The courtyard was shivering with the echoes of a parting laugh. Cardona caught Wayson’s arm and stopped the marksman from attempting another shot. Persuasively, Joe argued.
“He rescued us,” stated the detective. “Let him go, Wayson! He dropped those killers when he was on the balcony.”
“But he stopped me from picking off the last of the crew—”
“He wanted to make a getaway himself. That’s why.”
Joe put the argument on the basis of a hunch. He knew the identity of that sharpshooting rescuer. He realized that The Shadow must have had some purpose in permitting the flight of the last Apache. His mention of a getaway seemed to convince Wayson. The police lieutenant nodded.
“Let’s see to Debeq,” he suggested.
THEY went into the house, to find the old Frenchman cowering, uninjured, in the corner. Debeq stammered his story. The rogues had entered, apparently intent upon robbery. They had bound and gagged him, a full hour ago. Debeq had sent no message to Wayson.
“It must have been a pal who tipped me to come here,” observed Wayson to Cardona. “Some friend that knew Debeq was in trouble and was afraid he’d be killed if the cops came banging in here.”
Cardona nodded his agreement. The suggestion seemed sound. Yet, somehow, Joe could not discard the hunch that this trap had been planned to thwart his search for Cyro. Nevertheless, Joe Cardona felt nearer to his goal.
He knew that The Shadow was in New Orleans. Once again that cloaked rescuer had intervened in Joe’s behalf. In New York, Cardona’s life had been saved by The Shadow. That master fighter knew well how to foil men of crime.
Rogues of the Latin Quarter had been eliminated. Lieutenant Wayson was examining dead faces. Police were arriving from the street, to back his belief that these were merely riffraff of New Orleans. Not even Joe Cardona was ready with the theory that they might be imported killers.
But Joe did have the hunch that these dead Apaches were minions of Cyro. If so, The Shadow, too, was on the master swindler’s trail. Grimly, Joe Cardona could see that success might lay ahead. The star detective was set to remain in New Orleans.
CHAPTER XVI
THE SHADOW’S TRAIL
RAOUL BRILLIARD had termed his Apaches “rats.” Like rats they had skulked in darkness; like rats they had fought and died. One alone remained. A human rodent, seeking security, this squint-eyed ruffian had taken to a hole.
Clear of Debeq’s courtyard, the survivor had picked an obscure passage between two buildings. He was scurrying along it, stopping to breathe hard and listen for sounds of approaching police. He came to a fence. Cautiously, the Apache clambered over the barrier to a courtyard on the other side.
He thought that he had left an empty passage behind him. He was wrong. A follower had come along his trail. Unseen, unheard, The Shadow had taken up the course set by the lone survivor of the Parisian mob.
This Apache had learned the ins and outs of New Orleans. He was as familiar with this Latin Quarter as with the streets of his native Montmartre, a fact which he demonstrated as he proceeded. Ratlike, he uncovered inconspicuous spots that led from alleyways. He threaded a mazelike course through the streets of the Vieux Carre.
Hunched in his nervous, shuffling gait, the Apache avoided lighted byways. The French Quarter had been aroused. Policemen and alert detectives were converging upon the area close to Debeq’s. But none of these representatives of the law spied the slouching Apache in his circuitous flight. The man was too quick when he ducked for cover.
The Apache, however, had forgotten the weak point of his tortuous flight. He did not realize that his own penchant for dark spots would serve a pursuer who could manage the same tactics. It was not surprising that the rogue should neglect to consider that factor.
In New Orleans, as in Paris, this Apache was confident that no trailing person could match his skill at lurking. Police and detectives were like gendarmes — easily dodged, easily spied if they tried to find cover for themselves. The quick glances that the man shot over his hunched shoulders were sufficient proof — to him — that no one was on his trail.
The Apache had never heard of The Shadow. He did not know that the enemy who had sprung down from the balcony was a master at the art of pursuit. Every time the Apache dug into a sheltering cover, The Shadow, close behind, found one that suited him as well.
REACHING the end of a tiny alleyway, the Apache opened a door and sidled into the back room of a grog shop. With the shuffle of a soft-shoe dancer, he ascended a flight of darkened stairs.
Scarcely had he gone from view before the lower door opened and a blackened shape entered the deserted room. For a brief second, The Shadow appeared in cloak and slouch hat; then he merged with the darkness of the stairway.
The Apache arrived upon a balcony. A police car was rolling along the street below. The Apache watched it through the rail. While the rogue gazed, blackness loomed in the opened doorway behind him. The Shadow was within two yards of the foe whom he had spared.
Moving along the balcony, the Apache climbed a rail that separated the balcony from that of the next house. He huddled into a doorway. The Shadow saw him and glided along the same path. Reaching the adjoining house, The Shadow spied a dim stairway that the Apache had taken. The Shadow followed swiftly.
The trail led downstairs and out through a courtyard to a rear street. Reaching that point, The Shadow peered from the doorway and spied the Apache entering an alley on the opposite side of the street. A blackened form, dim between the glow of two antique lamp-posts, The Shadow glided forth and resumed the course.
The end of the trail was close. The Apache proved it by his actions on the next street. His slouching gait ended. He became a chance stroller who would have passed as an ordinary denizen of the French Quarter. In casual fashion, the rogue entered a doorway and disappeared from view.
The Shadow followed. He joined the blackness of the entrance; then moved through. He found himself in a typical Frenchtown courtyard. Above were balconies. The Apache had gone up a flight of stairs; he was knocking lightly at a doorway.
Moving inward, The Shadow reached a dull-stuccoed pillar which showed faintly in the semidarkness. Gripping thick vines that twisted snakelike across the pillar, The Shadow drew himself silently up to the balcony. As he reached the rail, he caught a glimmer of light. A door opened; the Apache stepped through. The door closed.
Close by was a shuttered window. A faint gleam shone from its slats. The Shadow drew the shutter toward him and entered a room by means of an opened window. The slight light showed a bedroom; beyond was a door through which the illumination came, for the barrier was ajar.
The Shadow glided softly across the floor. He peered through the crack of the door. He could hear the tones of a voice talking French in the street jargon of Paris. He viewed the squint-eyed Apache, talking to a bearded man who wore smock and beret. The scene was a lighted studio.
The Shadow was in the abode of Raoul Brilliard.
AS proof that he had found the spot where crime had been fostered, The Shadow viewed a third man present. Tracy Lence was seated in a corner of the studio, puzzled by the conversation which was passing between the Apache and Brilliard.
The Shadow understood the jargon; but Lence did not. The Apache spoke with many gesticulations. He imitated the thrusts of knives, the motions of revolver fire, the action of someone leaping from a high spot. When he had finished, the man leered and drew a wad of tobacco from his pocket. He twisted off a corner, half-tossed it in his mouth and began to chew while he listened to Brilliard speak.