“Two persons come to New Orleans,” he conjectured. “One a grafter who has made plenty. The other, a person who secretly aided him, and who is due to receive a cut. The first man had the box. In costume, he passed it along to someone else. An intermediary.”
“The girl?”
“Yes; the girl. She, in turn, passed it to the man supposed to receive it. At least she thought she did. But you gained it instead.”
“Then the money belongs to someone else.”
“Why? The very circumstances of its transfer show that it was not a legal transaction. That money belonged to whomever held it. It belongs to the person who is wise enough to keep it.”
“Meaning myself?”
“Exactly! You are free to do with it as you choose.”
ANDREW smiled. His doubt, however, had not fully faded. He still saw possibilities of misfortune.
“If you are right, Carl,” he remarked, “two men of questionable character have simply failed to conclude a shady deal. One may think that the other double-crossed him.”
“Both will think that,” returned Carl. “and neither will deserve sympathy.”
“But what about the girl? Is it fair that she should suffer?”
“She is probably as bad as either of them. If not, she is a person whom both trusted. In the latter case, neither one will accuse her. They will take it out on each other.”
“Then what would you advise me to do? You say keep the money. Can I use it?”
“Yes. With discretion. It would not be wise for you to blossom out and start a huge bank account. Nor would I advise you to buy stocks and bonds. Tuck that money in that old safe of yours. Spend it as you need it.”
“Suppose I am some day called to reckoning?”
“You won’t be, Andy. But suppose you were. If anyone should claim the money, he would do so very soon; for the only clue would be if the girl followed you here.”
“She did not follow me. She went in the opposite direction.”
“All the better, Andy. But if a claimant should show up, and convince you that the cash belonged to him, he would be glad enough to get the bulk of it back. A few thousand lost would be chicken feed.”
“I see. Then if I spend it judiciously, I may consider myself safe.”
“Absolutely! I studied law, Andy. I know that your position is secure. Just keep the facts to yourself; and get rid of that fancy costume that you wore tonight.”
“That’s a good suggestion, Carl. I’ll follow it. But it makes me feel almost guilty.” Carl Randon shook his head emphatically.
“A criminal,” he defined,” is a man who commits an illegal act. You have done nothing unlawful. You accepted a gift, under protest. You gave no receipt for it. The fact that a hundred thousand dollars is involved has no bearing on the case. You have done no more than the person who accepts a package of free chewing gum when girls are handing it from baskets, as samples.
“Theft of a few pennies is unlawful, just as is the theft of many dollars. Conversely, the acceptance of a valuable souvenir is as legal as the acceptance of a trivial one. I know the law, Andy. You have struck the luck of a lifetime. Make the most of it.”
CARL’S assurance was convincing. Andrew knew that his friend had not finished law school; nevertheless, the logic of his statements seemed conclusive. As he considered his situation, Andrew saw where he would place himself in greater difficulties by trying to return the money than he would by keeping it.
“All right, Carl,” he decided. “You seem to have summed it properly. Somehow, I’d like to bury this pile; but I can’t afford to do it. I’m pretty short on ready cash. So I’m going to use the money. But if it brings me trouble—”
“Just call on me, old-timer. I’ll back your story. What do you say we duck these costumes and go out for a final farewell to old King Momus?”
Andrew grinned his agreement. He opened the old safe and put the ebony box away. From a pigeonhole, he drew a small roll of other bills, the last remnants of the cash that he had been conserving. This money would last him for a few days longer. It came to nearly fifty dollars.
The sum made Andrew Blouchet smile as he closed the safe. Nearly fifty dollars: a smaller total than that of the smallest bank note in his newfound wealth. Carl was sure that the new money was genuine; and Andrew felt the same. He had cause to celebrate; and Carl had exhibited the same mood.
Mardi Gras had ended with great fortune for Andrew Blouchet. A new era was beginning for this young man of New Orleans. But had Andrew been able to glimpse into the near future, his enthusiasm would have waned; and so would that of Carl Randon.
This batch of newfound wealth was destined to bring troublous episodes to its recipient; as well as to the friend who had advised him to make use of it.
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW BEFORE
THREE days had passed since Mardi Gras. New Orleans lay beneath a dreary afternoon haze that rendered the city almost invisible to the passengers aboard an arriving airplane. This ship was coming from the northeast and its destination was a spot just short of the city limits — namely, Menefee Airport.
The swift plane was nosing downward as it flew above the airport. It crossed the Mississippi, the great river that seemed no more than a blue ribbon from above. The ship banked; passengers, gazing from the windows of the cabin, saw the flat panorama tilt upward toward their eyes.
Docked freighters looked like toy boats as the turning plane nosed downward toward the river. Refinery buildings were tiny objects to the gazing passengers. The ground was speeding up to reach the plane; then the river was passed by the descending ship. Skimming low beside the flat buildings of the airport, the plane touched ground with its wheels. Rolling onward, it did not stop until it had neared the far limit of the field.
The pilot taxied the ship in a sharp circle, back to the south end of the field. Passengers alighted, stretched themselves and claimed their luggage. A large car was waiting to take them into the city by way of St. Bernard Avenue. Four in number, the arrivals stepped aboard.
Among this group was a silent personage who did not join in the discourse. His face was a well-formed countenance that bore a masklike quality. His features, so immobile, were hawkish in their profile. The other passengers from the airplane were secretly curious as to the identity of this stranger.
The suitcase which the hawk-faced arrival carried was adorned with the letters “L. C.” Those initials stood for Lamont Cranston; and the name might have been recognized by the others, had they heard it mentioned. For Lamont Cranston was a man of wealth; a globe-trotting millionaire whose adventures in far lands occasionally reached public print.
Yet, although friends of the millionaire might have recognized the features of Lamont Cranston, this hawk-faced visitor to New Orleans was not the globe-trotter. He was one who had chosen to guise himself as Lamont Cranston, only for temporary purposes. He was The Shadow.
Master fighter who battled crime, The Shadow had found reason to visit New Orleans. Coming as a passenger in an ordinary airplane, he had arrived without attracting attention. His manner was almost lackadaisical. As the automobile reached the city and approached the fringe of the French Quarter, this silent observer showed no enthusiasm. Rather, he looked bored with his preliminary survey of New Orleans.
THE pretended Lamont Cranston alighted at a large hotel on the uptown side of Canal Street. He registered under the name that he was using. Dusk had arrived when he again appeared in the lobby. Tall, leisurely of gait, he strolled out to view New Orleans.
He followed Canal Street past Exchange, that short but glittering thoroughfare lined with bars and restaurants. Further along, The Shadow turned from Canal Street and entered the Vieux Carre. He was following the procedure of most visitors, making straight for the French Quarter to view its quaint streets and buildings.