“Have no concern about The Shadow or Robeq.” A pause, with an evil gloat. “There are others who will search for them. Perhaps they will be trapped. If so, your work will be unnecessary. That is something that the future will tell. Meanwhile, spare no effort in the search that I have ordered.”
Nods and mumbles from the three Apaches. Their recognized leader turned toward the outer door and motioned for them to follow. He led the way through the darkness of the passage and reached the final steps. Whispering for silence, he thrust the loose flagstone upward and emerged into the caveau above.
Stilled moments in the darkness, while walking agents paced by in the darkness of the street above, their footfalls plain to the listeners. Then Zemba’s whisper, as insidious as his snarled voice.
“It is more difficult to leave this district than to enter it. I shall travel alone. You are to leave by the outlet to the river.”
Zemba’s form crept forward. The three Apaches heard him pass from the caveau. Clicking the flagstone, they returned to the vault below. Bantoire picked up the useless telephone while Georges extinguished the light. Led by Jacques, the trio lifted the trapdoor and made their way to the trickling stream below.
Georges and Bantoire had followed this course the night before. Jacques was with them this time, for their old headquarters was to be entirely abandoned. Splashing through shallow water, stooping as they followed the low-roofed pipe, they came at last to the outlet where the stream poured into the Seine.
Clutching the stone front of a quay, the three Apaches drew themselves upward from the threatening swirl of the river. Gaining the paving above, they shambled for the shelter of an alleyway, darting cautious glances as they went. Their trip had been a long, slow one; for the cramped space of the pipe had made them pause at frequent intervals.
SOON after the three had disappeared, a shrouded form stepped from a blackened spot close by the river. A soft laugh whispered from hidden lips. Like a living phantom, a figure glided into darkness. Soon it reached a standing taxicab near the Boul’ Mich’. Stepping noiselessly into the vehicle, the cloaked arrival gave a quiet order:
“Hotel Princesse.”
The Shadow, like Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland, had gone abroad tonight. Unlike his agents, he had gone upon a specific duty. The Shadow had long since guessed the existence of that outlet from beneath the caveau.
Arriving at an opportune time, he had seen three men come up like water rats, from the surface of the Seine. He knew that they were aids of Gaspard Zemba; that they had followed instructions to desert their former hiding place. He had glimpsed a burden carried by Bantoire. He knew that the Apaches had brought forth their telephone equipment.
The question of the trio’s future duty, did not apparently concern The Shadow, for he had not taken up the trail of the Apaches. The Shadow’s one quarry was Gaspard Zemba; and he had not been with the departing group. The Shadow was heading elsewhere.
Gaspard Zemba would have gained insidious pleasure had he been present to observe The Shadow drop the trail of the three Apaches. But his pleasure might have faded had he also been present to hear The Shadow’s whispered mirth.
There was something in that tone that boded ill for evildoers. Shrewd though Zemba’s schemes might be, as evidenced by his actions on this very day, The Shadow, too, had gained results.
CHAPTER XI
AT THE CAFE POISSON
THE Cafe Poisson stands near the Rue Montmartre, not far from the Boulevard Poissoniere. The name of the restaurant was one that caused comment. Some claimed that it was an abbreviation of “Poissoniere,” after the boulevard; others, maintained that “poisson,” being the French word for “fish,” meant that the cafe specialized in sea food.
The Cafe Poisson, though located considerably south of the actual Montmartre section, had once been well patronized by seekers of night life. It had attracted various types of habitues; and, two years before, when the police had dragged two bodies from the Seine, it was learned that the murdered men had last been seen alive in the Cafe Poisson.
Monsieur Suchet, the convivial proprietor, had sworn his innocence in the matter. Unable to bring a satisfactory indictment against him, the police had allowed Suchet to continue in the restaurant business.
Since then, wags had at intervals altered the sign above the restaurant by blotting out one “S,” thus converting “poisson” into “poison.” Since “poison” means the same in French as in English, the inference against the good name of Monsieur Suchet could be appreciated by Americans as well as by Parisians.
Inasmuch as the victims from the Seine had been stabbed, not poisoned, Monsieur Suchet bore the brunt of occasional jests; and pretended to treat the matter as a joke. Nevertheless, it was noted that Suchet kept a wary eye open whenever agents de police stalked past the open front of his cafe. Since the new exploits of Gaspard Zemba had come to public notice, Monsieur Suchet had been doubly cautious.
There was good reason; for such persons as Monsieur Suchet were supposed to be in Zemba’s favor. The Cafe Poisson had, in a sense, been placed under police surveillance.
EXACTLY twenty-four hours after Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland had arrived in Paris, a figure emerged from the Montmartre station of the Paris Metro, having chosen a new underground route to reach this section. Strolling along in casual fashion, the arrival entered a side street. His figure was that of Herbert Balliol.
Again, Harry and Cliff had parted with their friend. They had left Balliol in the lobby of the Hotel Princesse; he, in turn, had fared abroad soon after their departure. After his stroll from the Montmartre station, Herbert Balliol appeared later outside the Cafe Poisson.
After surveying the establishment through blue-lensed spectacles, the visitor entered and took his place at a table. He gave an order to a waiter; then turned about to eye two sergeants de ville who were seated at another table. Though apparently off duty, these officers had a purpose here, namely to watch Monsieur Suchet.
Bald-headed and fat of face; the proprietor was standing behind a small counter. Looking out through the front of the cafe, he saw a figure that alighted from a cab. Suchet’s eyes sharpened; then, nervously, he produced a handkerchief and began to mop his brow. He had seen a venomous, staring face; one that he did not know, but which made him think of the notorious Gaspard Zemba.
A sergeant de ville saw the direction of Suchet’s gaze and looked in the same direction. He motioned to his companion. The two left their table and started out. Monsieur Suchet sank back; but his face showed relief. A hunched figure had started away in time to avoid the officers.
All the while, Herbert Balliol had been seated motionless. Suchet had scarcely noted the new arrival; but he was soon to do so. Some one plucked at his sleeve. It was a taciturn waiter, motioning the proprietor to a rear door of the cafe.
A squinty-eyed derelict was standing there, grinning while he clinked a pair of metal two-franc pieces. The fellow thrust an envelope into Suchet’s hand; then shambled away.
Fumbling, Suchet tore open the envelope. Inside, he found a message. He read it and crumpled the paper. He turned to the waiter who was standing beside him. In a hushed tone, Suchet gasped:
“It’s — it’s from Zemba! Peste! Zemba! Les sergents de ville! They have started after him!”
“You saw Zemba?”
“I saw some one, outside the cafe. Ah! How swiftly he must have acted, to double back and pass this message to a chance loiterer. Zemba is incredible. But come, Oudrin! This means work for you. Change your coat and join me by the counter.”