“What about Duvale?” quizzed Wayson. “Haven’t you any idea who he is? Where he came from?” Andrew shook his head.
“We can’t figure him,” Wayson went on. “The apartment owner doesn’t remember much about him. Neither do the moving men. All he left was his smock and his beret, along with that old easel. Boy! Those killers sure burned holes in the smock! But Duvale wasn’t inside it when they did! No bloodstains.”
Pausing speculatively, Wayson shook his head. Then he added:
“Duvale may have been as crooked as the others. He had guns on him. Probably he had it in for that mob, and wanted to queer their game. You know, the more I think of it, that theory sounds good. It would account for the crooks taking a stab at you.”
“It would?” echoed Andrew, in a tone of surprise. “How?”
“They may have thought that you had a lot of dough,” explained the lieutenant. “That safe of yours in the corner would have been a good come-on. Maybe Duvale picked you as the decoy, so he could bring those birds in here. Where he could take a whack at them.”
Andrew’s eyes lighted. Harry noticed it and saw that his friend was pleased. Andrew had been cagey all along; and Harry had stayed close to every lead that he had given when talking to the police.
“WELL,” chuckled Wayson, “you chaps were lucky. But we’re going to keep this place watched for a while. In case Duvale comes back; and in case some thugs come around, expecting to find him. He did a good job, whoever he was. They won’t like him for it, though, any pals of those crooks who lost out last night.
“Then there’s a chance that somebody might have it in for you two chaps. So keep in touch with me. I’m always available, in case you need me. I’ll take on a bodyguard assignment, if necessary.”
“Thanks, lieutenant,” expressed Andrew. “By the way — what about the ones who were rounded up? Haven’t any of them talked?”
“Not yet,” replied Wayson, “and I doubt that they know much. We found out the name of that leader of theirs. He was Needler Urbin and he’s got a bad record, in Chicago. We figure he and his bunch were laying low, across the river in Algiers, until last night. But we haven’t gotten any report of a hide-out. Worst of it, the trail ends with Needler.”
Another knock at the door. Andrew answered it. A postman entered, with a square-shaped package addressed to Andrew, who signed for it. The letter carrier also handed Andrew a post card.
“This was downstairs in the box,” he said, “so I bought it up. It must have been put there in the morning delivery.”
“And it’s close to high noon, right now,” chuckled Wayson. “You fellows took a long sleep, didn’t you? Well, I’ll drop around for a few minutes, sometime this evening.”
“Fine,” decided Andrew, warmly. “I’m giving a big party, lieutenant, and you’ll have a chance to see some other friends of yours.”
Wayson followed the postman. Andrew closed the door and glanced at the mail. He read the post card and handed it to Harry.
“Good chap — Wayson,” remarked Andrew. “He’s a police instructor — small-arms expert. Has a lot of time to get around, while he isn’t busy with police school. He knows the French Quarter like a book. By the way, the post card is from my friend, Carl Randon. He sent it from New York.” Harry looked at the post card. It was one that bore a picture of the Metropolitan Opera House. On the front, Carl had written a few remarks, embellished in fancy penmanship. He stated that he had attended the opera “Aida,” the night before, and had enjoyed the singing of an opera star named Cazzeroni.
A sudden thought struck Harry. Opera was one of his diversions; he remembered that Cazzeroni had been taken seriously ill, not long before. Opening the day’s newspaper, he found a comment on the star’s condition. It said that Cazzeroni was improving; it mentioned the date when the singer had been stricken.
Harry compared the item with the date on the post card. He nodded slightly to himself and slid the post card under a magazine that was lying on the table.
ANDREW had been busy opening the package. It had come by first-class mail and was heavily sealed.
It was a registered package and Andrew had suddenly come to regard it as important. Seals broke; Andrew ripped away an inner paper. A startled exclamation escaped him when he saw the green flash of currency.
Andrew hesitated as he looked toward Harry. Then, with a slight laugh, he pulled the money from its package and began to count the bills. Harry, too, was showing interest. These were large bills; their total came nearly to ninety-nine thousand dollars.
Harry looked curiously toward Andrew.
“I’ll have to explain,” declared Andrew, slowly. “Harry, I’ve been holding back facts. That’s probably no news to you, because you knew that I was bluffing last night, when I said my safe was empty. Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t tell the police too much.”
“About what?” queried Harry.
“About everything,” replied Andrew. “About my money. About what little I knew concerning Duvale. Do you know, Harry, I think that fellow must have gotten in here ahead of the crooks.”
“To rob your safe?”
“Yes. I could have named him as a thief, today. But I didn’t want to peach on the fellow. If he hadn’t stolen the money, we wouldn’t be alive. It was that empty box that floored the burglars for a starter. But as it stands now, Duvale is a great chap. Here’s the money back again.”
“All of it?”
“All of it. I might as well tell you the whole thing, Harry. To begin with, the money wasn’t really mine. I didn’t steal it, though. Listen to my story.”
METHODICALLY, Andrew told of his adventure on the final night of Mardi Gras. He told of the advice that he had received from Carl Randon; how he had followed it, though reluctantly. He added that the first of the mystery money had been spent at the Delta Club; that he had later used a fifty-dollar bill at Gallion’s.
“Two things trouble me,” asserted Andrew. “First, and most important, the girl. Harry, I was afraid that she would be held responsible by someone. Still, Carl had said that slow spending of the money would enable me to return most of it in a pinch.”
“To return it,” remarked Harry, “you would have to find the girl.”
“I have found her!” said Andrew seriously. “I know her name. She is Fanchon Callier. She works for Jerry Bodwin, at the Luzanne Theater. She is coming here tonight.”
Harry looked incredulous.
“I remembered her by her voice,” affirmed Andrew. “I am sure she is the girl who gave me the money. Apparently, she has not yet encountered trouble. That deepens the mystery, Harry.”
“What was your impression of the girl?”
“She is very lovely. Attractive, with dark-brown eyes. A brunette, from Baton Rouge. At least she says she came from there.”
“Why should you doubt her statement?”
“Because she said she was unfamiliar with the Vieux Carre. Yet it was outside of Gallion’s that I first met her.”
“Perhaps she recognized you.”
“I don’t think so. Harry, I am bewildered. Anything is possible. Fanchon may have intended to give the ebony box to some other person, who wore a costume like myself. On the contrary, she may have deliberately chosen me.”
“Why the latter?”
“I don’t know. Except that the money was traced — by those crooks who came here last night. They could not have been after anything else.”
“Perhaps you were seen spending money.”
“I spent only a few hundred at the Delta Club and Gallion’s. Wait, though! I paid in a thousand dollars at the Wide World Loan Company. And that was where I saw Fanchon! Harry — she could have told those crooks that I had the money. That could be why they came here to reclaim it. She may have admitted that it might have gone to the wrong man.”