“So you turned down some of the jobs?”
“Most of them. But even though this is a holiday, this sojourn of mine in New Orleans, I can not neglect my art. I have chosen certain persons to be subjects for portraits which I can not resist to paint. Gratis.”
“I begin to get it,” nodded Lence.
“DANFORTH GAUDRIN has a daughter,” smiled Brilliard. “Alicia. She is very attractive. One might call her beautiful. I have met Mademoiselle Alicia. I must paint her portrait. Art impels me.”
“And the family is broke.”
“You have it. I made the offer to paint the portrait. Since I have chosen others also, Alicia Gaudrin accepted. No, that is not the girl” — Brilliard shook his head as he saw Lence eye the portrait on the easel — “but when I have finished this subject, it will be Alicia’s turn.”
“Which means that you are gaining access to the Gaudrin home.”
“Exactly!”
“But where do I come in?”
“I shall tell you. Danforth Gaudrin has a son — Luke Gaudrin. An amateur roue. Loves to gamble and waste money, whenever he can get it. He spends most of his time at the Club Caprice, outside the city limits. Somehow, he still manages to keep credit there.
“You can make friends with him easily. He is shunned by most of his old acquaintances. Buy the drinks; let him touch you for various amounts; treat him like a long-lost brother. He wants gentlemen for friends, for his father has criticized his present associations.”
“Leave that to me, Brilliard. It will be just like a build, without worrying about the trimming at the end. I’ll be there at the pay-off.”
“Of course,” reminded Brilliard, “we must keep our ears open for any information. But we must not press for it, you understand. You know how Cyro works — in the background, yet where he can learn what he needs.”
“To tip us at the finish.”
“Yes. But remember, Lence, this is not a con game. Cyro made that point emphatic when he sent his last message to me. We are pointing toward crime; we must be ready for the strong work.”
“Who will be here to help us?”
“First” — Brilliard raised his forefinger — “a squad of Apaches whom I have summoned from Paris. They are already in town, posing as natives of this Latin Quarter. Second: your mobsters from—”
“I have no mobsters.”
“Yes you have. Cyro saw to that. They came in from Chicago, two days ago. Link Ruckert is the fellow who handles the gorillas. He is staying at the Douran Hotel, waiting to hear from you. Make no contact until you need him.”
“All right. Where am I to stay?”
“At one of the best hotels. Make your own choice. But wait: I have not finished with the list. There is another of Cyro’s agents — one whom you will meet here, when he arrives.”
“That’s right. Cyro always uses three lieutenants on big jobs. It’s a wise stunt, too. Prevents a double cross. Who is the third man?”
“Jose Larribez, a Cuban, once a member of the secret police they called the Porra. He worked for Cyro when there were trimmings in Havana. Larribez cleared Cuba before the big revolution. He went to the Argentine.
“He is coming in by boat — with a crew of workers who will pass as seamen down on the water front. Larribez will stay at a hotel, like yourself. You will meet him here. That completes our schedule.”
“And now?”
“Leave here and register at your hotel. Go out to the Club Caprice tonight. Start your acquaintance with Luke Gaudrin. Drop in to see me off and on.”
“It won’t excite suspicion?”
“Not at all. Many of the best people of New Orleans have apartments here in Frenchtown. They patronize the restaurants of this Quarter. In fact” — the Frenchman swelled proudly — “to be an acquaintance of Raoul Brilliard is something of a privilege!”
“Great!” declared Lence. “It looks like a grand layout, Brilliard. Au revoir, old topper. I’ll see you after I’ve been to the Club Caprice.”
An artist in an opposite studio gazed dejectedly across the courtyard as he saw Brilliard usher Lence out to the balcony. The bearded Frenchman was shaking his head emphatically and gesticulating as he dismissed his visitor.
“Lucky chap, that Brilliard,” growled the watching artist to a model attired in a Mardi Gras costume. “I’ll wager he’s turning down another portrait job.”
CHAPTER VIII
AT THE CLUB CAPRICE
TWO days later, a stocky, swarthy-faced man walked from the L & N depot at the foot of Canal Street. He spied a taxicab, stepped aboard.
“Take me to police headquarters,” he ordered.
“Old or new?” questioned the taxi driver.
“What’s the difference?” quizzed the passenger.
“Well, it all depends,” replied the cabby, with a grin. “If you parked a car and found that it’s been towed away, you’ll find it at the old station house. That’s where they haul the autos when they grab them—”
“I want to see the chief of detectives.”
“That’s different. You’ll find him up at the new place.”
FIFTEEN minutes later, Joe Cardona alighted in front of an imposing edifice that occupied an entire block. He entered the portals, made an inquiry and was directed down the corridor. Soon he was talking with the chief of detectives.
“So you’re looking for a con man, eh?” questioned the chief. “Big shot or small fry?”
“This fellow is a big shot,” replied Cardona. “Wanted for the murder of Roke Rowden, in New York. All I know about him is that he goes by the name of Cyro.”
“Never heard of him.”
Cardona laughed gruffly.
“That’s what I told the commissioner,” he said. “But you can’t argue with him. He knows that there’s a crook named Cyro; that Scotland Yard was trailing the guy; that maybe the fellow is an Englishman. But maybe again he isn’t an Englishman.”
The chief of detectives smiled.
“Anyway,” resumed Joe, “I’m here. And my best bet is to look over the field. I might have luck. I’ve had it before.”
“You say the fellow is a big shot.”
“Yes. That part of it is sure.”
“Then I’ll send you out to the Club Caprice.”
Cardona’s eyebrows lifted, as proof that he had never heard of the place the chief had mentioned.
“It’s this way, Cardona,” explained the chief. “We put the clamps on some of the gambling joints a few years ago. So they opened up some swell places outside the city limits. Since then, New Orleans has changed a bit. Many people prefer to remain in town for a good time, after repeal arrived. But the swell joints still get the business. They attract the boys with the money. If your con man is a real big shot, that’s where he’d be.”
“It’s outside your jurisdiction?”
“Yes. But we keep tabs on what happens there. Take a trip to the Club Caprice tonight. Ask for Rafferty. He will introduce you to Royal Medbrook, the man who runs the place.”
IT was after eight o’clock when Joe Cardona arrived at the Club Caprice. Staring from the window of a cab, the New York detective spied a galaxy of lights set back from the road. The cab wheeled into a tremendous driveway, rolled past deep rows of parked cars and pulled up at a pretentious doorway.
The mingled strains of a famous orchestra reached Cardona’s ears as a resplendent doorman stepped up to the cab. Cardona alighted, paid the cabby and made his way through clustered patrons into the Club Caprice.
From a center hallway, Joe viewed a mammoth nightclub. Hundreds of tables were set about a huge dance floor; beyond that, the orchestra, upon a platform that looked like a stage. Cardona recognized the glittering name of the orchestra leader, as he read it upon a banner above the platform. The leader was of nation-wide prominence.