“Maybe he was the fellow who got Jurrice!” exclaimed Cardona. “I get it now, Burke. Revoort could have told Jurrice that he was on the steamship. That would have given him a chance to alibi himself.”
“THERE’S another possibility, Joe,” put in Clyde, wisely. “From the way Jurrice talked, I’d have sworn that he and Revoort were real friends. Revoort being under cover doesn’t mean that he’s a crook. The fact that he registered under his own name is something in his favor. What if Jurrice and Revoort were both in the same mess?”
“That is a hunch,” acknowledged Cardona. “A good one, Burke. The two of them may have had an enemy. When Jurrice heard that Revoort was missing, he may have thought his friend had met with foul play.”
“And Jurrice was pretty nearly ready to do some talking, Joe. That would account for him being bumped. Tell me — what’s going to happen now that Revoort’s still alive? When he finds out that Jurrice has been murdered?”
“If Revoort is on the level, he will talk.”
“Yes. If he has a chance, Joe. Suppose the murderer learns that Revoort is safe and finds him at the Legrand Hotel—”
The suggestion brought a quick interruption. It was all that Cardona had needed for prompt action. The ace was calling to Markham and to other members of his investigating squad.
“We’re going to the Legrand Hotel,” Cardona told Clyde. “If we find Revoort there, we’ll get him to talk. We’ll learn how much he knows about Jurrice and that trouble on the Tropical.”
“Suppose, Joe, that you don’t find Revoort. Suppose that someone else is there instead of him.”
“Then we’ll act different. We’ll grab whoever is there; and hold him as a suspect. Some stranger, eh? If that’s who we find, we’ll grab him as the murderer of Craig Jurrice!”
Clyde Burke was elated as he followed Cardona and the squad. Bound for the Legrand Hotel, the law was going in the service of The Shadow. Harry — Burbank — Clyde — all had done their part. The Shadow had ordered a trap for some unsuspecting foe. The law, represented by Joe Cardona, would be there to spring the snare!
CHAPTER XVIII
AT THE LEGRAND HOTEL
IN his trip to the Legrand Hotel, The Python had paused only once. Outside the Cambia, he had stopped long enough to put in a telephone call that would be relayed to some Coilmaster. Such was the explanation of the blinking blue lights that The Shadow had seen from the eighth-floor trap.
Reaching the Legrand, The Python had gone directly to the room that The Shadow had taken under the name of Louis Revoort. He had found the door unlocked; still in the guise of Carl Ramorez, The Python had entered to begin his wait.
Upon one point, The Python had complete confidence. He was positive that he had deceived The Shadow; that the pretended Louis Revoort had not suspected that the mask of Carl Ramorez hid The Python. Had the real Revoort visited the Cambia, The Python would have felt the same confidence. For the supercrook prided himself on being a man with many faces.
The Python’s weakness lay in his very strength. So sure was he of his schemes that he minimized minor failings. His blue lights, visible from all his outposts, were so useful by night that The Python did not worry because they could not serve during daylight hours.
Similarly, the necessity for an ironbound trap had caused him to outdo himself in the equipment of that eighth-floor room in the old Cambia Hotel. The Python thought that his glib explanation of the hotel’s reconstruction had been sufficient to cover the case. Perhaps those statements might have fooled the real Louis Revoort; but they had not deceived his double.
So far as smooth strategy was concerned, The Shadow had surpassed The Python. Though The Shadow still was trapped, he knew it; The Python, on the contrary, had walked into a web unwittingly.
Seated in the comfortable room at the Legrand Hotel, the master crook was positive that he would soon gain the treasure that his Coilmaster Duronne had failed to snatch from the burning Tropical.
The smile beneath the mustache of Carl Ramorez was proof of The Python’s contempt for The Shadow. Belittling his adversary, The Python was sure that Harry Vincent would be here.
Vincent! The name was one of those for which The Python had previously offered life, had The Shadow chosen to give it. The fact that The Shadow — as Revoort — had openly declared the name was proof conclusive — so The Python thought — that The Shadow had not guessed the true identity of the man who had received him in the guise of Carl Ramorez.
MANY minutes passed; yet The Python was not perturbed. He had expected that Vincent would be slow in delivering the trunk. It would have to be brought here cautiously. Moreover, The Python was pleased because of the delay. He had plans for dealing with Vincent when the fellow came. Those plans required an interval for preparation.
It was just when The Python first began to show impatience that footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. A smile of greeting was forming on the dark face of Carl Ramorez. Sharp eyes glittered toward the doorway, as the pretended Cuban waited, openhanded, for his visitor.
Then, following a slow turn of the knob, the door was suddenly swung inward. A stocky man bounded across the sill; with quick move, he covered The Python with a stubby revolver.
The Python’s eyelids narrowed as his hands came upward. More men were entering. They formed a squad of plain-clothes men. The Python needed no further guesswork; he knew the identity of that stocky man who led the lot. As Carl Ramorez, The Python was faced by Joe Cardona.
Realizing that he was trapped, The Python smiled evasively. He managed to feign surprise at the intrusion. He looked questioningly at Joe Cardona. Still holding his revolver, the ace introduced himself.
“I’m acting Inspector Cardona,” announced Joe, gruffly. “From headquarters. Looking for Louis Revoort. Are you Revoort?”
Politely, The Python shook his head. His lips still held their smile.
“Who are you then?”
“I am a friend of Mr. Revoort,” he replied, in perfect English. “My name, senor, is Ramorez. Carlos Ramorez; but I am known as Carl Ramorez to my friends in America. Permit me, senor.”
With two fingers, The Python reached into a vest pocket and produced a calling card, which he tendered to Cardona. The sleuth read the name Carl Ramorez, with the address: Balboa Apartments.
“The Balboa Apartments,” repeated Cardona, aloud; then, with a sharp gaze at the mustached man: “That’s only a few blocks from the Hotel Bragelonne. Do you know the place?”
“The Bragelonne? I have seen it, yes. It was too expensive, senor inspector for one who has so little money as I. There were friends of mine — other Cubans — at the Balboa. That is why I took an apartment there. The price is not too high.”
“Do you know of a man named Jurrice? Craig Jurrice, who lives at the Bragelonne?”
The Python shook his head.
“A friend of Revoort’s?” prompted Cardona. “Didn’t you hear the name before? Jurrice?”
“No,” replied The Python, “It is this way, senor. My friend Revoort was one whom I had known in Cuba. Some time ago, he told me that he was going to visit my home country. He promised to seek friends of mine; to learn from them if it would be wise for me to return.
“Today, I have learned that my friend Revoort was missing from the steamship Tropical. I was sad, until tonight; he called me at my apartment. He said that he had news for me; that I was to come here to meet him. The door was to be unlocked.
“That is why I am here. I was surprised to see you instead of my friend Revoort. Tell me — has he done something that the law does not like? I can not think that my friend Revoort would do any such thing, senor.”