“I’ll turn the place into a ballroom,” declared Andrew. “All I need is an orchestra. Can you arrange for one, Jerry?”
“Easily. Leave that to me, Andy.”
ANDREW looked toward Fanchon; then spoke to Jerry.
“Would Miss Callier be able to come with you?” he asked.
“Maybe,” laughed Jerry. “Are you free tomorrow night, Fanchon?”
“Yes,” smiled the girl, turning toward the desk. “As soon as work is over.”
“That will be early,” promised Jerry. “Fanchon, this will be a wonderful party. Andy lives down in Frenchtown. His place is big enough for a barn dance!”
“How interesting!” exclaimed Fanchon. “I have always wanted to visit the French Quarter.”
“Haven’t you been there?” inquired Andrew, in surprise.
“Scarcely at all,” responded the girl. “My home is in Baton Rouge. I have been in New Orleans only a short while.”
“And you have never dined at Gallion’s?”
Fanchon shook her head. Andrew, however, noted a sudden opening of her eyes when he mentioned the name of the celebrated restaurant.
“Of course I have heard of Gallion’s,” explained the girl. “In fact, I have gone by there, in the daytime. I have always wanted to dine there.”
“I have an idea, Jerry.” Andrew spoke to Bodwin. “Suppose both of you come along with me right now. It’s nearly six o’clock. I am going straight to Gallion’s. We can have dinner together—”
“Save that invitation, Andy,” interposed Jerry. “We have a lot of work here and will have to clear it if we expect to leave early tomorrow. Look for Fanchon and myself at about nine thirty tomorrow night. We’ll be at the party.”
“And the orchestra?”
“It will be there at eight. I’m making a note of it, right now.” Andrew arose and strolled from the office. The Shadow, motionless, saw Fanchon turn and watch the young man’s departure. Jerry Bodwin decided to dictate a letter. Fanchon produced a pad and sat down at the opposite side of the desk. The Shadow glided from the steps and moved across the courtyard.
Andrew Blouchet had gone; but he had named his destination. Dusk had arrived; it was almost evening.
It would be after dark before Andrew left Gallion’s; a fact which pleased The Shadow. He walked to the hotel where he had registered as Lamont Cranston.
MEANWHILE, another was gaining facts that concerned Andrew Blouchet. Harry Vincent, at the Hotel Bontezan, was seated in the gloom of Room 624.
Earphones upon his head, The Shadow’s agent was listening to conversation that came from Room 618.
Banjo Lobot had been absent most of the afternoon. Harry had entered the crook’s room with a special key which had come from The Shadow. Harry had planted a microphone.
He had done this in a manner prescribed by The Shadow. The mike was a tiny one, attached to the metal portion of a special electric light bulb that had come to Harry with the key. No one could detect the device; for the bulk of the bulb hid it from sight. Harry had put the bulb in a ceiling socket.
In his own room, he had attached the receiving end of the dictograph to a floor plug. All on the same circuit, the wiring that supplied current to 618 and 624 had formed a direct connection. Harry could hear all that passed in Banjo Lobot’s room.
The crook had returned; and he was talking to a visitor. Though Harry could not see the man, he managed to form a fair mental picture from the voice.
Harry was not far wrong. The man with Banjo Lobot was squatty and thick of countenance. His gruff voice was raspy; yet at times it eased. The man — as Harry guessed — was one who made a good appearance; despite the thickness of his lips; the evil glare that flickered in his eyes. Banjo, his long-jawed face leering, was reporting to this visitor.
“We’ve spotted the right mug, Ring” affirmed Banjo. “I wouldn’t have sent that wire to Saint Looey, if we hadn’t. I’m glad you’ve showed up. What’re you going to do? Register under a phony moniker?”
“Not a chance,” returned “Ring,” gruffly. “I’m taking this room, Banjo. You’re moving out. I don’t want anybody to get even an idea that Ring Stortzel is in New Orleans.”
THIS statement, when it passed across the dictograph, was most illuminating to Harry Vincent. Ring Stortzel was a notorious Chicago racketeer, who had presumably retired from illicit business. Ring had formerly been a booze baron; there were rumors that he had become the hidden hand in other forms of crime. To date, however, nothing had been pinned upon Ring Stortzel.
“Royan was the first to spot the mazuma,” explained Banjo. “I got a nod from him, up at the Delta Club. Then Trebelon slipped me the same news. The mug who passed the dough is named Andrew Blouchet. We’ve been covering him today, and when he went into the office of the Wide World Loan Company, I—”
“Never mind the rest of it,” interrupted Ring. “Get to the point, Banjo. Where is he keeping the dough?”
“In an old safe, down in his apartment. It’s in the French Quarter.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“As good as sure. Listen, Ring: Needler got into the place this afternoon, sometime after Blouchet had gone out. He went through the joint to make sure that the dough couldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Did he crack the safe?”
“No. He couldn’t figure the combination. It’s an old box, but a tough one. A French make that’s a honey! That was what cinched it, Ring. Needler Urbin knows his onions. I called him up just before you blew in; got hold of him from a pay station.”
“And Needler is sure about the safe?”
“Yeah. It’s an old-timer — the kind that most guys would laugh at, before they tried to tap it. Get it, Ring? Nobody seeing that safe would think that Blouchet would keep anything worthwhile inside it. But try to bust it. Then you know that Blouchet is foxy.”
“Could Needler soup it?”
“Sure. He could blow the safe. But he might bring down half the building with it. Anyway, we’re after Blouchet, aren’t we? I thought your gag would be to make him deliver. Then croak him afterward.”
“That’s the idea, all right; but we’ve got to know that the stuff is there, before we rub him out. If he won’t talk, Needler will have to soup the safe, if there’s no other way of opening it.”
“And keep Blouchet covered meanwhile?”
“That’s it. Here’s the system, Banjo. Corner Blouchet to begin with. Start to give him the heat. If he won’t listen, quit. Blow the safe, if he won’t open it. Snatch the mazuma if it’s there.”
“And what if it isn’t?”
“If there’s no dough — or if it’s way short — Needler will have to bring Blouchet along with him. Take the guy somewhere and give him the heat plenty.”
“You’re leaving the works to Needler?”
“Why not? He’s got the torpedoes. There’s no link between him and us. We’ll keep in the clear, Banjo. That’s what we’ve got Needler for — him and that outfit of his. He’s kept them under cover, hasn’t he?”
“Sure thing. Clear outside the city. They’re in here now, though. Needler’s seen to that.”
“Can Needler get into Blouchet’s?”
“Sure. He’s fixed that part of it.”
RING STORTZEL grunted. His over-large face was showing a gloat of anticipation. While the big-shot schemed, Banjo made other statements.
“I’ve handled my job perfect,” declared Banjo. “The fellows that we planted don’t know what it’s all about, except that they’re to watch for the serial numbers on the mazuma. Pierre Trebelon may be smart; but this is fooling him. The same goes for Swifty Bleek and Dave Royan. The rest of them, too.”
“Have they asked any questions?” put in Ring.