An hour had passed before The Shadow returned to his hotel. There he found an envelope addressed to Lamont Cranston. He opened it and read coded lines of an inked message. The writing faded shortly after The Shadow had concluded his perusal. A slight smile formed upon thin lips. Again, The Shadow strolled from the hotel.
Evening had deepened. Canal Street showed rows of brilliant lights. Clanging street cars were rolling along the four-tracked thorough fare where Rex and Comus had staged their grand pageants, only a few days before. Commerce had replaced Carnival, here in the city’s center. Elsewhere, quietude had settled in place of joymaking.
Again, The Shadow strolled into the Vieux Carre; but this time with a definite destination. He reached the Rue Royale; followed it a way, then turned to another street. A few minutes later, he arrived at Gallion’s restaurant. He entered the quiet, old-fashioned cafe.
“Oysters Rockefeller” — “Sea Trout Marguery” — these were the choice items that The Shadow picked from the menu. His taste, however, did not stop there. He recalled the waiter and requested hors d’oeuvres by way of appetizer. It was plain that this visitor had chosen to dine well on his first night in New Orleans.
In eating, The Shadow employed the usual style of Lamont Cranston. He was slow and deliberate in every action; evening waned while he continued his meal. One waiter spoke to another:
“Un gourmet oui; un gourmand, non?”
The waiter’s approval meant that this diner was an epicure; not a glutton. To all appearances, he was a connoisseur of fine food, with whom dining had become an art. That, however, was but one reason why The Shadow lingered with his long repast. The other reason was the note that he had received at his hotel.
That message was from Harry Vincent, an agent whom The Shadow had previously dispatched to New Orleans. Harry had come here to locate a man named Pierre Trebelon, who had recently left New York.
Trebelon had headed for New Orleans with the intention of buying a part interest in a restaurant. He had gone through with his plan. Harry had located the fellow at Gallion’s.
THE SHADOW, while he dined, was watching Trebelon. Tonight, the man was acting in the capacity of manager. A tall, suave Frenchman with pointed mustache, Trebelon was stalking about, bowing to diners and giving orders to waiters. He looked the part of a restaurateur.
The Shadow, however, knew facts that concerned Pierre Trebelon. The fellow was a smooth rogue who had been mixed in several international swindles. Always, however, Trebelon had managed to clear himself. His last position had been an honest one. Trebelon had served as the bona fide manager of a New York night club.
Then Trebelon had decided to go to New Orleans. The choice had been an odd one. Business was better in New York than in the Crescent City. Except for the duration of Mardi Gras, there was little opportunity for heavy profits in New Orleans. Hence, when Trebelon had departed for Louisiana, Harry Vincent had followed.
Robbery — murder — these were crimes which had mixed with the swindles wherein Trebelon had been concerned. Though the man was not a dangerous crook in his own right, he served with those who would go the limit. To The Shadow, Trebelon was a wisp of straw that would indicate the approach of a cyclonic storm.
Harry Vincent had watched Pierre Trebelon, here at Gallion’s. He had sent a wire to The Shadow — one that had brought the master sleuth South. Harry’s report had explained matters. That was why The Shadow had chosen observation duty for himself.
Pierre Trebelon was not the only man whom Harry had spotted. Another was due — one who had come here every night, and The Shadow, slow with his meal, was awaiting that arrival.
Finished dining, The Shadow leaned back in his chair and lighted a panatela. While he puffed the thin cigar, he saw the door of the restaurant open. A tall, long-jawed man entered and sat down at a table.
While the newcomer was ordering a drink, The Shadow studied his face.
This was the man whom Harry had mentioned; and from the agent’s description, The Shadow had guessed the fellow’s identity. Among his archives, The Shadow had data on numerous crooks whose paths he had not yet followed. This man answered to the description of a cagey crook who had acted both as a go-between and a mouthpiece for certain groups of criminals. The fellow was known as “Banjo” Lobot.
Had The Shadow been present on the final night of Mardi Gras, he would have gained final proof that this was Banjo Lobot. The man was the tall masquerader who had strummed so artfully upon the banjo just before Andrew Blouchet had received the ebony box from the masked girl outside the restaurant.
A CERTAIN briskness had followed the entry of Banjo Lobot. Pierre Trebelon was responsible. He was shuffling the waiters about, adding up dinner checks and sending them to tables.
One came to The Shadow. He tendered a twenty-dollar bill. Other diners were paying their checks. A few, present with parties, were passing currency of higher denominations than The Shadow’s.
Trebelon made change, at the door of a little office. He went into the room; The Shadow glimpsed a desk, before Trebelon closed the door. A few minutes later, the manager reappeared. He approached Banjo’s table but did not speak to the man. Instead, he stopped to talk to a waiter; then looked toward Banjo and slowly shook his head.
The Shadow’s smile was fixed. Harry Vincent had reported this very action. Always a glance from Trebelon to Banjo, with a headshake by the manager. The Shadow watched Banjo finish his drink, then leave the restaurant. After a few final puffs at his cigar, The Shadow followed.
He was taking up a task at which Harry had failed. On previous nights, the agent had tried to trail Banjo.
Always, the fellow had lost him. The reason was apparent tonight. Banjo had a habit of stopping at intervals, then glancing along the path by which he had come. After that, the man invariably quickened his pace and made sharp turns at corners.
Harry had found it necessary to duck from sight. Banjo had never spied him; but the man had forced Harry to linger far behind; then finally, he had given the trailer the slip. But The Shadow encountered no such difficulty as Harry. Within a short while, this master sleuth was outguessing Banjo’s move.
Any time that Banjo stopped, The Shadow had already moved from view. Entryways beneath silent balconies; deep-set doors; the fronts of tiny alleys — such were the places that he used. Once, when almost at Banjo’s heels, The Shadow paused in the blackened splotch beneath a crumbling house wall.
Banjo, though sharp of eye, did not spy him.
Frequently, on courses such as this, The Shadow wore cloak and hat of black. Tonight, he lacked such garments; but his dark clothing served him nearly as well. Chameleon-like, The Shadow could blend with blackness in a dimly lighted district like the Vieux Carre. At times, his tall form vanished in a twinkling.
The trail led to Canal Street. There, Banjo paused no longer. He was satisfied that he had effected an elusive course. Mixing with a cluster of pedestrians, The Shadow saw his quarry walk into the lobby of a hotel that edged the French Quarter. The hotel was the Bontezan, a less pretentious establishment than the one at which The Shadow had registered.
In rendering himself inconspicuous at Gallion’s, Banjo had given but little notice to others in the restaurant.
Hence he did not recognize The Shadow when the tall stroller entered the Bontezan, half a minute later.
In the leisurely fashion of Cranston, The Shadow seated himself in an armchair, and watched Banjo. The fellow was at the desk, waiting to ask for a key.