“In what fashion?”
“The guy who had the queer mazuma got in a jam. So he shoved the phony cash off on a goof who didn’t know what it was all about. Then our guy hops a tanker for Buenos Aires, after sending word to the big-shot, about what he’d done.”
“And the man to whom the money was given?”
“Our guy didn’t even have his name. It was some guy he met during Mardi Gras. We don’t know how he handled it. Anyway, Trebelon, that’s why you and the others were brought here to spot the dough.”
The Shadow looked puzzled in his guise of Trebelon. Banjo chuckled sourly.
“It’s a bad mix-up,” he stated. “But the big-shot knows his onions. You see, he figures that whoever got the queer mazuma must be a big-money man. A canary with at least enough cash to be worthwhile. So the big-shot’s idea is to barge in on the bird, snag what real dough he’s got, but leave the queer mazuma.”
“A robbery with money left behind. That would look funny, wouldn’t it? Well, that’s just the way it is supposed to look. It’s going to bring the Feds. They’ll spot the bum jack and lay it on the guy who was robbed. He holds the bag. It looks like New Orleans is the center. The queer money goes to the G-men. While we shove more of it other places. Savez vous?”
“Je compris.” The Shadow nodded. “Oui. I understand. It is very — very, you would say, complicate?”
“Complicated.”
“Oui, But you must leave, Banjo. I have business when Monsieur Gallion will arrive. One moment. With this paper and pencil, write for yourself the name and address of Mr. Redley.”
Banjo complied. The Shadow watched him make a clumsy scrawl. Rising, The Shadow opened the door and peered out. He motioned for Banjo to make his exit. After the crook was gone, The Shadow closed the door and went back to the desk.
Banjo had pocketed the slip of paper; but The Shadow had noted it intently. He wrote a note that was an excellent imitation of Banjo’s hand, and laid the message on the desk. It stated:
Trebelon: Grab the proposition that I fixed for you with
Redley. Work from his place. No need to talk it over.
Banjo
At the window, The Shadow changed his make-up swiftly. Once more in the guise of Cranston, he stalked from the gloomy room. He edged out through the door unnoticed and strolled back along the route that he had taken. Within a block, he passed Trebelon, returning.
The Frenchman’s face was puzzled. The Shadow knew, however, that Trebelon would think the riddle solved after he found the note that bore the scrawled signature “Banjo.” Cleverly, The Shadow had managed his proposition. He had arranged it so that neither Banjo nor Trebelon would suspect anything. At the same time, he had heard Banjo’s tale about the reason for crime in New Orleans. Yet The Shadow’s disguised face revealed a meditative expression as he continued on his way.
There were links that fitted; others that did not. The Shadow knew facts that Ring Stortzel had not passed along to Banjo Lobot. He also had recognized angles that Ring, himself, had not discovered. The Shadow was considering definite possibilities, piecing bits of a bizarre puzzle. Another might have thought the pattern complete; but not The Shadow. He saw points that were wrong as well as those that were right.
Instead of returning to the Hotel Bontezan, The Shadow crossed Canal Street and entered the building of the Wide World Loan Company. Afternoon was drifting steadily; but The Shadow became almost entirely inactive. He did not ask to see Mr. Hayd. Instead, he quietly seated himself upon a waiting bench and read a newspaper.
More than an hour passed. It was after four o’clock when a girl walked into the loan office. The Shadow recognized Fanchon Callier. The brunette went to the window where loan payments were made. She produced a book and a few dollars. The Shadow eyed the girl keenly.
Fanchon had made a payment the day before — one that had brought her account up to date. Yet, today, she was making another payment. Watching, The Shadow saw the clerk check a list. This time, he produced an envelope and gave it to the girl along with the receipt.
Fanchon went down the stairs. Idly, The Shadow strolled to the front window. He saw the girl open the envelope and check what appeared to be a list. Then, thrusting the paper into her purse, Fanchon hailed a taxicab and entered. The Shadow’s lips formed a smile.
Going back across the office, he gave his card to a stenographer and stated that he would like to see Mr. Hayd. The Shadow was granted a prompt interview. Soon, he was seated in the president’s office.
“How soon can you come out to my home?” was Hayd’s first question. “I expected to hear from you sooner, Mr. Cranston.”
“Any evening,” replied The Shadow.
“How about tonight?” asked Hayd. “Can you come out to dinner? I could pick you up at the hotel — at five-thirty.”
“Very well.”
The Shadow knew that the hotel to which Hayd referred was not the Bontezan, but the place where The Shadow had first stopped as Cranston. He told Hayd that he would be in the lobby of the hotel. That arrangement made, The Shadow left.
HE went back to the Bontezan, to leave his briefcase and don dinner clothes. It was five o’clock when The Shadow was ready to leave. Five minutes would take him to the other hotel. He had time for one brief study, before he left.
From the closet shelf, The Shadow took the package of money. Beneath the light of the desk lamp, he placed a jeweler’s glass to his eyes and examined four bills of different denominations. He replaced those bank notes with the rest and put the package back upon the shelf.
As he clicked out the desk lamp, The Shadow, standing in the gloom, delivered a knowing, whispered laugh.
New links had fallen into place since The Shadow had left Gallion’s. This one was the last. The Shadow’s chain was complete. He had reached a full conclusion that concerned mysterious events in New Orleans.
The only details which remained were those which concerned certain motives for crime. Such did not matter, since The Shadow knew that the motives must exist.
Twenty minutes past five. Time for a telephone call to Harry Vincent, on the way to the other hotel. For Harry would be back at Andrew Blouchet’s. Such was The Shadow’s final thought as the last whispered echo followed his repressed laugh.
Crime was clear. Those involved were marked. The innocent were placed, as were the guilty. Tonight would come the final checkup. Then would The Shadow act.
CHAPTER XII. HARRY OBSERVES
IT was ten o’clock that night. Andrew Blouchet’s apartment had become a miniature ballroom, wherein an orchestra provided music for a score of carefree dancers. Andrew had called in a crew of decorators during the afternoon. He had made the big room into a fanciful grotto, filled with mellow light that shone upon clusters of potted palm trees.
The decorations lined the walls, allowing space for the dance floor. The safe in the corner was entirely obscured from view. The other corners, like spaces between the palm trees, were fitted with quaint rustic benches where couples sat between the dances.
There were more men than ladies present; and Andrew, acting as host, had not found time to dance.
Standing by the deserted corner near the camouflaged safe, Andrew caught the eye of Harry Vincent, who was dancing with a partner. Harry nodded; when another man cut in. He relinquished his partner and came over to join Andrew.
They were away from everyone; for the corner formed an alcove at the front. Even the orchestra was distant, for Andrew had placed it in the rear of the room, by the windows that opened into the courtyard.
When they began their conference, Andrew and Harry ran no danger of being overheard.