Zemba

CHAPTER V DEEDS IN THE DARK

LONG had the French police been seeking a trail to Gaspard Zemba. At last such a trail had been uncovered; but not by the law. The Shadow had found it; and he could have gained no better. He was following Zemba himself.

The police, had they been in The Shadow’s place, might not have been content to follow. They would have looked for an opportunity to deal with Zemba before his cab reached the Pont d’Austerlitz. But The Shadow, working alone, held preference for areas where traffic would be less thick.

Moreover, the speed of Zemba’s cab was not great. The infamous crook was in no haste to reach his destination, wherever it might be. That fact betokened false confidence on Zemba’s part. Sure that his craftiness had deceived all followers, Zemba would be paying but little attention to his trail.

Once Zemba’s cab had reached the left bank of the Seine, it veered away from the more important streets. The course it chose was a threading one; but The Shadow, watching ahead, was positive that Zemba merely wished to escape notice of persons whom he might pass. Nothing in the action of the crook’s cab indicated that the threading process was used to throw off pursuers. Bearing northward at intervals, Zemba was progressing back toward the Seine which curved eastward from the Pont d’Austerlitz; and his cab would soon reach the Boulevard Saint-Michel. This was a district of picturesque little streets, with houses that were reminiscent of old Paris.

The cab ahead took a sudden turn. The Shadow’s driver, turning quickly from the wheel, thrust a startled face toward his unseen passenger. Fear showed upon his bewhiskered face. He intended to follow no farther.

“No, m’sieu’! C’est une rue de la mort!”

A street of death. Such was the taximan’s verdict; and the narrow alley looked the part. The facings of its buildings were of somber stone. The street lamps had a dullness, as though descending night had stifled them. Grim silence gripped this neighborhood.

THE SHADOW hissed an order. Startled by the sound, the driver gripped the wheel. He stared straight ahead and turned the corner. Hoarsely, he whispered:

“La Mort!”

Such was the name that he had suddenly given his weird passenger. Until this moment, the taxi driver had thought that he was conveying a chance American tourist, who had shown freakish ideas of trailing cabs in Paris. But the driver had suddenly realized a transformation. Looking into the back seat, he had seen no passenger; but he had heard a whispered voice.

Death!

That being had become his passenger, according to the taxi driver’s present notion. Who else but Death could have rendered himself invisible? Who but Death could have hissed that order to proceed? Who but Death, himself, would wish to continue along this street where murder lurked?

Had a grinning skull peered suddenly beside the driver’s face, the man would have been terrified, but not surprised. His one hope was that no such phenomenon would occur. To prevent such a happening, he obeyed the command of his mysterious passenger.

Zemba’s cab was taking another turn when The Shadow’s vehicle came into view. The slowness of the first cab showed that it was going to stop, just around the next corner. The Shadow hissed another command. His driver brought the cab to a halt, just before it reached the corner.

The Shadow spoke. His tone was like a knell; a weird, whispered warning that made the driver tremble. The man was to reverse his cab and back to the street where he had faltered. There he was to await his passenger’s return. Mumblingly, the taximan promised to obey.

The door of the cab gave a slight slam. That marked the exit of the passenger. Though he strained his eyes in the dark, the taxi driver could catch no glimpse of a departing figure. Quaking, he reversed his cab and obeyed The Shadow’s order.

Perhaps the taximan’s eyes lacked sharpness; possibly, he did not stare long enough, for The Shadow did give visible token of his progress. Near the corner was a street lamp. Beneath its glow, a dark shape glided. Cloaked, phantomlike in form, The Shadow appeared momentarily as he took up Zemba’s trail; and although the driver’s eyes did not see him, there were other eyes that did.

A MAN was crouching in an old doorway across the street from the lamplight. He heard the slight thud of the taxi’s door. He looked in the right direction. He had seen the first cab go by. Then he saw the living shape that had followed from the second cab. The huddled man moved forward in the dark.

The Shadow had already turned the corner. His silent progress was amazingly swift, for he wanted to deal with Zemba before the rogue had time to disappear. The Shadow’s conjecture was correct. Zemba’s cab had stopped and a street lamp showed the taxi driver on the sidewalk. Zemba was emerging with his package. Approaching, The Shadow saw him speak to the driver. The fellow stepped back into the cab.

Close to Zemba was a flight of stone steps that led into the basement of a sinister-looking house. The Shadow passed that opening, just as Zemba turned away from the cab. The taxi was about to move onward. Zemba was stepping from the range of the lamplight when The Shadow loomed suddenly before him.

In the dull light, Zemba’s face showed ugly fury. It was an evil, distorted countenance, with glaring eyes and twisted lips that revealed the man’s criminal character. In public, Zemba must have known how to control his facial contortions, otherwise, he could not have passed himself as a railway guard.

Alone, however, he had no reason for disguise; unless the hideous make-up of his visage could have been a disguise, itself. It could well be one, for Gaspard Zemba had an iron hold on Paris’s crookdom; and he was in a district where thugs were certainly present. Such men would show respect for evil; a leader whose face was livid with a gloat would be the sort to gain their vicious loyalty.

Whatever thoughts gripped Zemba at this unexpected meeting with The Shadow, the supercrook did not give facial indication. His distorted countenance remained the same. His glare merely stiffened as his eyes met the burning gaze of The Shadow.

To Zemba, this being who obstructed his path was a living shape of blackness. The master rogue, however, had heard of this superfoe. Rigid, he snarled his recognition.

“L’Ombre!”

An automatic loomed directly before Zemba’s eyes. A whispered voice commanded him to turn about. Slowly, Zemba’s arms came up; the bundle that he carried went plopping to the sidewalk. Obeying The Shadow’s command, the crook turned toward the corner, ready for the march to The Shadow’s taxi.

Zemba’s own cab was on the move, pulling away from the glow of the lamplight, the driver oblivious to his passenger’s fate. The Shadow, stepping side wise was blending back into darkness, when a sudden cry came from across the street.

The moving of the taxi had cleared the way to a view that The Shadow had not gained. Lurking on the other side of the alleyway, a pair of sweatered thugs had also profited by the outward move of the cab. Luck was with them, they chanced to spy The Shadow. With the motion of that blackened form, they caught a glimpse of Zemba’s upraised left hand. They saw the space where a finger should have been, for Zemba’s hand was outlined against the blackness of the building wall.

THE SHADOW half turned at the shout. His left hand jabbed its gun muzzle into Zemba’s back; his right whipped out a second automatic. The Shadow glimpsed the challengers; he knew them for Apaches, the sort who frequented this section. As the rogues opened fire with revolvers, The Shadow stabbed answering shots from his automatic.

The big .45 was perfect in its aim. The Shadow clipped the Apaches while they fired wide. But while their figures sprawled, he knew that another attack could be expected. Shoving Zemba to the wall, The Shadow turned toward the steps that led up from the basement of the building close beside him.

He knew what lay beneath those steps: a hidden caveau, a den held by Apaches. That cave had been Zemba’s goal. These shots in the street would bring new fighters. A door pounded open. The Shadow saw leering faces framed in a dim light. He issued a challenge; a mocking laugh that halted Zemba’s would-be rescuers.

For the moment, The Shadow held the upper hand. One gun was ready for downward fire; the other covering Zemba. If no other interference came, The Shadow’s cause would be won. But such luck was not in the making. There were other lurkers, in alleyways close by. As if by a signal, they appeared to open battle.

Wild yells. Quick shots. Even Zemba’s cab had stopped; its driver had leaped to the street and was aiming a glistening revolver. A man came plunging squarely across the street, a sweatered attacker with a long-bladed knife, diving directly for The Shadow’s right hand, the one which at present covered Zemba.

The Shadow blasted into action. His automatics stabbed long tongues of flame. The Apache with the knife received the first bullet from The Shadow’s right. He had arrived in time to block the shot at Zemba. The man dropped his blade. Clawing wildly, he jolted The Shadow’s aim while Zemba made a mad dash from the wall, out to the safety of the street.

Apaches were firing up from below; but The Shadow’s right hand was already aimed toward them. With his wrist moving sidewise, he was pumping bullets into the ranks of excited foemen. Apaches were wild in their hurried aim. They sprawled in their pit. The man who had gripped The Shadow went slumping to the pavement.

Though momentarily the victor, The Shadow stood alone, with foemen everywhere about. Apaches were aiming for their shrouded target. Zemba had wheeled when he reached the stalled taxi.

The driver was grabbing up the crook’s package, carrying it to the cab; while Zemba, snarling an order to all about him, was aiming for The Shadow with a revolver of his own.

There was only one course; and The Shadow took it. With the first burst of hostile guns, he faded into a sprawling dive. Shouting Apaches thought that they had clipped their lone adversary. They were wrong.

Resorting to the unexpected, The Shadow had deliberately chosen a path to safety. His dive carried him directly down the flight of steps into the Apaches’ den.

The Shadow had already dropped three enemies who had lain in that ambush. Others had fallen back; then surged out to new battle. The Shadow’s plunge came just as they arrived. Before a new trio of would-be killers could fire a shot, The Shadow was upon them. Sprawling beneath the weight of his driving body, they tried vainly to jab their guns against their cloaked opponent.

His fall broken, The Shadow again held the advantage. Saving bullets, he was dealing flaying strokes with his automatics. Apaches thudded at the foot of the stone steps. The Shadow sprang up to the level of the sidewalk and thrust his guns above the topmost steps, to meet all comers.

Oddly, revolvers were still crackling above. As The Shadow bobbed his head into view, he saw an Apache spin about, then sprawl in the center of the narrow street. Zemba and the others had wheeled about. They were leaving The Shadow to the men below; for they had encountered another unexpected adversary.

IT was the man who had seen The Shadow pass the corner. He had watched proceedings. Creeping up, he had opened battle at the moment of The Shadow’s dive. The Shadow caught a glimpse of him, a huddled, quick-darting marksman, who paused every other instant to jab quick revolver shots at Zemba and the Apaches.

Guns were training on that valiant fighter. This time, it was The Shadow who blasted an interruption. His automatics boomed. Crooks began to topple. They wheeled again toward the steps. The man at the corner rallied to The Shadow’s aid. Apaches went scurrying for cover, fleeing from the field like rats.

The Shadow turned to deal with Zemba. The scowling crook had guessed that the move was coming. He had nearly-emptied his revolver; and the top of The Shadow’s hat was too difficult a target. Zemba, too, had urge for flight, once his followers had deserted. He was diving into the cab when The Shadow spied him. The taxi shot away along the narrow street.

The Shadow leaped out from cover. He fired quick shots toward the departing cab. One clipped a tire. The taxi keeled and the driver came tumbling to the street. The man from the corner was thudding after him; but it was too late to stop Zemba. The master crook had dived from the other side of the cab, to scurry away behind the corner.

The Shadow saw the lone invader who had aided him. The man was plunging toward the taxi driver, who in turn was diving for cover. Then came shrill whistles. The running man stopped short; then dived off through an alleyway at the left. Up by the corner, a pair of uniformed agents came charging into view.

The taximan unwisely opened fire. The agents stopped and riddled him with bullets. Another whistle sounded from a second quarter. New agents came bobbing from an alleyway. The Shadow turned swiftly and hurried back to the corner from which he had originally come.

Passing along the narrow way that his taxi driver had termed “a street of death,” The Shadow reached the next thoroughfare. There he found the driver waiting with the cab. Looming suddenly into lamplight, The Shadow sprang aboard and delivered a whispered command. Teeth chattering, the driver shot the cab forward, bound to a new destination.

As they passed a corner, The Shadow, peering from the window, caught one brief glimpse of a man who had emerged from the darkness. It was the lone fighter from the corner. So swift was the passage, however, that The Shadow had no chance to see the man’s face.

Looking back, he saw the man huddled, staring; then the crouched fighter sprang across the street and through another alleyway, to escape the sudden arrival of a new squad of agents.

FIVE minutes later, The Shadow’s cab was rolling along a boulevard, headed eastward. The black cloak and hat were packed away in the opened briefcase, the automatics with them. Back in his guise of a quiet-voiced American, The Shadow gave another order to the driver. Relieved at his passenger’s change of tone, the driver nodded. He headed the cab toward a bridge across the Seine.

Later, the taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Moderne, a place frequented by American tourists. Quietly, The Shadow tendered the driver a fifty-franc note; then watched the cab pull away. A thin smile appeared upon The Shadow’s lips.

Neither crooks nor agents had glimpsed this cab. The driver would seek neither group. Tonight’s experience was something that the bewhiskered taximan would much prefer to forget.

Entering the Hotel Moderne, The Shadow stopped at the desk. A polite clerk addressed him as Monsieur Balliol. The Shadow remarked that he was checking out, in order to take the midnight sleeper for Brussels.

Soon afterward, The Shadow stood by the window of a fifth-floor room, his suitcases packed and ready for the porter. The lights were dimmed; The Shadow was looking out across the city. Far distant, the light of the Eiffel Tower formed a panoply against the darkened sky, stretching high above the glow of the streets.

The Shadow had no intention of leaving Paris. His present thoughts concerned ways and means of remaining in the French capital, to deal again with Gaspard Zemba. Only through the aid of a battling horde — with luck besides — had the notorious crook escaped The Shadow’s toils tonight.

The Shadow was also considering the entry of that other fighter, who had aided in the turn of the tide. He had mentally identified the man; for The Shadow knew much concerning present affairs in Paris. Tonight’s episode had been the culmination of previous investigations.

Deeds in the dark. They had come tonight; and more would follow. The darkness was The Shadow’s chosen habitat. The thought brought a smile to The Shadow’s lips. Then came a low-toned note of whispered mockery that faded into sinister stillness.

The Shadow had evolved his final plan. He had found a way to deal with Gaspard Zemba. One that could end the career of the supercrook when he and The Shadow held their next encounter.