Leaping to the wheel, The Shadow started the bullet-riddled cab. Shots had been for the body — not for tires, tank or motor. The cab responded. The Shadow drove it roaring, past cars that had halted in their path from the city. Racing the motor to full speed, he whizzed into the city limits of New Orleans.
NOT long afterward, Lamont Cranston appeared in the lobby of the hotel where he was stopping. His usually immaculate attire bore slight traces of grime; that fact, however, was not noticed by the elevator operator.
Reaching his room, The Shadow changed his clothes. He packed his bags; then summoned the porter and arranged for his luggage to be expressed to New York, save for a briefcase that he intended to carry with him.
Going down to the lobby, The Shadow checked out, still in the quiet manner of Lamont Cranston. He left the key; but he did not go from the hotel. Instead, he returned to his floor. The door was unlocked as he had left it.
Opening the briefcase, he produced a make-up box. Surveying his countenance in a mirror, he laughed softly and began to remold his masklike features. His visage changed beneath the pressure of his finger tips. When The Shadow’s work was completed, his face was fuller and heavier than that of Lamont Cranston. It still carried its hawklike semblance; that was all.
The Shadow strolled from the hotel room. He descended to the lobby, walked out and strode briskly toward bright lights that glittered along Canal Street. His gait, his manner — both had undergone a change as marked as that of his countenance.
TWO hours after the episode on the highway, two men arrived at the Club Caprice and asked for Rafferty. One was Joe Cardona; the other, a tall, square-shouldered man. Although clad in civilian attire, this individual had the military bearing of an army officer. His face was as square-set as his frame.
Rafferty conducted the two to Medbrook’s office. The gambler arose and extended his hand, first to Cardona, then to the detective’s companion.
“Well, well,” chuckled Royal. “Lieutenant Wayson. You’re in good company, Cardona. Wayson is the best police instructor in the country. An expert on small arms—”
“Cardona knows all that, Medbrook,” interposed Wayson, in a deep tone. “The chief gave him the details when he introduced us this afternoon. You know my duties. I confine myself entirely to revolver practice.”
“During the day,” laughed Medbrook. “And in the evenings, you see the town. What are you going to do — take Cardona around the French Quarter? Looking for a con man who might be picking off the saps who come to town?”
“That’s just what we intend to do,” informed Wayson. “But that comes later, Medbrook — beginning with tomorrow night. The reason I’m out here now is to find out what I can about that trouble on the highway.”
“You mean that battle between a touring car and a taxi? We heard about it here — that’s all. Anyway, it was outside the city limits, wasn’t it?”
Royal eyed Wayson sharply. The police officer nodded his acknowledgment.
“It doesn’t come under our jurisdiction,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t prevent our finding out what you know about it. I’m here ex-officio.”
“I understand,” stated Royal. “Well, lieutenant, I’d like to help you out; but frankly; I don’t know a thing about it. The whole affair was off the premises of the Club Caprice. We only received a second-hand rumor that there’d been a fight.”
“The cab showed up in New Orleans,” remarked Wayson. “It was found in a parking lot. The driver arrived later; he said he’d picked up a passenger from here.”
“Any description of the rider?”
“None. The fellow poked a gun muzzle up against the driver’s neck and made him pull over. He let the driver run for it.”
“And then the fight began?”
“That’s it. He heard the shots; then he saw his cab roll away. That’s all he told us.”
The telephone bell rang. Medbrook answered it. He spoke briefly.
“Came in, you say?” inquired Medbrook. “I see… Checked out right afterward… Gone to New York… All right… No, never mind… That’s all I need to know…”
The gambler smiled as he hung up the receiver.
“Just checking on a customer,” he remarked. “A stranger we didn’t know enough about. He looks all right, though. No, he wasn’t one that we thought might be Cyro” — Medbrook shook his head as he saw Cardona about to interrupt — “we were afraid this fellow was a professional gambler, getting a line on the way we run things.”
This statement ended, Royal Medbrook tapped the desk in meditation; then looked at Wayson.
“There’ve been tough birds around lately,” he declared. “But I don’t think they amount to much. They’ve kept their noses out of our business; and I guess they’re wise enough to stay outside the city limits, too. They were probably after some fellow in the cab; but I can’t figure who he was. A lot of customers went out of here tonight.”
Wayson seemed satisfied with the explanation. He arose, motioned to Cardona and the two departed.
OUTSIDE the Club Caprice they entered a coupe that belonged to Wayson and headed cityward.
“We’ll take a stroll down toward Frenchtown,” decided Wayson. “Just to look around tonight; but tomorrow we can make some inquiries about this chap Cyro. Seems to me I heard some talk about him when I was in Jamaica, a few years ago.”
“You were on service there?” asked Cardona.
“Yes,” laughed Wayson. “Jamaica, the Philippines, Hawaii, Algeria, China — I’ve been everywhere. Old pals of mine are always dropping in to see me. I show them the high spots of New Orleans. Unofficially.”
“You think Cyro might be in the Latin Quarter?”
“Possibly. Let me explain how things are down there, Cardona. To begin with, there are a lot of places that look tough to people who don’t know them. Up North, they would be mobster hangouts. But they aren’t down here.”
“Why not?”
“Gangs find the New Orleans climate unhealthy. Medbrook brought out that fact when we talked to him. Gangsters keep quiet inside our city limits. Mobs follow rackets — and a racketeer can’t get to first base in New Orleans. The town has its riffraff, but they move openly. We watch the places where they go; and we keep an eye on them.
“If a local rowdy decided he’d become a big shot, we’d step on him as soon as he began to organize. If a big shot blows in from another city, he finds himself up against it when he tries to organize a crew. If he tries to import his own gorillas, we can spot them like daisies in a wheat field.”
“Then gangsters stay clear of New Orleans?”
“No. A lot of them visit here. But they mind their business. The layout doesn’t look right. That’s all. There are too many people belonging here who can’t see the idea of outsiders starting trouble with the cops.”
“Then the French Quarter stays quiet?”
“Not all the time. In a sense, it’s never quiet. Anything may happen there. Same way along the water front. Look at it this way, Cardona. The Hudson River is pretty big at New York, isn’t it?”
“More than a mile wide.”
“Well, suppose it began to rise — twenty or thirty feet. It would be tough for Manhattan, wouldn’t it?”
Cardona nodded.
“Well, out there” — Wayson pointed toward the foot of Canal Street, along which they were riding — “we’ve got the Mississippi and it rises. But it doesn’t wash us out because we have the levees. Higher than the level of the streets.
“We handle crime something like the river. We know it’s due for rises. And when it’s low, there’s liable to be an influx from outside. That’s when the levees show how useful they can be. We have them built. They are ready when we need them.”