Andrew shook his head, while Harry remained silent. Then Andrew added:
“No, I can’t believe it. Fanchon is too charming a girl, too real a girl, to work with murderers. It must have been the money itself that brought my trouble. I am afraid of it.” Andrew looked at the cash as he spoke. An odd expression came upon his face. He snatched up bills and examined them.
“These are Federal Reserve notes!” exclaimed Andrew. “Not United States Treasury certificates! Harry, this is not the money that I had! The amount is exact, but the bills are not the same! What does it mean?”
HARRY considered.
“Some one must have taken the money for your protection,” he decided. “At the same time, that person must have conceded that it belonged to you. So he has returned it; but in different currency. The best thing for you to do is keep it.”
“Do you think it was Duvale’s work?”
“Possibly. At any rate, there is no question about this money. It was sent to you by mail. You would be wise to hold it, Andy.”
Andrew nodded. He gathered the money, opened the safe and bestowed his wealth within. After locking the safe, he turned to Harry.
“Let’s go uptown,” suggested Andrew. “I’m going to get dressed in a hurry and start out to find Jerry Bodwin. I want to make sure that nothing has happened to Fanchon Callier.”
“I’ll have to go to the Bontezan,” nodded Harry. “So I can check out there.”
Twenty minutes later, the two friends were strolling past the Cabildo. They crossed Jackson Square and continued past the market places. Near Canal Street, they separated. Andrew was intent upon his plan to find Jerry and hold casual conversation. Harry was anxious to reach the Bontezan.
Arriving at the hotel, Harry entered his room and attached the dictograph receiver. No sound came from Room 618. Seating himself at a writing desk, Harry made out a concise report upon all that had happened last night, and since. He placed his report sheets in an envelope. To them, he added the picture post card that Andrew Blouchet had received from Carl Randon. Harry had brought the card with him from the apartment.
Downstairs, Harry made his way through the crowded lobby. Guests were many at the Bontezan. Rooms were in demand. Harry checked out. Hardly had he done so before a tall individual stepped up to the desk and made quiet inquiry:
“A vacant room? I was promised a better choice than the one I obtained this morning.”
“Name, please,” said the clerk at the desk, “and room number.”
“Lamont Cranston,” replied the tall guest. “Room 341.”
“I am transferring you to Room 624.”
FIVE minutes later, The Shadow was alone in Room 624, reading Harry Vincent’s report. Andrew Blouchet’s story interested The Shadow. It supplied details upon which he required further facts. When he came to Harry’s reference to Carl Randon’s post card, The Shadow studied the card itself.
A fixed smile appeared upon his thin lips, as he noted the ornate scrawl. This card had certainly been inscribed by Carl Randon. It matched the specimens of the writing that The Shadow had seen when Andrew Blouchet had come to reclaim Carl’s endorsement from the Wide World Loan company.
Opening the closet door, The Shadow found a wide, high shelf. It was to his liking, for it offered a deep recess in which some object could be hidden. Opening a suitcase, The Shadow extracted a bundle, exactly the size of the package that had come to Andrew Blouchet that morning.
The question of the vanished cash was answered. It was still in the possession of The Shadow. As Lamont Cranston, a man with unlimited credit, The Shadow had drawn replacement funds from New Orleans banks and had mailed them to Andrew Blouchet. But he had not deposited the currency which he held as a substitute.
Those telltale bank notes had forced one issue. That meant that they could produce another episode in the future. They were a lure to men of crime; bait for which crooks would fall, if coaxed again to a place where they feared no intervention.
Safe in the custody of The Shadow, that cash would cause no strife until the proper occasion. Then it would appear again, in plenty. For the present, however, the game must be a waiting one. The Shadow had found many threads to crime. His task was to unravel them before he prepared another active move.
Strange complications had clouded the crime factor. The laugh which whispered from The Shadow’s lips was proof that he could see clearly ahead.
CHAPTER XI. THE SHADOW WAITS
IN his present design, The Shadow was dependent upon one important factor: namely, the reaction gained by known crooks as a result of last night’s failure. Amid the weave of circumstance that involved Andrew Blouchet, Fanchon Callier and others, there were two specific rogues whose plans must be gained. Those two were Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot.
Ring had taken Banjo’s room at the Hotel Bontezan. The chief of a criminal faction had thus picked his headquarters. Similarly, The Shadow had replaced Harry Vincent. Only few walls intervened between the master sleuth and the big-shot whose henchmen The Shadow had routed.
Those walls were doubly welcome to The Shadow. They kept him out of Ring Stortzel’s sight; but they did not prevent him from listening in to the big-shot’s conferences.
Not long after The Shadow had taken over Room 624, there was a knock at the door of Room 618.
Ring Stortzel, seated within the room, was prompt to recognize the touch. He admitted Banjo Lobot.
Ring closed the door and locked it.
“Well?”
Ring’s rasp was an unpleasant one; but Banjo did not seem troubled. The go-between had brought a good report.
“I called up the hide-out,” stated Banjo. “Got hold of one mug there. Didn’t tell him who I was. He was expecting to hear from me, though.”
“That don’t make sense,” growled Ring. “Have you gone screwy. Banjo?”
“Sure it makes sense,” retorted the go-between. “Needler told the guy to wait until he heard from someone. That’s all. And the guys been waiting. His name is Frankie Larth. We’ll be able to use him later.”
“Where’s he staying? Over at the hide-out?”
“No. I told him to beat it. Over to Mobile. I’ll be able to get him. Here’s what he spilled me, Ring. Blouchet hasn’t got the dough.”
“Don’t we know it? I’ve been reading the papers. They tell all about the raid. How masked men made Blouchet open up the safe.”
“Sure. But we needed word from Needler to be sure that Blouchet didn’t have the cash somewhere else. Well, Needler passed the word to this gorilla of his. Frankie gave it to me straight.”
RING STORTZEL grunted.
“We’re back at the start again,” he fumed. “All we know is that Blouchet had some of that dough. But where did he get it? That’s the thing to find out.”
“I talked to Dave Royan on the telephone,” stated Banjo. “He says we may have made the slip there at the Delta Club. The manager may have been mistaken about who passed in the jack.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the birds at the Delta Club have dough. Plenty of it; and the gaming room isn’t the only place where they spend it. Suppose some canary changed a big bill for the bartender, or their headwater in the restaurant.”
“Well?”
“And suppose it was Blouchet who had the big bill. Like a five-century note, for instance—”
“If Blouchet was walking around with five-hundred-dollar bills, it would mean that he had plenty.”
“Maybe not. It might have been all he had left from some other dough.”
“Well, go ahead, Banjo. Suppose that was it.”