BRILLIARD was smiling as he raised his hand in interruption. Lence stopped short.
“Mobsters in the Vieux Carre,” clucked the artist, shaking his head. “The police could pick them out as easily as I could discover a copy in the midst of a gallery of original Rembrandts.
“You have made the usual mistake, Lence. Old houses, courtyards, foreign faces — all these have given you the impression that the French Quarter of New Orleans is a lurking spot for crooks. You are wrong.
“You have seen that the Quarter is well policed. Certainly. Trouble breaks out here at intervals that are not infrequent. But it is local trouble. A criminal seeking seclusion here after commission of a crime would be placing his head squarely in a noose.
“Link Ruckert and his gorillas pass muster where they are. There are plenty of lowbrow visitors who come into New Orleans at this time of year. But the Quarter belongs to the French, the Spaniards and the Italians who gained a foothold in this section.”
Brilliard paused with a smile. Lence appeared puzzled.
“You wonder why Link Ruckert is here,” remarked the Frenchman. “I thought I made that plain. His gorillas, Lence, are waiting for the payoff; I thought I made that clear. Nevertheless, my friend, you have given me an idea.”
“Regarding Cardona?”
“Yes. His elimination may be accomplished with the aid of my Apaches. They are passing as bona fide dwellers in the Vieux Carre. They are like rats, Lence, when it comes to finding shelter.
“Leave this task to me. All that I need is a description of the man Cardona. Write it here, Lence” — Brilliard extended a pad and pencil — “then leave and take up your residence as Richard Guyas. Come back here this evening.”
“You won’t have to communicate with Cyro?”
“Cyro communicates with me. Every afternoon, when I sip my chocolate at Thibault’s, there may be a letter, or perhaps a call upon the telephone. It is not until tomorrow that we must have to act. There will be time, my friend.”
“All right,” agreed Lence. “I’ll stroll along then, Brilliard. When shall I come back?”
“Demain,” replied Brilliard, picking up brush and palette.
“Tomorrow?” questioned Lence, to make sure.
“Oui,” replied Brilliard. “Yes — tomorrow. I have an engagement for this evening.”
LENCE departed. Brilliard resumed his work. He began to hum; his voice arose in song and drifted out through the open door to the little courtyard.
Noon arrived; the artist had completed the task. With cocked head he was surveying the finished portrait when new visitors arrived upon the threshold.
“Ah! Mademoiselle Gaudrin!” exclaimed Brilliard, as he recognized Alicia. “Comment-vous portez-vous ce matin?”
“I’m feeling grand, Monsieur Brilliard,” laughed the girl. “But please omit the French conversation. You already know that I can not speak the language.”
“Eet ees too bad, mademoiselle,” agreed Brilliard, resorting to broken English. “Here in ze New Orleans, you do not speak le Francais.”
“I told you that I studied German in boarding school.”
“I remember eet, mademoiselle. All ze same, eet ees one grand meesfortune. In thees city, where live so many of my countrymen, eet ees every one who should know ze language which they speak.”
Brilliard made a profound bow with this assertion. Then he noted Alicia’s companion. With the girl was a young man whom the Frenchman apparently did not recognize.
“This is Mr. Exeter,” introduced Alicia. “He talks French perfectly, Monsieur Brilliard.”
“C’est vrai?” questioned the artist, turning to the Australian.
“Absolutement,” responded Exeter, with a nod.
Brilliard put another question; Exeter replied. Then came more rapid words; almost immediately, the two broke into a voluble conversation.
Alicia looked on laughing. Brilliard was speaking with gesticulations. Exeter, proficient in the French language, was acting in the same fashion.
Questions, jests and chuckling repartee passed rapidly. The girl was bewildered by the flow of conversation. Then it took a serious vein.
Exeter listened, nodding, while Brilliard explained something. He came back with pointed responses which pleased the Frenchman. Then the discourse ended abruptly. Brilliard turned to Alicia and indicated the portrait on the easel.
“C’est fini, mademoiselle,” he explained.
“It is finished,” added Exeter.
“I managed to gather that much,” laughed Alicia. “Well, Monsieur Brilliard, does this mean that you can begin upon my portrait?”
“Bientot, mademoiselle. Eet ees soon that I can commence. Eet ees to your house that I must come—”
“Certainly. I should like you to come there tonight.”
“Impossible, mademoiselle—”
“Not to begin the portrait, monsieur, merely to be my guest at dinner. I should like you to meet my father.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. But eet must be some other night. I have ze appointment for thees evening.”
“I see. Suppose then, a few days from now—”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
As the visitors turned to leave, Brilliard opened a new conversation with Exeter. The two were laughing over some jest as Exeter and Alicia went down the stairway.
OUTSIDE, Exeter spoke to Alicia.
“Suppose we lunch at Gallion’s,” he suggested. “We have been there before. Oysters Rockefeller, Shrimps a la Creole, a bottle of Sauterne—”
“Excellent,” agreed the girl. “Come along. We’ll walk over by the Rue Royale. Well, Reggie, did you enjoy your visit with Monsieur Brilliard?”
“Immensely,” replied Exeter.
“So it seemed,” said Alicia, “the way you two began to chat. What in the world did you find to talk about?”
“Paris,” stated Exeter. “As soon as Brilliard learned that I knew the city, it was hard to stop his talking. He referred to a lot of places that I recognized. He was beginning anecdotes when we left.”
“You should stop by again and chat with him for an hour.”
“Perhaps I shall. It would be interesting. Well, here’s Royal Street. Only a block to Gallion’s.”
BACK in his studio, Raoul Brilliard had removed the portrait from its easel. He busied himself rearranging the studio; then spent a while cleaning palette and brushes. More than an hour had passed before he finished.
Strolling from the studio, Brilliard carefully locked the door behind him. He waved a greeting to the artist across the way and called something in French. The other man nodded.
“What did he say?” inquired the model, after Brilliard had gone down the stairs.
“Just wanted me to tell people he was out,” replied the artist. “He’s going to Thibault’s for a cup of chocolate. He won’t be back for a couple of hours.”
“A couple of hours!” exclaimed the model. “That long for a cup of chocolate?”
“When Frenchmen drink chocolate,” chuckled the artist, “they’re like the English with their tea. They take half the afternoon for the job.”
CHAPTER XII
THE SHADOW DECIDES
DINNER had ended at the Gaudrin mansion. The event had proven a gala one for both Danforth Gaudrin and his son Luke. Each had entertained a guest; both the honored visitors were millionaires.
Dunwood Marr and Lamont Cranston had found much in common. Mutual acquaintances, common interest in aviation and love of travel had been their subjects of discourse. Yet it had been plain from the start that their impressions had differed. Marr mentioned the fact while they were sipping coffee and lighting their cigars.
“I still like seaplanes, Cranston,” he observed. “They give you the water-thrill of a speed boat, combined with the zest of flight. Landings are uniform as a rule; but choppy water can give you all the excitement you desire. I’ve tried an autogiro once. I didn’t care for it.”