A paper passed between them; it could have been a receipted bill, for Ring slipped Banjo some cash.
The door closed. Banjo stole along the hallway.
When he reached the lobby, Banjo saw Bleek alert behind the desk. Giving a nod of approval, Banjo went out to the street. He did not know that Bleek had been dozing from the time when he had first seen the go-between enter. If any suspicious stranger had entered and left, Bleek could not have seen the person.
Back in his own room, The Shadow, too, was gazing toward the dim glow of the Vieux Carre. A whispered laugh came from his thin, fixed lips. From among many incidents tonight — some important, others meaningless — The Shadow had used the threads he wanted. Tomorrow, he could act. For The Shadow’s plans were made.
Threads in the night. Human threads, that formed a curious tangle. The Shadow had unraveled them, to form a finished woof. What some knew, others did not recognize. Yet The Shadow, analyzing each particular part, had learned all. He was dealing with varied purposes; but throughout, he held a marked advantage.
Nothing stood as indication that paths would snarl between now and the time when The Shadow planned to force the final issue. There was the probability that certain plotters might escape the net which The Shadow had prepared. The mesh was large; small fish could slip through, though they would be few in number. They, however, could be dealt with afterward.
Chance, alone, could trick The Shadow. It was an element which he never neglected. But should ill fortune enter in the game, The Shadow still would find a way to meet it. The resources of this master sleuth were many.
Yet even The Shadow did not foresee the strange complication that was due upon the morrow. A consequence was in the making; with death a coming factor. The Shadow, perhaps, would have to rely upon luck of his own.
CHAPTER XV. AFTER DUSK
IT was early the next evening. The Shadow, attired as Lamont Cranston, was seated by the window of his room at the Hotel Bontezan. He was studying a report from Harry Vincent; one that he had picked up at the other hotel.
The Shadow had been in this room most of the afternoon. He had heard conversations between Ring Stortzel and Banjo Lobot. They had been brief — concerning only bills that Ring had agreed to pay, and for which he had given Banjo money. Lookouts such as Pierre Trebelon, Dave Royan, and Swifty Bleek were expensive.
The Shadow had heard mention of others in the chain. He had made notes of names and locations. There were a full dozen of Ring’s henchmen stationed about New Orleans. None, however, had spotted any more of the bank notes for which they were watching. That was not surprising, since the money reposed upon The Shadow’s shelf.
Banjo had gone out again; and Ring had followed. Thus The Shadow had found his opportunity to go through Harry’s report. It contained some interesting data concerning Andrew Blouchet. That young man was worried. He and Harry were to spend the early evening in deep conference at the apartment.
Andrew’s worriment concerned Fanchon Callier. The girl had apparently disappeared. Neither she nor Jerry Bodwin had come back to the party last night. Andrew had called Jerry this morning, to learn that Fanchon had gone to visit her cousin. At five o’clock, Fanchon had not arrived for work. Andrew, calling the theater office, had learned that startling fact from Jerry.
Carl Randon had been in and out all day, wearing an oddly glum expression. He, too, had seemed interested in learning about Fanchon. When Andrew had told him that the girl had not arrived at the theater, Carl had gone out promptly. He had called up later, to ask how long Andrew and Harry would be at the apartment.
Andrew had told him that Harry was going out at eight; but that he would remain, in case Carl called again. For Andrew had a hunch that Carl was also looking for Fanchon. Carl had many friends in New Orleans. Some of them might know of Fanchon’s cousin. Andrew’s mention that Harry would be out at eight was because Harry had said that he intended to go uptown at that hour. That was when he expected to leave another report for The Shadow.
IT was already approaching eight o’clock. The Shadow, disposing of the report sheets, stopped short when he heard a peculiar scraping sound from the dictograph. The noise was faint, yet audible. Turning out the light, The Shadow stepped to the door and opened it. Peering down the corridor, he saw a man crouched by the door of 618. The fellow was trying keys in the lock.
At last, the intruder gained success. The Shadow saw him straighten and turn the knob of the door. The hall light gleamed upon shiny black hair. A grin showed upon a wise face as the man stepped into Ring Stortzel’s room.
The Shadow knew the identity of the visitor. The man who had picked the lock was Carl Randon.
Stepping back into his own room, The Shadow listened. He could hear sounds across the dictograph, odd noises picked up by the mike. Randon had turned on the light; he was opening closet doors, tugging at bureau drawers. Several minutes passed; then The Shadow heard a noise that indicated Carl’s departure.
Peering out into the corridor, he heard the click of the light switch. Then Carl appeared and locked the door behind him. He sneaked down the hall and took to the shelter of a fire exit. His move was none too soon.
Half a minute later, Ring Stortzel appeared from the side hall that led to the elevators. The Chicago big-shot entered his room.
Ring’s first action was to turn on the light. He had kept it on all afternoon, for the day had been usually gloomy. Thus The Shadow had listened in on Rings talks with Banjo. He would be able to hear any new discussion in Ring’s room, for the light was on again; and The Shadow could see that an interview was coming. For Carl Randon was stalking from his hiding place, boldly approaching Ring’s door.
The Shadow watched him knock at 618. Then The Shadow closed his own door, to listen over the dictograph.
A PROMPT answer came to Carl Randon’s deliberate knock. The door popped open. Ring Stortzel, in vest and shirtsleeves, eyed the visitor with a suspicious glower. Then, as Carl motioned into the room.
Ring decided to let him enter. The big-shot closed the door.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did you want to see me?”
“Yes,” replied Carl, suavely. “Your name is Ring Stortzel, isn’t it?” Ring made no reply. He was sizing up the intruder.
“Don’t worry about me,” assured Carl. “I’m no dick. What’s more, nobody has anything on Ring Stortzel.”
“What’s your name?” growled Ring. “When a guy wants monikers, I like him to spill his own.”
“My name is Carl Randon. Here is my card. Suppose we talk business, Mr. Stortzel.”
“Business about what?”
“Stortzel, I know a lot that would be worth money to you. You are after a certain man in New Orleans. A fellow who has cash that your watchers spotted. I know who he is. I’m willing to prove it, for a price.”
“Yeah? Suppose I already know?”
“You don’t. Maybe you think you know; but the girl has given you a bum steer.”
“What girl?”
“Fanchon Callier.”
“Never heard of her.”
Ring’s statement was abrupt, almost savage. Carl laughed smoothly.
“Why keep up pretense?” he questioned. “I am telling you that the girl is unreliable. She can prove nothing that she may have told you. I know all about her — except where she is at present. That is a question that you can answer; but I am not asking you to do so.”
Ring paced across the room and stood by the window. He wheeled suddenly and eyed Carl with a narrowed gaze.
“Suppose I’ve got the moll,” he demanded. “Suppose she has talked. How do I know that she hasn’t told me the straight goods? How can you prove she hasn’t?”