Cardona made no comment. He caught the angle of Wayson’s rough simile. Where New York had seething crime that kept a constant level, smaller cities frequently encountered an intide of crooks who saw a happy hunting ground awaiting them. New Orleans had met this difficulty, according to Wayson.
Before Cardona could ask for further details, the lieutenant returned to his original statement.
“I said we would inquire about con men,” remarked Wayson. “We will. I’ll talk to people that I know. They don’t want customers who may make trouble for them. They’ll pass the word along. The rats won’t know anything about it.
“But if you came down here with a detective, making his rounds, some of the small fry might wonder who you were. They’d figure you for an out-of-town detective. They’d pass the word, not to help you, but to help any of their kind that might be in bad. Your man might wise to it.”
THE coupe had reached the center of the city. Wayson parked; he and Cardona alighted. A traffic cop delivered a friendly salute as they crossed the broad avenue with its four rows of streetcar tracks in the center.
“Same as Market Street in Frisco,” remarked Wayson, pointing to the tracks. “Four abreast.” Then, to a cop who was taking the number of a parked car: “Give him a break, Stevie. You won’t get the towing car for half an hour. It was heading up Claiborne when we passed it.”
The policeman grinned and waved. Wayson nudged his thumb to indicate the other side of Canal Street, the one from which they had come.
“That’s uptown,” he explained to Joe. “On that side of Canal Street. On this side is downtown. That’s the way we distinguish them. Different from most cities. First thing we strike in the downtown side is the French Quarter.
“We turn through here to begin with” — they were walking along Canal Street as he spoke — “and we’re going along the wettest alley in the world — Exchange Street. Grog shops. Keep your eye peeled.”
Night had brought illumination to Canal Street. Both sides of the broad thoroughfare were resplendent with circular globes above their stout metal lamp-posts. Exchange Street, however, presented a more garish spectacle.
Bars with open fronts, indoor cafes, amid a blaze of light. A scattering crowd threaded back and forth across the thoroughfare. Automobiles rolled slowly, honking their horns continuously.
Wayson was eyeing all about him. So was Cardona. All the while, the lieutenant acted as though pointing out the sights to a friend. A genial, baldheaded man gave a greeting. Wayson spoke to him. The fellow nodded.
The same thing happened further on. Whenever Wayson paused to chat, he kept his keen eyes roving. He was studying the medley of humanity, looking for men worth watching.
At the end of Exchange Street, Wayson turned about. He glanced at his watch, then shrugged his shoulders. His gesture signified that it was too late to begin operations.
“Tomorrow night — at eight,” decided the police lieutenant. “I’ll meet you at your hotel. We’ll head down this way, Cardona. We lost too much time with that useless trip out to the Club Caprice.”
A WELL-DRESSED man was standing near the corner. He had overheard Wayson’s words. Cardona saw the stranger, but caught only a slight view of his dignified face. He did not recognize the passer.
But as Wayson and Cardona moved toward Canal Street, a soft laugh came from the lips of the dignified stranger. He waited until Wayson and Cardona were out of sight; then began a brisk pace in the direction of a hotel, a fair-sized establishment known as the Bontezan.
Under his arm, the stranger had a briefcase. He placed it by the desk as he signed the register. The name that he wrote was Justin Oswood. The address: New York.
“I sent some luggage here,” remarked the new guest. “It bears my name.”
“We received it, Mr. Oswood,” informed the clerk. “It is in the porter’s room. We shall send the luggage up.”
In the room assigned to him, Justin Oswood smiled warily as he studied his reflection in a mirrored door. The visage that he surveyed was the one that had replaced the countenance of Lamont Cranston.
The Shadow was still in New Orleans at a new hotel, wearing a guise that would not be recognized by any who had met Lamont Cranston.
Tonight, The Shadow had visited the home of Danforth Gaudrin, a place where crime was due to fall when the Nautilus returned. He had accomplished all he needed there for the present. He did not require another visit as Cranston.
At the Club Caprice, he had learned the course that Joe Cardona was to follow. His chance observance of Cardona and Wayson had given him corroboration. Tomorrow night, while waiting for the crime that would reveal the schemes of the elusive Cyro, The Shadow would have opportunity to trail Cardona through the French Quarter.
Most important of all tonight’s episodes had been the one in which The Shadow had actually encountered men of crime. He had beaten off a band of would-be slayers. He knew that they were but a portion of a ready mob. The rogues had attacked from outside the city; but chances were that their hangout was within the limits of New Orleans.
Luck had allowed the driver of the touring car to escape with the thinned and crippled crew. To take up the trail; to seek the leader who had ordered that band to battle would be a troublesome task for The Shadow, particularly while better prospects offered.
As Justin Oswood, The Shadow could afford to wait. Lamont Cranston was gone; thugs would be lying low. When the time came, The Shadow could deal with the pals of those whom he had beaten back tonight.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MESSAGE
TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed. Midnight strollers were passing through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, where old-fashioned lamps cast mellow light that softened the scarred house fronts. The night was warm; people upon balconies overlooked the passing strollers. Keen, foreign faces formed a good proportion of those behind the upstairs rails.
Among those on the street were two who had been on the go since dusk. Cardona and Wayson had maintained a haphazard course in their combined search for Cyro. They had visited places that the police lieutenant called “two-bit joints”: twenty-five cents for a drink, a sandwich or a dance.
They had stopped in little restaurants; and for a while they had loitered about an absinthe shop that held more than the usual quota of foreigners.
Everywhere, Wayson had sown seeds that might grow. He had told persons of the French Quarter that the police were looking for a gentleman of crime — a con man who did not belong in New Orleans. He had made it plain that word of such a stranger would be appreciated.
The tour had halted in Gallion’s Restaurant, where Wayson had suggested a midnight meal. Seated at a corner table, Joe Cardona noted a balcony along the back of the main room, with an entrance to another part of the restaurant.
Monsieur Gallion, with pointed mustache, came over and chatted in French with Wayson. Then the proprietor broke into convivial Italian when introduced by Wayson to Cardona.
“Wait until we visit some water-front beaneries,” chuckled Wayson, as a waiter took their order. “You’ll hear every lingo there. But these are the spots where Cyro might be. A swindler might land a sucker at Gallion’s.”
As Wayson spoke, Cardona noted a tall, keen-visaged stranger enter the restaurant. Joe had a hunch that he had previously seen the newcomer somewhere else in the French Quarter. He did not suspect that he was looking at The Shadow.
As Justin Oswood, The Shadow had trailed Wayson and Cardona during the entire evening. Sometimes close, sometimes at a distance, he had constantly kept inconspicuous. He had heard Wayson state — hours ago — that they would wind up at Gallion’s.