“No,” replied Banjo. “I’m the only one that’s in the know. But suppose they do ask questions—”
“Tell them all you know,” ordered Ring. “It won’t matter if they get wise to the lay.”
“But you said to keep mum—”
“Sure. But that was before the dough showed up. It’s different, now that we’ve spotted Blouchet.
Providing, of course, that he has all of the mazuma—”
“O.K., Ring.”
Ring Stortzel arose.
“Where’s Needler?” he demanded. “Can you get hold of him in a hurry?”
“Sure. By telephone. He can call in the crew at any time.”
“All right. Go outside and get in touch with him. Tell him to post the outfit and then work from inside. Soon after Blouchet shows up. Have him let the mug get settled before he barges in on him. Everything’s clear for Needler, isn’t it?”
“Sure thing! There’ll be nobody in there but him and Blouchet. Unless someone comes along with Blouchet.”
“Let them. A few more won’t matter. It may be all the better. Tell Needler to call in just enough torpedoes to do a neat job. He can leave the rest outside to cover.”
THE conversation ended. From his room, Harry Vincent could hear the closing of a door that marked Banjo’s departure. The rustling of newspaper told that Ring had remained and was looking over a daily journal.
Harry Vincent stared from the window. It was completely dark; New Orleans twinkled with brilliant lights, except for one area that Harry could view close by. There the illumination was less; more like a feeble glow that came from narrow streets, thickly blocked with buildings.
That was the Vieux Carre. The old section of New Orleans carried a sinister spell, as though its very bulk anticipated the crime that was due tonight. Harry paced the room, his hands clenched tensely. There was no way to call The Shadow. He had been instructed to await word from his chief.
The telephone bell tingled one minute later. Harry hurriedly answered the call. His voice was tense. He heard the quiet tone of Lamont Cranston, in response. The Shadow was on the wire. A question that he put seemed irrelevant; but it was actually an inquiry to learn if Harry had a report. Harry replied in the affirmative. The Shadow ordered him to buy some cigars in a store near the Hotel Bontezan.
Donning hat and coat, Harry went directly to the appointed place. While he was purchasing the perfectos, a bell rang from a telephone booth. Harry grinned at the clerk.
“Guess it’s for me,” remarked The Shadow’s agent. “I left word for a friend of mine, telling him that I might be here.”
Harry answered the telephone. It was The Shadow. From within the closed booth, Harry delivered a rapid verbatim report from shorthand notes of the conversation that he had heard between Banjo Lobot and Ring Stortzel.
The Shadow’s quiet tones responded. The master sleuth was giving instructions to his agent. Brief, but precise, those orders made their impress upon Harry. The call ended. Harry heard the click of the receiver at the other end.
Though his task was clear, Harry stood puzzled. He had work to do; a part to play. Yet his duty, though direct, was simple. It offered no solution to the menace that threatened Andrew Blouchet, unless some startling changes might be made in the approaching circumstances.
Yet Harry — through both duty and experience — was ready to obey. He was confident that matters beyond his comprehension would be handled by The Shadow.
CHAPTER VIII. THE OPENED BOX
ONE hour had passed. Harry Vincent was seated in an obscure corner of Gallion’s restaurant, finishing a cup of coffee and holding a lighted cigarette. He had paid his check; he was deliberately stalling. For Harry was watching Andrew Blouchet. Such had been The Shadow’s order.
Andrew had dined more heavily than Harry. He had been here when The Shadow’s agent had arrived.
At last, Andrew finished his meal; Harry watched the young man leave the restaurant. Then, without attracting the attention of Pierre Trebelon, Harry also departed.
There was no difficulty in trailing Andrew Blouchet, for it was obvious that he was going toward his apartment, and Harry had learned the location from The Shadow. Moreover, Andrew was easily identified by his leisurely gait and a conspicuous swing that he gave his arms.
At times, Harry saw Andrew’s head turn slightly as the stroller passed a street lamp. On those occasions, Harry caught clear views of Andrew’s face.
Though Harry had never spoken to the man, he believed that Andrew Blouchet would be a pleasant chap to know. Andrew’s expression was a frank one; his manner looked friendly. His face was handsome; and his smile, though almost a grin, had no smirkiness about it. Despite his carefree demeanor, Andrew Blouchet had a determined air that made Harry believe that the fellow would be a good fighter in a pinch.
That fact, Harry decided, might have some bearing upon episodes that were due tonight.
They were nearing Andrew’s apartment, and Harry had lingered far behind. From a corner well-distant, he saw Andrew enter the archway that led to his residence.
Harry resumed his stroll; as he neared the entrance, he stopped and looked at one building, then another.
He saw the address over the arched entrance. By the dim light of a street lamp he found a bell marked “Andrew Blouchet.” He pushed it. There was another outside bell, but it had no nameplate upon it.
A light had appeared in the upstairs apartment on the right. That was Andrew’s. There was no light, however, in the windows on the left. The studio of Duvale, the artist, might have been empty — even unoccupied.
A click sounded at the door where Harry stood. Although the building was an old one, it had been equipped with modern apartment devices. Andrew had heard the ring of the bell; he was admitting the visitor.
Harry entered and closed the door behind him. He went through to the courtyard.
WHILE waiting, Harry had sensed a menace. There, in the hazy light from the street lamp, he had been sure that men were lurking. Hence Harry had been careful to perform no suspicious action. Knowing that crooks might be about, it was not surprising that Harry should have fancied that he was being watched.
But his impression had been more than mere imagination. Lurkers were actually quartered across the street from Andrew Blouchet’s.
Huddled spies began whispers as soon as Harry had entered. Their comments were delivered in low, harsh tones.
“Who’s that mug goin’ up? Seein’ Blouchet, ain’t he? Maybe we ought to tip off Needler.”
“Naw. He’ll be wise. He slid in twenty minutes ago. If he didn’t hear the bell, he’ll hear that gazebo goin’ up them inside steps.”
“Yeah. Needler’s on de second floor. Probably got a couple of the outfit wid him. The rest of de guys is layin’ low, inside de court.”
“Needler ain’t worryin’ if a couple of mugs come in to see Blouchet. Dey won’t count for nothin’ anyway. Dat’s why Needler says to lay off.”
“Until he wants us. The door ain’t going to stop us. The key that Arty’s got will fit the lock. Needler tried it this afternoon, he said.”
From the conversation, it was apparent that the lurkers numbered half a dozen; and they represented only the outside squad. It was also plain that “Needler” Urbin had investigated this territory, nearly a half hour before. Whatever the leader’s plans, he had certainly had time to form them.
MEANWHILE, Harry Vincent, ascending the courtyard steps, had felt himself as ill at ease as before.
He was making a noise as he clambered, whistling softly to himself. This, too, had been The Shadow’s order.
Arrived upon the second floor, Harry stepped in from a sort of balcony that marked the top of the stairs.