Maxwell Grant
Mardi Gras Mystery
CHAPTER I. THE EBONY BOX
THE Mardi Gras had reached its final hour. New Orleans was a city that teemed with its spirit of Carnival. Beneath the brilliance of Canal Street, throngs persisted in their revelry, amid the remnants of festooned decorations that had marked the last day’s celebration.
This was Mardi Gras Day, itself. The climax to three weeks of intermittent merrymaking. By day, the pageant of Rex had rolled along Canal Street, with all its marchers and its mammoth floats bedecked with tinsel. The wide thoroughfare had been packed with humanity, pressed to the edges of the narrow strip allotted to the grand parade.
Evening had brought Comus, with the last display of pageantry. Flares of vari-colored lights had accompanied this brilliant procession. Then crowds had spread, to carry their hilarity everywhere, in one last outburst of enthusiasm.
Masqueraders, detaching themselves from more sedate spectators, were seeking the streets of the old Latin Quarter. This district, the Vieux Carre, formed a natural magnet for those who embarked in revelry.
Small wonder; for the Latin Quarter remained as a relic of old New Orleans. It was from streets as these that the Mardi Gras had risen, more than a century before.
This modern Mardi Gras had centered about the superb pageantry of Momus; of Proteus, Rex and Comus. Yet with all the festivities held by those resplendent groups, the lure of the Vieux Carre had not been forgotten.
Here was the mellow glow of antiquated street lamps, that healed the scars of long-built walls. Balconies, where faces peered from decorative rails. Cut through by Royal Street — Rue Royale to the old French — the narrow thoroughfares of the quaint French Quarter formed settings that masked strollers sought in preference to the wide sweep of Canal Street.
Many of the masked mummers had chosen costumes that were bizarre or outlandish. Turbaned Hindus stalked with Malay pirates. Pierrots, clowns, Mephistos — all were in evidence. But among this medley were others more in keeping with their surroundings. They were the ones whose costumes resembled the styles that had existed when New Orleans was young.
STROLLING along the Rue Royale was a young man garbed as a French colonial gentleman — a style that had prevailed in New Orleans two centuries ago. Silk hose and knee breeches were topped by a lavish waistcoat, which, in turn, was enveloped beneath a long coat with large cuffed sleeves.
Upon his head he wore a wig, which was covered by a three-cornered hat. Beside him he carried a rapier, sheathed in its scabbard. This stroller was masked; through the eyeholes of his domino he surveyed the other passers curiously, while his lips formed a disdainful smile.
There was a reason for this masquerader’s superior attitude. He felt himself apart from the boisterous throng. To the others, Mardi Gras Day was a glorified Halloween; to this young man, the occasion held tradition. His choice of costume had not been a random one. It had been in keeping with the locale of New Orleans.
For Andrew Blouchet, the wearer of that costume, was the last of an old Louisiana family. His present attire was cut to the same fashion as that of the first Blouchet who had ventured to America. Andrew had seen that it was tailored to resemble the exact attire shown in an old family portrait.
Had the others chosen to preserve tradition, Mardi Gras, in Andrew’s opinion, would be a most picturesque event. For that reason, Andrews had appeared in one of the tableaux given this night; and he had enjoyed the sight of costumes that were similar to his own. Returning homeward, he had lowered his mask, that passers might not recognize him. He did not want to be considered as a mere masquerader intent upon midnight frolic.
Turning from Royal Street, Andrew slowed his pace. He was away from the heavier throng; here, the Vieux Carre held a charm that captured his imagination. Ignoring the costumes of those he met; noting only their laughter, Andrew could picture himself in the city of long ago, where adventure might be had at any corner.
Another turn brought him to the front of Gallion’s restaurant. This was a place that Andrew liked; for Gallion’s, though under new management, had retained its reputation for rare French cuisine. Pausing outside the door, Andrew was tempted to indulge in a midnight meal, for he usually ate a late supper at Gallion’s. Then the recollection of a heavy dinner made him smile and change his mind.
Before Andrew could pace onward, the door of Gallion’s opened and a crew of merrymakers surged forth. Among them was a tall man in a Harlequin costume, carrying a banjo. He was strumming a tune and his long-jawed features showed a grin. This man, however, was masked; Andrew caught no more than a general impression of the fellow’s face.
Those with the banjo player were an odd assortment of masqueraders, who had apparently formed a chance group. They were singing while the banjo artist strummed his tune. Andrew stepped aside to let the group ramble on their way. Then, with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, he followed slowly in the same direction.
Not far past Gallion’s, a girl was standing near a doorway, peering toward the group that was advancing.
The banjo player paused, that the girl might notice his skill at melody. Apparently, he was inviting her to join the group of singers. Andrew saw the girl shake her head; the strolling crowd continued on its way.
THE girl was in costume. She was wearing a short-skirted ballet dress; and as Andrew approached, he noted that her face was masked. Her left arm was pressed against the side of the doorway; and as Andrew drew closer, he saw that she was holding an object that she had previously kept from view.
This was a flat, black box that glistened with a polish. It looked like a large jewel box of ebony; the corners and the hinges were of silver. Curiously, Andrew eyed the girl more carefully, but did not pause in his pace. It was the girl herself who brought him to a stop.
Just as Andrew reached the doorway, the girl stepped forward. She darted quick glances in both directions. Then, with her right hand, she gripped Andrew’s arm.
As the young man halted, the girl spoke. Her tone, though tense, was modulated.
“Here is the box,” stated the girl. While Andrew gaped, she thrust the ebony object into his hands. “Be sure to keep it hidden until you are alone.”
“The box?” queried Andrew. “But — but — why—”
“Hide it,” insisted the girl. “It is important that no one should know that you have received it. Please put the box out of sight.”
“There is some mistake,” objected Andrew. “Really, I know nothing about the matter!”
“I understand,” smiled the girl. Her tone was confident, more natural. “Please! Put the box away. I see some people coming in this direction.”
Mechanically, Andrew obeyed. Protests were useless; the girl’s assurance won. As Andrew slipped the box into a wide inside pocket of his copious cloak, the girl produced a small silver key, which she handed to the recipient of the box.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “Do not let anyone see you unlock the box. You will understand when you find the contents. Everything will be explained.”
Andrew was looking at the key. It was oddly shaped and curious in design. He turned to speak to the girl. He was too late. She had already turned and was walking hastily away, taking the direction from which Andrew had come. The girl had passed the door of Gallion’s restaurant. She was mingling with a group near the corner.
For a moment, Andrew thought of overtaking her; of repeating his belief that a mistake had been made.
Then he realized that his hesitation had given the girl time to hurry toward Royal Street, where he would have but little chance of finding her again. Moreover, her last words had somewhat dispelled his doubt.