Why had he faked it after meeting Andrew?
The answer, when it came, was one that made Andrew drop his suspicions. Duvale, like many artists, might feel it necessary to impress persons whom he regarded as consequential. It was easier to argue with moving men without resorting to a French accent; but in friendly converse with a new neighbor, a Parisian manner of speech could be effective. So Andrew summed Duvale to be a man who merely tried to cover his unimportance.
Nevertheless, Andrew took a precaution before he left the apartment. He stole to the door and softly opened it, to peer across the hall. Duvale’s door was open. Andrew could hear the fellow humming.
Andrew closed his own door; the latch clicked more loudly than he had expected. For that reason, Andrew did not turn the key. He felt it better to leave the door unlocked than to attract any further attention.
Listening by the door, Andrew was sure that Duvale had not heard the click of the latch. He went across the room and crouched in front of the safe. Carefully, he turned the dial. Thus engaged, Andrew did not notice what took place behind him.
The door of the apartment opened inward. Peering eyes peeked through the space. A pale face showed by the light of the room. It was the countenance of Duvale, the artist. He had heard the click from across the hall. It was his turn to spy upon Andrew.
Blocking the front of the safe, Andrew made it impossible for anyone to watch him manipulate the combination. But his hand showed as it moved toward the pocket; and the eyes that peered from the hall could see the small bundle of crisp bank notes that the young man thrust into his pocket. Andrew was removing one thousand dollars from his hidden store. Ten bills of one hundred dollars each.
Duvale’s face disappeared; the door had closed in front of it. The reason was that Andrew had risen. He had closed the safe and turned the dial. He was ready to leave his apartment. But there was no telltale click to warn Andrew. Duvale had been more careful in his handling of the latch.
Whistling softly, Andrew Blouchet left the apartment and locked the door behind him. He glanced at the lock and shook his head. A poor, useless lock; one that any skeleton key could open. But, after all, what did it matter? The money was in the safe; and Andrew trusted that strong box. The safe, though old-fashioned, was an unusually good one. Andrew’s father had imported it from France; it was a type seldom seen in America.
That safe would stump a capable safe cracker. Andrew knew this; for several friends had commented upon its invulnerability. Andrew’s worriment ended with these thoughts. He descended the stairs into the courtyard and walked through the archway to the street in front.
ANDREW did not look upward. Even if he had, he might have failed to discern the pallid face that was watching from a front window of the building. It was the countenance of Duvale; the artist was peering from his studio, watching to make sure that Andrew had gone on his way. After the young man had turned a corner, Duvale ceased his vigil.
Going from his own apartment, the artist approached Andrew’s. He brought a ring of keys from a pocket of his smock and tried them in the lock. One fitted; Duvale opened the door of Andrew’s apartment and entered. The downturned smile was showing on his lips as he closed the door.
The hall became gloomy when the barrier shut. The sound of a key rattled from the lock. Duvale had locked the door from the inside. He wanted no disturbance while he investigated Andrew’s apartment.
This intruder had gained a knowledge of where Andrew kept a store of hidden wealth.
In fact, Duvale had taken quarters in this building with the definite purpose of watching Andrew Blouchet.
Somehow, the newcomer had gained information concerning the young man who had profited by unexpected wealth on the last night of Mardi Gras. Whoever he might be, Duvale was not what he pretended.
The artist had come to spy. He had gained one point by bringing the letter up to Andrew. He had scored another by watching Andrew take money from the safe, even though he had failed to catch the combination.
Whatever the final outcome, it was a certainty that the prying ways of the self-styled Monsieur Duvale would soon have an important bearing upon the affairs of Andrew Blouchet.
CHAPTER VI. THE CHANCE MEETING
ANDREW BLOUCHET was both systematic and forgetful. While eating his noon breakfast, he had carefully compiled a list of errands for the afternoon; then he had proceeded to leave the list on his table, when he went out. However, he managed to remember the course that he had planned to follow.
He had to stop at a real-estate office to inquire about the unpaid rental on a small building which he owned. This place had been a source of revenue, until its occupant had jumped his lease. Since then, the real-estate agent had been trying to collect back rent, without success. At the office, Andrew found out that no luck had been encountered.
His next destination was a garage, where his old car was up for sale. Andrew went there to tell the proprietor to hold the automobile. He no longer wanted it sold; he intended to trade it in for a new machine. Andrew had thought of taking the car out; but he found it with two flat tires, so he made his way back toward Canal Street.
He went in to see a stock broker who was holding the remnants of the poor securities that Andrew owned. None were paying dividends; the broker had told Andrew that he would lose much if he sold them, for they were far below par. Andrew had, however, given orders to sell next week. Today, he reversed his decision.
The day was sultry, with rain clouds threatening. Andrew showed no haste as he made the circuit; he stopped long at each place. It was nearly five o’clock when he approached a building just off Canal Street, the edifice which housed the offices of the Wide World Loan Company. Andrew grinned as he looked up toward the second story windows that bore the lettered name of the corporation.
Carefree, Andrew had paid but little attention to persons whom he had passed along his journey. Not once had he paused to glance behind him. Hence he had failed to observe persons who had followed him. On different occasions, pedestrians had kept close to the heels of this young New Orleans stroller.
Before entering the loan company’s office, Andrew stepped into a tobacco shop to buy a pack of cigarettes. He did not notice a long-jawed, frowning individual who watched him enter the cigar store.
Even if he had, Andrew would hardly have recognized the banjo player of Mardi Gras night.
Another tall stranger moved from a throng while Banjo Lobot was watching Andrew Blouchet. This newcomer did not pause at the tobacco shop. Instead, he entered the lobby of the office building and went up the stairs to the loan office. He had been gone three minutes when Andrew came from the cigar store.
Banjo Lobot had not seen the person who had entered the office building; nor did the long-jawed crook follow Andrew. Instead, Banjo chuckled to himself and went away. He either thought it was unnecessary to watch Andrew further, or he was depending upon someone else to keep up the trail.
IT was a certainty, however, that Banjo was not counting upon the tall personage whom he had failed to glimpse at the entrance of the office building. That arrival had already gained an unusual reception on the second floor. He had presented a card that bore the name “Lamont Cranston.” He had been ushered in immediately to Lester Hayd’s private office.
The president of the loan company was busy. Stacks of papers and letters were heaped upon his desk.
He dropped his tasks when The Shadow entered. Smiling broadly, the heavy-browed loan president extended a hand in greeting.