his left hand, to indicate the single-knuckled stump. Contemptuous grins showed on the faces of the crooks whom he had rescued. Suddenly, Zemba’s expression changed.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. “The Shadow — as Zemba — those guards below—”

He darted a look at Robeq, who was minus the blue-tinted glasses that he had used as a device to cover the fact that his eyes lacked the keenness of The Shadow’s. Robeq blinked slightly. Zemba scowled.

“The guards below!” he stormed. “You did not capture them as I had supposed. You captured no one except the men within this room. Perhaps The Shadow—”

Zemba stopped, abruptly interrupted. A taunting sound was rising from the far corner of the room. A burst of sinister mirth that came as a counter challenge to the devices of a supercrook. Shuddering laughter broke with quivering echoes. Gaspard Zemba wheeled.

Curtains had parted by the farther door, at the left. There, cloaked in his garb of black, stood The Shadow!