A few minutes later, Oudrin rejoined Suchet. Close by the counter, the proprietor spoke:
“See that tall man by the table near the entrance? The one who may be an Englishman? He is the one that Zemba wants us to follow.”
Oudrin nodded.
“Take good note of him,” added Suchet. “Trail him carefully, Oudrin. Bring back full word. I shall pass it to others. It will reach Zemba.”
Suchet observed that the tall stranger was eyeing others in the cafe. His inspection ended, he arose and stalked from the place. Oudrin followed. Soon afterward, the sergents de ville returned and resumed their table with disgruntled growls. Suchet smiled blandly.
MEANWHILE, Oudrin had been trailing his quarry northward. He saw the tall stroller enter a taxi. Oudrin engaged one to follow. The trail led to the Place Saint-Pierre. There, Oudrin saw him produce three nickel coins of different sizes, all with holes in the center.
Calculating five, ten and twenty-five centimes, Oudrin guessed that the tall stranger intended to take the railway, with its fare of forty centimes. Oudrin chose the steps that paralleled the cable tram, to the heights of Montmartre, more than three hundred feet above.
As a trailer, Oudrin was competent. He located his quarry and watched the stranger eye the lights of Paris from the heights. Then, a change transpired. With long, swift strides, the man started off for the section of gay night clubs that thronged the Montmartre. Oudrin had difficulty keeping up with him.
Reaching a cabaret, the man entered and nodded to the proprietor. Oudrin chose a quiet spot; then called a waiter and wrote out a short note. It went to the proprietor and came back again. Beneath Oudrin’s question was the written name:
“Herbert Balliol.”
Oudrin grinned. The proprietor here happened to be a friend of Monsieur Suchet. So far, the trailer had found out one important point. His next would be to learn where Herbert Balliol resided. That question was answered half an hour later, when the tall man left the cabaret. Oudrin, following, saw him go aboard a taxi; and heard the address which the supposed Englishman gave:
“Hotel Princesse.”
RETURNING southward, Oudrin arrived back at the Cafe Poisson just as a drizzle was commencing. Most of the patrons had left because of the threatened rain. The sergents de ville had gone. Oudrin gave his information to Suchet.
“The man lives at the Hotel Princesse,” stated the trailer, “and his name is Herbert Balliol.”
Suchet smiled. Oudrin looked puzzled.
“Herbert Balliol?” queried Suchet. “Ah! That is simply the name he uses. Zemba’s note told me who he was. Oudrin, you have been following The Shadow!”
Oudrin stood gaping while Suchet laughed and entered the back room. The proprietor of the Cafe Poisson made three telephone calls in succession. He came back to the counter, rubbing his pudgy hands.
“The word has gone to Zemba,” he said. “You have done well, Oudrin.”
ONE hour later, Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland arrived at the Hotel Princesse. They, too, had been to the Montmartre; but they had not encountered Herbert Balliol during his brief visit. As they alighted in the increasing rain, they noted a pair of huddled men in the shelter beneath the marquee.
Harry and Cliff took them for idlers who had simply chosen to edge out from the rain. Actually, the loiterers were shrewd watchers from the underworld; henchmen who served Gaspard Zemba.
Chance had it that another cab went by the Hotel Princesse a few minutes later. A sharp-eyed passenger, peering from the interior, spied the two loiterers. The rider spoke to the driver, who stopped. The passenger alighted and entered the hotel. On the way, he gave sidewise glances toward the watchers.
The light of the lobby revealed the arrival’s face. He was the man who had visited the conference in the foreign minister’s office, one day before. Persons in the lobby took him merely for another guest. Not one would have believed that this could be the celebrated detective, Etienne Robeq.
Noting nothing unusual, the visitor strolled from the lobby. In his departure, he again noted the suspicious characters huddled beneath the marquee. Rain had dwindled. Instead of taking a cab, the passing visitor paced ahead for two full blocks.
Just as the rain began again, he hurried into another hotel, the Talleyrand. This was the one that Robeq had chosen. His course, by taxi, had happened to take him directly past the Princesse.
Reaching a fourth-floor room, he put in a telephone call. In a guarded voice, he announced himself as Robeq. The man to whom he was speaking was Sergeant Rusanne. Robeq’s questions concerned reports from the police. He learned that there were none of consequence.
Seating himself, Robeq produced a small notebook. His firm face hardened as he studied various notations. Beneath the list he added the name: “Hotel Princesse;” then pondered and crossed it out. That done, he turned out the light, seated himself by the window and stared out over the drizzle-shrouded lights of the city.
MEANWHILE, three men had gathered in conclave within a dreary, dimly lighted room where the beat of rainfall sounded from the flat French room above. Georges, Bantoire and Jacques had assembled. They were comparing notes that they had heard.
“He was seen in the Montmartre tonight,” declared Jacques. “That is all that I heard concerning The Shadow.”
“I learned more,” added Bantoire. “Where he was seen, I did not know. But they say that he is disguised as an Englishman, who calls himself Herbert Balliol.”
“I heard it said,” remarked Georges, “that The Shadow is residing at the Hotel Princesse.”
“As always,” commented Bantoire, “one of us knows one fact; another knows another. But none of us know all—”
“None of you, perhaps!” came a rasped voice. The three turned about to stare at the face of Gaspard Zemba. “But I know all the facts. Bah! Why do you concern yourself with this man they call The Shadow?”
“We heard reports,” began Georges, taken aback by Zemba’s silent entry. “Word that had passed through places where we visited—”
“But none that pertained to the quest that I have given you?” queried Zemba, interrupting. “No one spoke of my secret hiding place?”
Headshakes from all three Apaches.
“Good,” gibed Zemba. “The more you fail, the better, provided only that you work to the limit.”
“We are doing so,” assured Jacques.
“Ah, yes?” queried Zemba, sourly, producing a cigarette. “Spending your time listening to rumors that concern The Shadow? How do you suppose The Shadow’s trail was found? I shall tell you. I gave it!”
Surprised gazes, while Zemba’s face leered.
“I found The Shadow,” resumed the speaker, viciously. “Tonight, I followed him. By the Cafe Poisson, I had to dodge. I was seen by two sergents de ville. I placed others on the trail. They gave me the news of The Shadow. The news that you three heard.
“Bah! You know the way I work. A telephone call to one place, where my voice is known; a flash of this hand” — he pressed his left against his dampened jacket, to show the missing finger — “I use that token elsewhere. All word comes to Gaspard Zemba.
“I expected more than was gained. Those who observed The Shadow found out no more than I already knew. I shall take care of him.” Zemba’s gaze glared, while his lips mumbled ugly epithets. “Yes, I shall deal with The Shadow very soon.
“But remember! There is still Robeq. I must deal with him as well. And when I tell you that I know where Robeq is, this very minute, would you believe me? It is true. I have them both, The Shadow and Etienne Robeq. But I must take care before I act.”