“They’re the McCoy,” decided Royan. “With only one of them to look at, I wasn’t sure. But with three, I had a chance to compare them, Nothing phony about that cash.”
THE SHADOW lingered a few moments after Royan had gone. After that, he strolled from the office, in time to spy Royan making a notation on a slip of paper.
Reaching the gaming room, Royan stopped inside the door. The Shadow, following unobserved, paused just before he reached the curtain. From where he stood, however, he could glimpse Banjo Lobot.
Royan caught Banjo’s eye. The attendant gave a nod. Lobot cashed in his chips and walked toward the door. As he neared the curtains, he passed Royan. The attendant slipped a tiny wad of paper into the go-between’s hand. The Shadow stepped to one side; he was lighting a panatela when Banjo stalked past. When the man was gone, The Shadow strolled over and found Durflee. The banker introduced him to other club members.
An hour later, Andrew Blouchet left the Delta Club. The Shadow departed shortly afterward. Still in the guise of Cranston, he arrived at Gallion’s restaurant. There he spied Andrew, indulging in a late meal with two friends from the club. It was Andrew who paid the check. The Shadow saw him give the waiter a fifty-dollar bill.
The three men left; their group broke up outside the restaurant. The Shadow remained to finish a dish of “shrimp a la creole.” While thus engaged, he observed the arrival of Banjo Lobot.
The long-jawed crook ordered his usual drink; then looked toward the door of the office, where Pierre Trebelon was standing. The waiter had brought Banjo’s check. The Shadow saw Trebelon slide a slip of paper beneath it.
In person, Trebelon brought the change to Banjo’s table. Lowering the paid cafe check, he let the piece of paper drop from beneath it. Trebelon strolled away as Banjo crumpled the paper and thrust it into his pocket with his change.
Then came the final touch. Back at the door of the office, Trebelon turned about. Momentarily, the mustached Frenchman caught Banjo Lobot’s eye. Slowly, but briefly, Trebelon delivered a nod. Banjo finished his drink and left.
When The Shadow departed from the restaurant, Banjo Lobot was gone. Tonight, however, the master sleuth had no intention of following the crook’s trail. Nor did The Shadow intend to return immediately to his own hotel. Instead, he strolled deeper into the French Quarter.
On a secluded street of the Vieux Carre, The Shadow’s tall form seemed to fade. Near the blackness where his figure had merged with gloom, a soft whisper sounded. Its tone was a sinister laugh. Though still in the guise of Cranston, The Shadow had blended with the night.
The Shadow had found a new step in the game. Thrice had he seen Banjo Lobot receive the nod from different accomplices. On two occasions, the act had concerned one man. The Shadow — like those whom he intended to balk — had gained a lead to Andrew Blouchet.
CHAPTER V. A SPY BY DAY
ANDREW BLOUCHET was a late sleeper. It was nearly noon when he awoke. Yawning, the young man strolled out into the living room of his antiquated apartment. Donning dressing gown, he listened to scuffling sounds beyond the outer hall.
Opening the door, Andrew peered across to see two moving men engaged in lugging furniture from the apartment opposite. They were directed by a lanky, stoop-shouldered individual whose tone was quibbly. The man was arguing about the amount of furniture to be removed.
“Confound it!” exclaimed the newcomer. “This stuff was here for months! Why can’t you leave it for a few days, till my own furniture comes?”
“Orders to take it out, Mr. Duvale,” returned one of the moving men. “Guess the guy that owns the junk don’t want it left here, now that the apartment is taken.”
“But I have spoken to the owner!” Duvale was acting excitedly. “He has said that I can use whatever may be here!”
“You can have whatever belongs here,” retorted the moving man. “A couple of them chairs — the cot in the bedroom — they ain’t to be taken out. They don’t belong to Mr. Badley, who sent us here for the stuff.”
Duvale shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He looked toward an easel and a suitcase that were standing at one side of the hall; these were obviously the only property that Duvale himself had brought.
Apparently Duvale was an artist; so long as he had his equipment, he was satisfied, now that he had been assured of a cot on which to sleep.
Andrew closed the door of his own apartment. He began to fix up some breakfast.
Half an hour passed. Sounds of moving had ended. Finished with breakfast. Andrew was fishing money from the pockets of his clothes. He had spent more than he had expected last night. Besides paying up his dues at the Delta Club, he had dropped two hundred dollars in the gaming room. He had been forced to change another fifty at Gallion’s. He had started out with five hundred dollars; the amount that remained would serve him for a few days.
A knock at the door caused Andrew to shove the currency back into a pocket. Answering the rap, Andrew found himself facing Duvale. The new occupant of the apartment opposite had donned a grimy smock. He was also wearing a beret, tilted to one side. Andrew was right; the chap was an artist.
“Pardon, m’sieu’.” With lips that formed a downward smile, Duvale was speaking in a French accent.
“My name, m’sieu’, is Duvale. Is it that you are Monsieur Blouchet?”
“That is my name,” replied Andrew.
“Vous etes Francais?” questioned Duvale, quickly.
“A Frenchman?” laughed Andrew. “No. My great-great-grandfather was French, but the family became well Americanized.”
“Ah, oui,” nodded Duvale. “Well, m’sieu’, it is to you that I owe many pardons. Un mille pardons! I have made one mistake.”
He drew an envelope from the pocket of his smock. Receiving it, Andrew saw that it was addressed to himself. The envelope, however, had not been opened.
“I find ze letter down the stairs,” explained Duvale. “I think that it is for me, m’sieu’. I find that I am mistake—”
“Quite all right,” interposed Andrew. “The letter has not been opened.” Duvale smiled apologetically; then pointed to the upper corner of the envelope.
“The name, m’sieu’. Of ze one who has sent ze letter. I have seen it, m’sieu’.
Andrew noted the address in the corner. He caught the reason for Duvale’s apology. The letter was from the Wide World Loan Co.
“Sometimes, m’sieu’,” added Duvale, seriously, “persons do not like that other people should know of private business that—”
“That’s all right, Mr. Duvale,” broke in Andrew. He was tearing open the envelope. “Wait until I read this.” His stare became steady as he read the letter within. “Well, this is a dandy. Yes, sir, a dandy!”
“You have trouble, m’sieu’?”
“Not a bit,” laughed Andrew. “This loan company just promised me an extension. Now they have suddenly changed their minds. They want their money.”
Duvale’s face became sorrowful. Andrew chuckled.
“They can have it,” he snorted. “Carl was right about old Hayd being a tightwad and a grasper. I’ve got money to pay them. It will give me plenty of satisfaction to finish it up.” In his enthusiasm, Andrew had almost forgotten Duvale’s presence. He realized suddenly that he was making his remarks in front of a total stranger. Andrew decided to end the mistake.
“Thank you, Mr. Duvale,” he said, cordially. “Well — we are neighbors; and I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”
ABRUPTLY, Andrew went back into his apartment and closed the door. He began to dress; and all the while, he wondered about Duvale. The fellow was nothing but an obscure artist, perhaps; nevertheless, it might be wise to watch him. Duvale had not used his French accent while talking to the moving men.