Zemba

CHAPTER VIII AGENTS OF THE SHADOW

EVENING had arrived in Paris. The lights of the metropolis formed a welcoming glow to the passengers who stepped from the Gare Saint-Lazare, arrived by the State Railways from Cherbourg.

Many of these were Americans, catching their first glimpse of Paris; but among the throng were too young men who showed familiarity with their surroundings. Lugging their heavy suitcases, they made directly for a waiting taxicab. One bought a newspaper while the other spoke to the driver regarding the Hotel Moderne.

Soon the cab was riding along a boulevard, where brilliant lights revealed the faces of the two Americans. One was a keen, clean-cut young chap, whose manner was brisk. The other, a trifle older, possessed a square jaw and a more stolid attitude. The first named was Harry Vincent; the second, Cliff Marsland. Both were agents of The Shadow.

It was Harry who had purchased the newspaper, while Cliff had spoken to the taxi driver. Glimpsing the headlines, Harry pointed out a paragraph to Cliff. Both were familiar with the French language. They read the news together.

“Last night,” remarked Harry, in a low tone. “It looks like this fight was a follow-up to those Zemba murders that we read about, while riding in on the express. This must have happened too late to get into the morning newspapers.”

“Near the Boul’ Mich’,” commented Cliff. “I know the district. You’re right, Harry. Zemba might have ducked through there.”

“With The Shadow trailing him.”

Cliff nodded. Harry laid the newspaper aside.

“This means strategy,” he mused. “Well, we can produce it. Leave it to me, Cliff, when we reach the hotel. After all, it’s simply a case of following instructions. We are to ask for Herbert Balliol. If he is there, we stay.”

“And if he has gone,” added Cliff, “we go to the Pension Grandine and check in.”

“To stay there until we do get a message from Mr. Balliol. Unless, of course, one is waiting at the Moderne.”

“How do you size it, Harry?”

CLIFF’S question was not an unusual one, under the circumstances. When occasion called, The Shadow’s agents were at liberty to speculate upon the purposes and methods of their chief. Harry began to sum an answer to Cliff’s query.

“The Shadow came here alone,” stated Harry, still in his low tone, which the driver could not hear, “because of war secrets stolen from Washington. He started for Paris, knowing that he must uncover a crook named Gaspard Zemba.”

“And he left instructions for us to follow,” observed Cliff. “There wasn’t time for us to catch the same boat.”

“Exactly,” agreed Harry. “Rutledge Mann had our instructions for us. Go to the Hotel Moderne. That would be all, if nothing had happened meanwhile.”

“But something has happened; and our added instructions should cover it.”

“As always. Chances are that The Shadow has checked out of the Moderne. If he has, we go to the Pension Grandine, unless some other word intervenes. The Shadow will take care of it.”

“The chief always does.”

A pause. Then Harry spoke a name.

“Herbert Balliol,” he said. “It has an English sound. A good name to use in Paris.”

“It’s the first time the chief has taken it,” remarked Cliff. “Maybe this chap Zemba is watching out for Americans.”

“Very likely. And it may mean even more, Cliff.”

“A different type of appearance?”

Harry nodded.

“There may be a real Herbert Balliol,” he declared. “One who is known in Paris and who would, therefore, be unsuspected. If that is the case, the chief will look like Balliol.”

“To the dot,” added Cliff. “He will be Balliol’s double.”

“And it may mean closer contact. We may prove to be old friends of Balliol.”

“And travel about with him—”

“As I size it, yes.”

Both agents spoke from previous experience; and the situation was one that they relished. Frequently, their paths lay apart from The Shadow’s. They always preferred the rarer occasions when they cooperated closely with their chief.

The taxi had reached the Hotel Moderne. As it stopped, Harry motioned Cliff to remain with the bags. Stepping to the curb, Harry strolled into the lobby. He looked like a chance visitor rather than a potential guest. Harry approached the desk.

“Mr. Herbert Balliol?” inquired Harry, in English. “Is he stopping here?”

Smiling, the clerk shook his head.

“Mr. Balliol has gone,” he replied. “He left here late last night.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“No. He was taking the midnight express to Brussels.”

WITH a shrug of his shoulders, Harry strolled out to the street. He passed a tall, uniformed doorman who had watched him enter. As Harry stepped into the cab, the doorman moved over and closed the door. Then, leaning through the opened window, he whispered:

“You came to find Monsieur Balliol?”

Harry gave a slight nod. Glancing toward the driver and noting that the man could not hear him, the doorman added:

“Hotel Princesse.”

As the doorman stepped back, Harry spoke to the driver and ordered the man to take them to the Pension Grandine. Cliff gave a wise nod. They remained silent during the trip that followed. When they reached the Pension, they alighted with the bags. Cliff waited with the luggage, while Harry entered. Soon Harry came out and gave the information:

“No word for either of us. Here comes a cab. Let’s hail it.”

This time they gave the Hotel Princesse as their destination. Twenty minutes brought them to their goal. Entering with the bags, they found the lobby well filled with Americans, as well as Britishers.

Bell boys seized their suitcases and the arrivals approached the desk to find a large sign stating that the clerks spoke English. Harry inquired for Herbert Balliol.

“Ah, yes, gentlemen,” smiled the clerk. “Mr. Balliol has reserved a suite for you, on the same floor as himself. Sign the register, please. I shall inform Mr. Balliol that you have arrived. He says that he will see you when you are settled.”

Soon, Harry and Cliff were seated in the luxurious living room of a fifth-floor suite. The windows commanded a magnificent view of Paris. There were two bedrooms adjoining; the quarters were far better than those offered by either the Hotel Moderne or the Pension Grandine.

“I’m glad the chief moved in here,” remarked Cliff. “Well, we guessed it right, Harry. We are old friends.”

“And soon Mr. Balliol will join us.”

Harry’s prophecy was fulfilled a few minutes later. A knock on the door caused Harry to give a call to enter. The door opened and a tall, tuxedoed figure entered. Harry and Cliff observed a straight-lipped face beneath a high forehead that was topped by well-parted hair, They noted also that Herbert Balliol was wearing spectacles that held blue-tinted lenses.

“Good evening, Vincent,” remarked their host, quietly. “Good evening, Marsland. Welcome to Paris. I see that you received my message at the Moderne.”

He shook hands with each in turn. Then, after a careful glance toward the closed door, Balliol seated himself in a corner chair and removed his glasses, to place them carefully in a spectacle case.

“I wear these only about the hotel,” he remarked, in quiet tone. His straight lips formed a slight smile. “For various reasons, I have adopted unusual arrangements. That, of course, is understandable; you will see other evidences of it later.”

Harry and Cliff responded with nods.

“So, dropping preliminaries,” resumed the speaker, in his even tone, “we can come directly to important matters. I want to tell you the details that concern last night.”

BOTH Harry and Cliff were tense. Seldom did The Shadow enter into direct discussions with his agents. In New York, nearly all contact came through intermediary agents. That was a protective measure adopted by The Shadow, to fool criminals who were ever ready to strike at him through those who aided him in his work.

Here, in Paris, where The Shadow appeared at rarer intervals, the situation was different. No contact agents were available. It was not surprising that The Shadow should avoid his usual precautions. Nevertheless, the experience was an illuminating one to The Shadow’s agents.

“Last night” — the steady voice roused Harry and Cliff from other thoughts — “Gaspard Zemba eluded the police and came to a section where I had previously observed him. He rode from the Gare de Lyon in a taxicab. I picked up his trail and followed in another vehicle.

“Leaving my own cab, I followed Zemba and cornered him. A squad of his Apaches arrived; they chanced to catch a glimpse of his left hand. This finger was missing — that token signified that he was Zemba.”

Cliff and Harry watched the speaker’s left hand rise; they saw the right forefinger tap the third finger of the left.

“Zemba escaped in the fight that followed.” Lips held their smile as the voice proceeded. “During the quick fray, I was aided by an unexpected ally. One whose identity I recognized, for the underworld has talked about him. He was Etienne Robeq, the celebrated French detective who is also here in Paris on the trail of Zemba.

“From now on, my task is to again locate Zemba. The climax will come when that has been achieved. Meanwhile, Robeq may chance to enter the game once more. I have mentioned his name so that you will remember it.

“I want you both to remain at this hotel, reporting back at intervals, ready in case of need. Tonight, you will not be needed. You may go abroad in Paris; but return soon after midnight, in case I should have instructions.

“Since you are supposed to be old friends of mine, we shall go down to the lobby together and shake hands in parting. After that” — lips had ended their slight smile — “our paths shall part for the immediate future.”

TEN minutes later, loungers in the lobby saw Cliff Marsland and Harry Vincent shaking hands with their friend Herbert Balliol. The tall guest had donned his blue-tinted spectacles. He had the appearance of an Englishman, while Harry and Cliff were easily classed as Americans.

The trio strolled to the door of the lobby. There, other loungers heard Balliol’s voice deliver a “cheerio” to the two Americans. Harry and Cliff strolled away, bound for a boulevard, while keen eyes watched their departure through the bluish spectacles. Then the tall figure of Herbert Balliol sauntered back into the hotel.

Across the street, a huddled observer had seen the parting between the two Americans and their blue-spectacled friend. That much gained, the watcher slipped from the car and reached the sidewalk. He sidled to a waiting taxicab, stepped aboard and gave a gruff order to the driver. The destination that he named was close to the Boul’ Mich’.

Rolling along, the cab passed Harry and Cliff. The huddled rider spied them again; then looked through the rear window. Immediately afterward, he produced a cigarette, thrust it between his lips and struck a match. With fists doubled close together, he applied the light to the tip of his cigarette.

The flame from the match revealed his face again, more directly than had the lights from the hotel. It showed an ugly, leering visage, a countenance that could afford to take on a distorted glare, now that its owner was alone and free from observation.

Gloating, its expression resembled the evil leer that The Shadow had faced the night before when he had encountered Gaspard Zemba. The chuckle that came muffled was Zemba’s also. This ugly-faced rider was pleased because he had spotted the two Americans who had chatted with Herbert Balliol.

The game was complete. Three factors had moved. New developments would soon be due in the three-way duel that involved Gaspard Zemba, Etienne Robeq and The Shadow!