Creeps came closer. Hunched shoulders arrived before Harry’s eyes. The Shadow’s agent suppressed an elated breath. The prowler was backing toward the window, watching the door.
Alarmed by the noise made by Cliff, he had gained no inkling of Harry’s arrival. Curtains swished; the hunched man was taking a hiding place within Harry’s very grasp!
The whole set-up flashed through Harry’s brain. The prowler had latched the door. He thought that the person trying it was the owner of the room. That was why he wanted to hide by the window. In a few seconds, he would be wondering why the door did not open, since the owner would naturally have the key. Harry decided to allow no time for speculation.
TIGHTENING, Harry lunged forward, squarely upon the man in front of him. A sharp snarl, a twist of a hunched body as Harry struck his adversary. Then, as they sprawled to the floor, the curtains came sweeping with them. The wooden curtain rod thudded on Harry’s shoulders and bounded to the floor. Harry scarcely noticed the blow, so intent was he to overcome the man whom he had gripped.
Seldom had Harry ever dealt with so wiry an antagonist. The snarling man twisted, yanked his arms free and tugged at Harry’s fists when they clutched his throat. For a moment, the hunched fighter wrestled loose. Then luck came to Harry’s aid. His opponent’s hand tangled in the curtains. Grabbing the fellow, Harry rolled him over, half smothering him in the folds of the drapery.
That stroke ended the fight abruptly. Snarls became gasps. Through the curtains, Harry caught two arms and twisted them behind a bulgy back. Then, with a powerful lift, he hoisted his foe clear of the floor, curtains and all; and half carried, half hauled him to the door.
Letting the gasping man slump to the floor with the curtains, Harry clamped one knee against his back and reached up to the doorknob. He turned it and whispered a warning to Cliff as his teammate entered.
As soon as the door was closed again, Cliff switched on the light. He grinned as he saw Harry crouching upon a subdued mass that looked like a mammoth cocoon. Joining Harry, Cliff also grabbed the prisoner. Together, they unwound the curtains; then stared at the gasping captive who sprawled into view.
Harry had bagged a venomous-looking antagonist. In garb, in countenance, the man looked like a mammoth rat that had crawled from one of the famous sewers of Paris. Even his clothes, greasy trousers and a threadbare jersey, looked slimy, for they were dampened by the outside drizzle.
The prisoner was scarcely over five feet in height; his hunched, almost deformed posture made him appear even shorter. But his long, ugly teeth; the leer of his gasping lips; the clawish appearance of his hands — these, plus his wiriness, showed him to be a dangerous character. Hitched to the man’s belt was a sheath that contained a long knife. Harry had kept the rogue from drawing that blade; and that capable effort on Harry’s part had been a vital factor in the victory.
They dragged the ratlike man to the center of the room. Cliff plucked the knife from the sheath, while Harry kicked the crumpled curtains away from the door. Their prisoner was sitting up, glaring in an ugly fashion. He was wise enough, however, to know that he could not escape.
“Looks like an Apache,” commented Cliff. “You snagged him, Harry; let me do the quizzing. I know enough of the lingo to get by.”
Dropping English for French, Cliff put a series of questions, sprinkling his words with some phrases of Parisian slang. The snarly prisoner made no reply. Dropping his hands to the floor, he pushed himself upward in apelike fashion and backed away, crouching as he glared from one captor to the other.
“He looks like a dim-wit,” observed Cliff, to Harry, “unless he’s bluffing. If he wasn’t so tough, I might be ready to think he was dumb; but as it is—”
A snarl interrupted. It came from the lips of the sweatered rat. With face livid, the prisoner glared toward the door. His hand shot to the sheath from which Cliff had so wisely whisked the knife. With one accord, Cliff pounced upon the hunched Apache and thrust his arms behind his back. They, too, turned toward the door.
The portal had opened and closed again, silently. Upon the threshold stood the tall, tuxedoed figure of Herbert Balliol. Serenely, through his bluish glasses, the entrant was surveying the scene. His lips formed a half smile as he placed a cigarette between them. The Apache voiced a snarclass="underline"
“The Shadow!”
CLIFF and Harry were startled by the words; but the smile upon the features of the supposed Herbert Balliol remained fixed. To Harry came the realization that the smile denoted pleasure because of this expression of recognition. The Apache’s words were a giveaway; they told that persons in the underworld had identified Herbert Balliol with The Shadow.
“L’Ombre, oui.” The words from Balliol’s lips were calm. Then, in a flow of French, he questioned: “Who sent you here to pry into my affairs? Gaspard Zemba?”
The ratlike Apache made no reply. The voice of Balliol hardened. Quickly, fiercely, the tall arrival delivered a voluble flow of French that carried more than its quota of Apache jargon. Threatening, accusing, the phrases were too speedy for even Cliff to thoroughly grasp them. But they worked upon the Apache.
The hunched rat spat back weakening replies. Loosening in the clutch of Harry and Cliff, he crouched back toward the wall. Hoarsely, he gave answers. Each one produced new, harsher questions. At last the tall inquisitor ceased the quiz and spoke to Harry and Cliff.
“Bind him.”
There were heavy straps about a suitcase in the corner. Cliff and Harry procured them. While they were trussing up the Apache, they listened to the easy tones of Balliol, this time in English, speaking words which they took as both information and instructions from The Shadow.
“This rogue is from Zemba,” came the steady tone. “At Zemba’s order, he scaled the wall, from one balcony to another. His purpose was to enter and search this room. You did well to capture him, Vincent.”
Harry smiled. He concluded that The Shadow had entered the room while he and Cliff were still discussing the prisoner.
“He states that he is to return to the Allee des Bijoux,” resumed the speaker. “That street is located in the Montmartre. There is nothing concerning jewels about the street, but there is an Apache’s caveau there. It happens that Gaspard Zemba will be in that caveau at the extreme end of the cul-de-sac.
“Obviously, the place is a trap. Zemba will, therefore, be prepared for my arrival. However” — lips were smiling — “he will expect me to come alone. He will be disappointed. You two will precede me. Not to enter, but to guard the mouth of the blind alley.
“When I arrive, I shall signal you, but when only you are needed. You will follow and protect me from any enemies who approach. Those ahead of me — including Zemba, if he is among them — will be my own particular problem.”
Harry and Cliff were nodding as they finished the binding of the hunched Apache. At a further command, they rolled the prisoner into a large closet and gagged him before they closed the door. Turning, they saw the tall figure of Balliol motioning them to the hall. They understood.
FIVE minutes later, Cliff and Harry left the Hotel Princesse. They entered an ancient taxi and ordered the driver to take them to the Cabaret du Diable, in the Montmartre, which was located close to the Allee des Bijoux. Hardly had they started their ride before another cab pulled away from a curb and took up their trail.
A few minutes later, Herbert Balliol appeared beneath the marquee of the Hotel Princesse. He entered a cab and also told the driver to take him to the Cabaret du Diable. A pair of loiterers heard the order and slouched away through the drizzle. They were the men posted there by Zemba.