A lone clerk was on duty. The fellow was broad-faced and bald-headed. He was arguing with the bell-captain about some minor matter. The bell-captain addressed the clerk as “Mr. Bleek,” during the course of conversation; then went back to duty.
Banjo Lobot asked for his key. The clerk gave it to him, from a pigeonhole marked “618.” Banjo waited a moment at the desk, lighting a cigarette while he lingered. The Shadow saw Bleek go to a cashier’s window and fumble with a drawer. As Banjo looked in Bleek’s direction, the clerk met his gaze; then delivered a slow shake of his head. Banjo walked away and entered an elevator.
Trebelon — Bleek — both had given a sign to Banjo. Through watching Trebelon, The Shadow had picked up a trail to Bleek. He knew the answer to Banjo’s brief appearances at Gallion’s restaurant. The fellow was a rover, going a regular round; that was why he was so careful to avoid followers.
Trebelon and Bleek were not the only ones on Banjo’s route. There were others; and they must be spotted. That would become The Shadow’s task. Banjo Lobot was the link; moreover, he was obviously of individual importance. Some word was being passed to him by those he met. Banjo would be the contact man who carried the news to someone higher up.
LEAVING the Bontezan, The Shadow went to his own hotel. From his room, he put in a telephone call.
The voice that answered was that of Harry Vincent. In quiet tones of Cranston, The Shadow gave instructions. The call ended.
Half an hour later, The Shadow received a call. Harry was again on the wire. The agent had a report — one that brought the semblance of a smile to The Shadow’s fixed lips. Harry had checked out of the hotel where he was staying. He had gone to the Bontezan and had managed to obtain a room on the sixth floor.
Not by pure luck. Harry had followed instructions as The Shadow had given them. He had been offered a room on the fourth; he had asked for one a little higher — on the fifth or the sixth. It was a trick that always worked. The clerk had been influenced by the number last named and had picked out a room on the sixth.
Harry’s room was close to Room 618. That part of it had been coincidence. The result, however, had given The Shadow satisfaction. He knew that Harry had created no suspicion while talking with Bleek, the man at the Bontezan desk. If Harry had aroused Bleek’s mistrust, the clerk would have steered him away from Banjo’s vicinity. Instead, Bleek had given Harry Room 624.
From his window, The Shadow could see the distant bulk of the Hotel Bontezan. The sight increased the smile that had formed itself upon those disguised features. From the Bontezan, as his base, Banjo Lobot would fare forth tomorrow. Meanwhile, Harry Vincent would be watching. The Shadow would be ready.
Crime was brewing in New Orleans. Lesser criminals were working on some scheme. Through these unsuspecting minions, The Shadow would learn the game in which they figured. More than that, he would find the crooked master whom they served.
CHAPTER IV. THE NOD IS GIVEN
CRIME was pending in New Orleans. Insidious crime, betrayed only through surface indications which The Shadow alone had detected. Whatever the game at stake, it must be great. No trifling criminal activity could have brought such smooth workers as Pierre Trebelon and Banjo Lobot to this city.
Besides these, there were others. Bleek, the hotel clerk, was an indication of that fact. Evil was brewing; but had not yet struck. The Shadow had arrived before crime became rampant. His task was to veil his presence while he learned full details of approaching events.
Strange episodes frequently brought inklings that concerned crime. The Shadow, when delving into hidden games, was always looking for traces of unusual adventures, experienced by persons who seemed detached from criminal activities. There was one man in New Orleans whose affairs would have interested The Shadow. But that individual was carefully keeping such information to himself.
The man in question was Andrew Blouchet.
Living alone in his Frenchtown apartment, Andrew had been harboring his new resources. His wants were few; he had refrained from touching his huge fund of one hundred thousand dollars. Carl Randon had gone North; during the quiet days that had succeeded Mardi Gras, Andrew had spent but little money.
At last, the temporary period had ended. Completely out of other cash, Andrew had dipped into the contents of the ebony box. Since he had taken this step, he was ready for a splurge. Hence Andrew, faring forth, had stuffed his wallet with crisp bank notes. He was ready to appear once more in the company of money-spending acquaintances.
SOME twenty-four hours after The Shadow’s arrival in New Orleans, Andrew Blouchet entered the portals of the somewhat exclusive Delta Club. The members of this private establishment were mostly men of means. It had been months since Andrew had appeared at the Delta Club, for the simple reason that he had not paid his dues.
Once admitted, Andrew went to the treasurers office and offered to pay up his back dues. The treasurer, a genial chap named Gilling, was pleased to receive the money. Andrew tendered him two fifty-dollar bills and received twenty in change. Gilling took the money without question, as Andrew had expected.
Andrew had already shown one of the bills to a bank cashier, who had assured him that it was genuine.
Receiving a paid-up membership card, Andrew strolled from the office with Gilling. Entering a room where social groups were clustered, Andrew encountered a stocky, square-faced man who clapped him on the shoulder with great enthusiasm.
“Hello, Andy!” exclaimed the stocky man. “Haven’t seen you for months! Why haven’t you looked me up?”
“I intended to, Jerry,” responded Andrew. “I didn’t know just where you were located.”
“Haven’t you heard?” queried Jerry. “I’ve opened the old Luzanne Theater. Starting some legitimate shows there, beginning in a week or so.”
“I thought you were doing publicity for some of the clubs. Have you given up that work, Jerry?”
“Not at all, Andy. That’s my daytime occupation. Along about five o’clock, I go to the theater office and stay there during the evening. Drop around and say hello.”
“All right, Jerry.”
The two separated. Moving away, Andrew observed two older men engaged in conversation. Both saw him and nodded cordially. Andrew approached and shook hands. One of these men was Theodore Durflee, a portly, jovial-faced banker. The other was a man whom Andrew had mentioned to Carl Randon: namely, Lester Hayd, president of the Wide World Loan Co.
Hayd was tall and bulky of build; his heavy, dark-browed face marked him as dynamic. His handshake, a strong, impressive grip, went well with his appearance. Hayd, like Durflee, was glad to welcome this returned member.
“I wanted to see you, Mr. Hayd,” remarked Andrew. “About a little business matter—”
“Come to my office, Andrew,” interrupted Hayd, with a smile and shake of his head. “That is where I talk business. You are welcome any time.”
“All right,” agreed Andrew. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go along and perform the duty of meeting some other members whom I have not seen in a long while. I was just talking with Jerry Bodwin. I hadn’t seen him for months.”
“He told you about the Luzanne Theater?” queried Durflee. “I understand he is reopening it.”
“So he said.”
ANDREW went on his way, while both men nodded approvingly. It was Durflee who made remark.
“A likable young fellow,” said the banker. “Blouchet is the type of member whom we need.”
“Precisely,” agreed Hayd. Then, with tightened lips: “The Delta Club is slipping, Durflee. The committees have lost their senses. I do not approve of their methods.”