Short responses were all that the Apache made. He snarled them while he chewed. “Oui… Oui… Non…” Yes and no were his intermittent responses. He waited when Brilliard was through questioning him. Then the artist said:
“Allez, Tabac.”
The Apache departed by the outer door of the studio.
The Shadow remained watching from the inner room. This was the reason why he had spared the life of the lone Apache. He had divined that the fellow would weave a trail back to the man who had ordered the Parisian band on its mission of death.
“Something went wrong?” Tracy Lence put the question anxiously, after the Apache had left.
“Yes,” replied Brilliard. “This fellow — Tabac they call him, because of his chewing habit — came here to tell me the bad news. My Apaches have been wiped out.”
“What! By Cardona?”
“By Cardona and that sharpshooter, Wayson. The one man on the whole New Orleans force who could have put up so powerful a fight. Tabac says there was another — probably a friend of Debeq’s — who entered the fray from a balcony.”
“Why did Tabac come here? He might have been followed. Are you sure that no one—”
“You can’t trail an Apache,” interrupted Brilliard. “He has been in New Orleans long enough to learn the ground. He knows this Quarter perfectly. He will go into hiding. The police will not find him.”
“But the other Apaches—”
“Are dead. They will pass for natives of Frenchtown; riffraff gone berserk. Robbing Debeq; ready to kill when balked. That was the way I planned it, after receiving orders from Cyro, yesterday.”
“By telephone at Thibault’s?”
Brilliard did not reply. He was thinking of tonight’s episode. He resumed his comment.
“APACHES spotted Cardona and Wayson early in the evening. They picked Debeq’s house as the best spot for their trap. One went in and told Wayson Debeq wanted to see him. Apparently, Wayson fell for it, thinking that Debeq had information.
“The police will class it as a robbery. They will never suspect that these men were from Paris. You see, now, Lence, why I kept mobsmen from the job. This town would have been stirred up if out-of-town gangsters had been in the game.
“Hotels would be watched. All suspicious-looking strangers would be in trouble. As it is, we have lost a squad of shock troops. But we have learned something of value. Tabac told me what Wayson has been saying to certain people.”
“About Cardona?”
“Yes — in a sense. Wayson has let it out that they are looking for a con man from New York. They’re trying to get a line on him by watching all strangers who look like swindlers. Which means that you are safe.”
“Why so?”
“Because no description was given. They don’t know whom they are after. You pass as a gentleman. That is why Cyro picked you. Go back to a hotel tomorrow or the day after. Resume your acquaintance with Luke Gaudrin. But hold off on a visit to the house. We’ll wait until the Nautilus is due.”
“Cyro’s orders?”
“Yes. As for the Apaches, we will not need them. Jose Larribez will reach New Orleans on the Steamship Tarrano, from Pernambuco. He will be here before the Nautilus sails into Lake Pontchartrain.”
“With his crew?”
“Yes. Some are aboard the same ship. They will settle on the water front. They will acquire others there. I had my Apaches ready only in case Larribez could not get here in time.”
“Larribez will go to a hotel?”
“Certainly. He is supposed to be a wealthy citizen of Buenos Aires. No one knows that he was a Porrista in Havana. He will have contact with his crew. Larribez has orders to come here the night he arrives.”
“You know him by sight?”
“I have never met him. Like yourself, he is a stranger to me. But I know when to expect him. That is sufficient. He will introduce himself as you did.”
“Then I’m to be here when he arrives?”
“Certainly. We three are equals, as lieutenants of Cyro. The first on the ground, I have been the one entrusted to receive the orders. That is all.”
Tracy Lence arose from his chair.
“I’ll go back to the apartment,” he remarked. “Since we’re sure Cardona hasn’t spotted me, I’ve got nothing to worry about. Sorry about your mob, Brilliard—”
“I’m not,” broke in the Frenchman. “I won’t have to bother about getting them back to Paris. Link Ruckert lost a few men in a fight last night; but he still has plenty. With Link working under you and Jose Larribez supplying his own outfit, we’ll be ready for the pay-off.”
Tracy Lence strolled out. Raoul Brilliard closed the door and bolted it. He turned toward the inner room. When he arrived there, he stepped into a spot where The Shadow no longer lingered.
A closing shutter wavered momentarily as Brilliard reached the bedroom. The artist did not see that final motion that indicated the departure of a living presence. Outside, The Shadow was descending the stairway that led to the inner court.
FIFTEEN minutes later, Justin Oswood strolled into the lobby of the Hotel Bontezan. He was carrying a folded garment over his arm. It was black and inconspicuous; it passed for a light overcoat.
In his room, the guest removed that garment. From pockets in its inner folds, he removed automatics; then thin black gloves; finally, a slouch hat that he had folded into small compress. The garment, itself, showed as a black cloak with crimson lining that had been folded from view.
Justin Oswood pressed the light switch. In darkness, he became a different being. From the window of his room, a strange personage looked out across New Orleans, where the broad line of Canal Street formed a glimmering boulevard whereon toy trolley cars moved between the traffic of tiny automobiles.
The laugh of The Shadow whispered softly through the room. Burning eyes had turned the direction of their gaze toward the lowlying buildings of the Vieux Carre. There, in the French Quarter, The Shadow had fought tonight. After victory in battle, he had enjoyed another triumph.
By stealth, he had found the men he wanted. Lence and Brilliard, lieutenants of Cyro, had discussed their plans within The Shadow’s range of hearing. His strategy in sparing Tabac had brought dividends. One more lieutenant to be watched: Jose Larribez, when that new villain arrived.
Then would final plans be ready. Then would Cyro’s lieutenants move. A soft laugh showed that The Shadow was contemplating some counterstroke that would nullify their efforts. A move that would do more: one that might lead to the unknown chief of evil, Cyro, himself.
The Shadow stepped from the window. He picked up a telephone in the darkness. He spoke, not in a weird whisper, but in the easy drawl that suited the character of Justin Oswood. As Oswood, he was sending a night telegram to New York.
The message pertained to securities. It was to an investment broker named Rutledge Mann. But the stocks and bonds mentioned in that message carried a hidden meaning. They pertained to persons — not to investments — to agents whom Mann, as contact, would summon to obey The Shadow’s needs.
CHAPTER XVII
TWO NIGHTS LATER
“NOTHING new, Rafferty,” declared Royal Medbrook from behind his office desk. “Take a look at the sheets if you want.”
“Never mind, Royal,” returned Rafferty, with a grin. “I’ll take your word for it. The New York dick is still in town and I’ve got to keep him posted.”
“Certainly. I suppose he’s still scouring the French Quarter, along with Lieutenant Wayson.”
“Yeah. But they’d have given it up if it hadn’t been for that brawl at Debeq’s.”