The hand of Gaspard Zemba!
CHAPTER X
THE CHOSEN THREE
LONG seconds passed while rigid Apaches stared. Then Georges raised his scarred forehead upward. Bantoire’s ugly-toothed face came next; then Jacques lifted his pockmarked visage. Clear in the light, they saw the face of Gaspard Zemba.
Livid, that countenance fulfilled their expectations. It matched the descriptive chart that the prefect of police had shown in the foreign office. It did more than that; for no pictured representation could ever have portrayed the fiendishness that seemed to emanate from Zemba’s leer.
In light, the face was changeful in expression. It had been ugly, gloating, when it had peered from the parked car by the Hotel Princesse; also when the match flame had disclosed it. But in this subterranean den, the visage of Gaspard Zemba was demoniac.
The Apaches watched it change as Zemba’s hunched shoulders shifted backward. The left hand bobbed up from the table. Fisted, it swept toward a pocket of Zemba’s jacket. Then the hand reappeared, clutching a packet of cigarettes. The fingers of the right hand extracted a cigarette from the pack, while the left hand, loosely clenched, again displayed its token of a stump where the third finger belonged.
Then, as if by habit, the left hand thrust the cigarette pack into the pocket and remained there, no longer requiring to be in view. Pursing his leering lips, with the cigarette between, Zemba clicked a metal lighter and applied the flame to his cigarette. Blowing a puff of smoke, he removed the cigarette from his lips and gave a harsh chuckle.
“Still here, eh?” he queried. “Waiting to hear from Zemba? Bah! Such fools — the three of you.”
Turning his gaze, the ugly-faced intruder stared toward the telephone. His lips fumed an oath. Then:
“Remove it!”
Bantoire sprang to obey. With tugging hands, the Apache yanked the telephone from the wall.
“That is better!” Zemba’s tone was a low snarl. “Paugh! When I said scamper in case of trouble, I meant it!”
“There was no trouble here, chief,” began Georges, his usual bravado lessened. “We were waiting to hear from you—”
“No trouble?” Zemba’s tone was raucous. “There was trouble above. That could mean trouble below. Do you think that I would have called here? When agents might have been listening, instead of you three?
“You should have been gone long ago, telephone and all. But that can be forgotten. Since you stayed through the trouble, there was no harm in remaining. It shows that you are bold, even though you may be fools.”
ZEMBA’s expression changed. It showed a friendliness; yet of a sort that only such rogues as his henchmen could have enjoyed. For there was an ugliness to this new registration.
“Sometimes,” observed the evil-visaged leader, “I am a fool myself. It often pays to be a fool. As it did with Danyar. There were many fools, yesterday. Blythe was a fool; so was Levaux; and Danyar the same. I was the final fool; and the wisest.
“But there are other fools about. Those who seek to interfere with my plans. One called The Shadow; another named Etienne Robeq. Like myself, they are wise despite their folly. They are more dangerous than all the police and agents put together.”
With his left hand thrust deep into his coat pocket, Zemba paced the floor, puffing savagely at his cigarette. At last he swung and faced the listening trio.
“Five days!” he snarled. “I must have five days! To take less would show a weakness. It is only through strength that I can make frightened men disgorge their wealth. I must wait through those days; and I do not worry at the thought of conflict.
“Why should I be perturbed? All the underworld is at my beck. I have more men in Paris than the total number of the police. The law could not muster enough fighters to defeat me. Should I, Gaspard Zemba, give the signal, riots would break out everywhere.
“But to what avail? None — except to cover flight, should I choose it. Such a time has not arrived. Cunning — strategy — those are the elements I need to balk these two, who — like myself — stay hidden.”
PAUSING, Zemba waved his hearers back to their improvised chairs. Approaching them, he pounded the box that served as table, using his right fist to deliver the thumps.
“I heard you talk,” he informed. “Bantoire was right. Some one was listening in the corridor. It was I. What the three of you said is true. I have others who serve me, like yourselves. To some, I have entrusted a different duty.
“They are watching a hiding place where men are staying. Men who came here to Paris at my beck; agents whom I employed to steal sealed documents from war offices. For five days, these men and their possessions must be guarded.
“The police can never find them. But The Shadow may; and so may Robeq. Why? Because The Shadow and Robeq, like myself, can be anywhere — everywhere. The Shadow by night; Robeq by day. But both can appear in the other’s element. The Shadow by day, or Robeq by night.
“How will they work? By searching, by questioning; by using every device to guess where my guarded men are hidden. They are guessers, both of them. Should thoughtless tongues babble; should unwise persons make mistakes, either The Shadow or Robeq may guess my secret.”
A pause. Then a gloating chuckle as Zemba’s snarling voice resumed:
“I have other hiding places, should the present one prove unsafe. But I prefer to keep the one that I have chosen, so long as I know that it lies undiscovered. There is one way to test its security. That is begin a search for it myself.
“If my search fails, I shall know that the hiding place is safe. If my search succeeds, I shall know that the hiding place is faulty. How can I search for it, since I already know its location? I shall tell you. My search shall be made by the three of you!”
Pausing triumphantly, Zemba indicated each wide-eyed man in turn.
“Georges — Bantoire — Jacques” — a chuckle — “the three cleverest Apaches in all Paris. Foolish, but wise. Three who have seemed to stay out of trouble. All of you know the underworld; none of you are suspected for the crimes that you did in the past.
“Any one of you might make a discovery sooner than either The Shadow or Robeq; for all of you are trusted in the underworld. Your task shall be to inquire everywhere; to speak, to listen, to learn. To work as the secret lieutenants of Gaspard Zemba, replacing Rene Levaux, who previously was my only confidant.”
LEANING forward upon the big box, Zemba spoke new instructions:
“Go. Each his separate way. Be wise for once; let others play the fool. Your dwelling place shall be above the wineshop of Grotain, in the studio of the artist Lesboscombes, in the Quartier Latin. Here are keys, for all of you.”
Zemba’s right hand went to its pocket; then reappeared. Large keys clattered upon the newspaper that still covered the box.
“There is no artist named Lesboscombes,” came Zemba’s scoffed tone. “It is I, Zemba, who occupy those premises. The wineshop is a sleepy one; old Grotain will suspect nothing because of your visits. Should you be questioned, say that Lesboscombes is producing a new painting; the interior of a caveau; and that you three are the models.”
While gloating lips held their leer, Zemba’s left hand again emerged from its pocket, clutching its pack of cigarettes, with the telltale finger showing. Extracting another cigarette, Zemba thrust his left hand from view and gave his last instructions.
“Remember all that you see; and all that you hear,” he told the Apaches. “But speak nothing that will make your mission known. Try to learn the secret of Gaspard Zemba, if you can. Report each finding when you meet with me. I shall be judge as to the merit of your discoveries.