Then came a rippling laugh, suppressed to a shuddering whisper. The light clicked out. Swishing sounds came from the gloom. The door opened. Into a silent, deserted corridor stepped a figure cloaked in black.
The Shadow followed the corridor to a flight of little-used stairs. He went up one floor, turned left and arrived at a door which he knew must be the inner room of Larribez’s suite. The Shadow probed the lock with his pick. The door opened when he softly turned the knob.
The room was dark, but rays of light penetrated from the doorway to the living room. Closing the outer door behind him, The Shadow softly locked it and stepped toward the connecting door. Feet scuffed in the other room. The door swung open. The Shadow deftly swerved behind it as Larribez entered and turned on the light.
The dark-faced man began to unpack a bag. The door, almost fully opened, prevented him from seeing the figure that stood behind it. While Larribez was still placing articles in a bureau drawer, there was a soft knock at the outer door of the living room.
Larribez went to answer it. He turned out the bedroom light while on the way; but he left the door open.
The Shadow heard someone enter the living room. Peering through the crack of the door, he observed a stocky, rough-faced fellow who had entered.
“They’re getting set,” announced the arrival. “Down at a joint called the Cafe Internationale — a water-front beanery run by a Frenchy named Michlieu.”
“I know the place,” replied Larribez, in a slightly foreign accent. “But it is not the one that I should have chosen. There are too many other people there.”
“Downstairs, yes,” admitted the other man. “But Michlieu’s got an upstairs joint for the overflow. I told him I was trying to get a crew for a tramp steamer. I paid him for the use of the upstairs room.”
“Excellent, Dombar!” decided Larribez. “You can make your headquarters there.”
“And I’ll stay there,” added Dombar, “I’m wanted in this town for that mutiny on the Stellar five years ago. Nobody knows I’m the guy that crowned the skipper with a belaying pin, but—”
“Forget your previous murders, Dombar,” interposed Larribez, calmly. “The other men have all performed similar deeds. That is why I chose them and brought them here. You are in charge only because you are an American. When will the crew assemble?”
“Inside an hour. Password is the one you gave me: Cajobabo. I’ve passed the word to the ones I know; they’ll get it to the rest.”
“And all will soon be acquainted. All right, Dombar. You must return to the Cafe Internationale. Call me by the telephone after this — unless you hear from me, through someone with the countersign.”
The door closed. Jose Larribez was alone. The ex-Porrista made a few notations at the writing desk; then turned to reenter the bedroom. Jose Larribez was totally oblivious to the fact that his conversation with Dombar had been overheard.
Yet every word of that brief talk had reached The Shadow’s ears. Already, the unseen listener was completing plans for an immediate campaign.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHADOW’S THRUST
THE Cafe Internationale occupied a shoddy building not far from the water front. On the fringe of the Vieux Carre, the place was a meeting spot for seamen coming back and forth between the city and their ships.
More than that, it was a rendezvous for men of all nations. Michlieu had given his joint an appropriate name. The babel of many tongues was commonplace in the stone-walled room of this water-front den.
Ordinarily, the cafe was a peaceful beanery. The presence of so many nationalities caused confusion; but also served as a preventative against riots. As a rule, no group predominated in sufficient force to start massed trouble. Brawls usually ended with the arrival of the police.
Michlieu was not famed for the quality of his cuisine. His forte was to supply varied foods, attractive to the many foreign seamen simply because they were dishes found in their own lands. Drinks, too, were of considerable variety.
In this hangout, Chinamen swallowed rice whisky at the same tables where rugged Germans ordered steins of lager. Spaniards from the Latin Quarter met with men who spoke their own tongue: sailors from South American countries. On this night, a sprinkling of Brazilians were present. These were members of the crew from the Tarrano, who chatted in Portuguese.
There were others from the Tarrano who talked in Spanish, along with a few of Dombar’s ilk: Americans who had come with the same ship. These members of the crew did not seat themselves in tables about the lower room. Instead, they strolled past toward a stairway that led to the second floor.
Occasionally, intruders made for that stairway. The hard-boiled waiters let them pass. But they observed that these unwanted seamen invariably came downstairs after a brief argument with someone above.
Behind the Cafe Internationale was a low-roofed building that offered access to the second floor. Standing by the wall of this adjoining structure was a huge African, attired in grimy overalls. He looked like a stoker from some ship.
A square-shouldered man came strolling past. He, too, was roughly clad. As he paused to light a cigarette, the flame showed his face as a clean-chiseled countenance.
“Ready, Jericho?” questioned the newcomer, in a whisper.
“All set, Mr. Marsland,” returned the African. “Tell me when to start.”
“I’m waiting for Hawkeye. You’ll see us go in.”
CLIFF MARSLAND, agent of The Shadow, moved away. Further along, he passed another man of his own build. This was Harry Vincent, also of The Shadow’s forces. They had come here from New York, in response to orders through Rutledge Mann.
A hunched figure appeared on the opposite sidewalk. Cliff spoke to Harry and received a low reply. The new arrival was “Hawkeye.” Cliff crossed and met the newcomer. Once a crook, now reformed, Hawkeye was here to serve The Shadow. He looked like a roustabout in his present attire.
Harry Vincent, alone again, heard a strange whisper from the darkness. He could not see the person who had uttered it; but he recognized the signal. He had heard The Shadow’s whisper earlier tonight. Harry had brought the other agents to the vicinity of the Cafe Internationale.
Harry signaled with his hand. Cliff Marsland and Hawkeye strolled toward the cafe. Harry followed. Jericho waited at his post. Then, with the slouch of a lazy Goliath, the big African moved along. He stooped as he entered the portals of the Cafe Internationale.
The place was crowded. Jericho lounged through the smoke-filled room, where the aromas of many tobaccos formed a nauseating medley. He spied the stairway. Stooping, Jericho ascended. He was stopped by a wiry ruffian at the top.
“What you want here?” questioned the man.
“Cajobabo,” returned Jericho, with a grin.
The fellow surveyed the African giant. He nudged his thumb toward the door. Jericho entered. Men stopped talking as he appeared. One arose. It was Dombar.
“Who let you in?” quizzed the ugly faced man. “Wasn’t there a fellow here at the door?”
“I gave the word,” replied Jericho, still grinning. “Cajobabo was it.”
Dombar looked about. He caught shrugs of shoulders and shakes of heads. None of the outfit claimed Jericho as one of their mates.
“Where did you hear this Cajobabo?” demanded Dombar, defiantly.
“Out at the door,” returned Jericho. “I says how do ya get in here, mister? He says ‘Cajobabo’—”
“Yeah? We’ll ask him.”
Dombar strode to the door. Jericho slouched after him. They faced the ruffian who was on guard. Standing at the top of the steps, Dombar growled:
“Why did you let this man in here?”