“It’s simple, the rest of it. Some other bozo changed the bill for him. That’s how Blouchet had the fifties. It covers the one he passed at Gallion’s, too.”
Again, Ring grunted. “Not a bad hunch, Banjo,” he remarked, “except for the five-hundred-dollar bill. But how about Blouchet getting the money somewhere before he even went to the Delta Club?”
“Say — that’s something—”
“Like at the loan company? How does that hit?”
“Great! Wait a minute, though — Blouchet didn’t go to the loan company until the day after he passed those fifties.”
“Maybe he’d been there before. You didn’t have him tagged before the Delta Club.”
Banjo snapped his fingers. “You’ve got it, Ring!” he exclaimed. “We can forget Blouchet! Forget him and begin all over again! I’ll keep on the route, just like before.”
“No you won’t. There’s a couple of places to keep away from.”
“The Delta Club is one. I know that. I told Royan to get himself another job. He’s going out to the Club Caprice. It’s a joint just outside the city limits. Swell layout there, run by a guy named Royal Medbrook.”
“That covers Dave. But we’ve got to think about Pierre. We don’t want him at Gallion’s. Another restaurant would be better.”
“Trebelon is buying an interest in the restaurant—”
“He hasn’t put up dough, yet. Tell him to pull out. Get somewhere else. I know the arrangement, anyway. Pierre had to do a lot of talking to convince Gallion in the first place. He can get a partnership in one of those places on Exchange Street.”
“Then I’ve got to talk to Trebelon.”
“Yeah. And in a hurry.”
“I’ll go down there soon. This is a good time to talk to Trebelon.”
BANJO left. A few minutes later, the door of 624 opened and the tall form of Lamont Cranston sauntered into view. The Shadow was carrying a briefcase. Leaving the Hotel Bontezan, he strolled to Exchange Street and picked out a small but well-furnished cafe.
The worried-faced proprietor nodded, a bit puzzled when the tall stranger approached him.
“I have a proposition for you,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “One that will bring a partner into this business. A man with money. Are you interested, Mr. Redley?”
The Shadow had noted the name above the doorway; the proprietor was wearing a fancy watch-fob with the initial “R.”
Redley nodded; but his puzzlement had changed to interest.
“Call Gallion’s restaurant,” stated The Shadow. “Ask for Monsieur Trebelon. Tell him that Banjo told you to call. That will be enough. Say that you must see him at once. When Trebelon comes here, offer him a part interest in the business and ask him to think it over.”
Redley picked up the telephone. The Shadow’s direct statements had impressed him. While Redley was making the call, The Shadow left and kept through Exchange Street to Bienville. He walked half a square left and reached the Rue Royale. He was on his way to Gallion’s. As he continued with swift stride, he passed a man with pointed mustache who was walking in the opposite direction. The man was Pierre Trebelon.
FEW customers were in Gallion’s when The Shadow arrived there. Instead of taking the usual entrance, The Shadow went through a sort of grillroom, which was seldom used except at the evening dinner hour.
He paused while a waiter passed; then cut through and reached the office. The door was closed. The Shadow opened it and sidled into the room.
A little window gave only mild light, which was tempered by the dullness of the day. The Shadow opened the briefcase by the window. From it he produced a make-up kit. Using a mirror in the top of the box, he worked rapidly, molding the features of Lamont Cranston into a different form. With spirit gum, he attached a false mustache that boasted pointed tips. Closing the box, he replaced it in the briefcase.
The Shadow was ready for Banjo Lobot. He wanted to ease the go-between’s arrival, so he stole to the door of the office and opened it a trifle. Peering across the grille, he watched to see if anyone entered by that door. Five minutes was all The Shadow waited. Banjo appeared; he, too, had chosen the deserted door.
Letting the office door swing ajar, The Shadow glided quickly to the desk. He was there when Banjo sidled into the office and gave a short “Psst!” The Shadow looked up; in the dim light, he motioned for the visitor to close the door.
Banjo was fooled by The Shadow’s make-up. He was sure that he saw Pierre Trebelon at the desk.
Sliding into a chair, Banjo told his story in a low, quick tone.
“You’ve got to move somewhere else, Trebelon,” he informed. “Things went sour at Blouchet’s last night. He didn’t have the dough that we expected.”
“Ah, non!” expressed The Shadow, in the manner of Trebelon. “Blouchet has very little money; I should call him a man who is often broke.”
“Why didn’t you slip me that news before?”
“You did not ask me. It was wise, also, that we should not speak to one another.”
“That’s right. Well, Trebelon, the Blouchet business was a mistake. You probably read about the fliv that was made last night. I’m glad to get your opinion, anyway.
“Blouchet has no money. The fifty dollars must have been one thing that he did borrow.”
“You’ve figured it right. Listen, though. You’ve got to move to another place. Can you talk Gallion out of the deal here?”
The Shadow was glancing at a letter on the desk. He picked it up and passed it to Banjo, who held it toward the window; then said:
“I can’t make it out. It’s in French. I see Gallion’s signature, though. What does it say?”
“It says that he will return demain — that is tomorrow. But the letter was written yesterday, from Biloxi, where Gallion has been. It says here that he is not sure that he shall need a partner who—”
“Great! Then when he comes in today—”
“I shall say that it is as well with me. Where is it that I should go instead?”
“Could you pick a joint up in Exchange Street?”
“Certainment! A cafe owned by a man named Redley. I can talk with him today. But be careful when you come there.”
“You bet I will! We’re playing close from now on. Keep your eye peeled for the same mazuma you saw before.”
THE SHADOW nodded. Then, casually, he asked:
“Maybe it would be wise if I should know more about that money? You have watched for the man who has it. Pour quoi? Why?”
“Do you have to know about it?” demanded Banjo.
“Why not?” The Shadow imitated a shrug that he had seen Trebelon make while talking to a customer. “I have once picked the man you did not wish. Perhaps if I had been told, I would have given to you advice.”
“All right.” Banjo was remembering Ring Stortzel’s orders to speak upon request. “Here’s the lay. The mazuma is queer money. Savez vous?”
“Counterfeit?”
“That’s it. But a swell job. It’s being shoved all over the country, everywhere except here in New Orleans.”
“Mais pour quoi—”
“You’re asking why we’re crimping our own game? We’re not. I’ll tell you the answer. We’ve unloaded so much of the goods that it’s time the Feds caught on. We’ve got a hunch they have already. So we want to give them a bum steer.”
“Ah! Bring them to New Orleans?”
“That’s it. So we sent a guy down here to work a green goods racket. You know the stunt, selling some of the queer dough cheap, to a sucker.”
“But the green goods racket! Ah, that is when the dupe receives no money at all.”
“This was different. Our idea was to work the green goods racket on the level. When I say our idea, I mean the big-shot. He sprang the whole thing, out of Chicago. Anyway, it went sour.”