Back toward the Cabaret du Diable, Apaches were still struggling with agents. Delka, fighting in the blackness, had given a shout; he had heard an answer in Robeq’s tone, right beside him. He knew that the detective had dived back to join the fighters who represented the law.
Agents were retreating, firing revolvers. The only security was to be behind them. Delka dragged his companion with him. He wanted to assure Robeq of safety. Once in the light, Apaches would stand no chance.
Harry and Cliff in response to The Shadow’s hissed signal, were making in the opposite direction. They wanted to be away before new agents arrived; and they had just enough time to make it. Hardly had they passed the distant corner before four officers came into view. The agents stopped, just away from a corner light.
THE situation had altered oddly. A swift fight had been held in one long block of a single street. That narrow thoroughfare had practically emptied. Agents were at both ends of it. Those by the Cabaret du Diable were still being harried by a few lurking Apaches. Delka had dragged a lone man out to safety. He was chiding him in well-intended terms.
“This place is no Sahara Desert,” insisted Delka. “Your way of fighting may work in the open; but not in front of a squad of agents. Why handicap your own men?”
“It was Zemba,” came the reply. “I had him covered.”
“I saw it. You fired at him.”
“Four shots. Bah! I was too hurried. Give me a rifle, any day, in preference to this toy pistol!”
“Too short a barrel for the range.”
“Yes. But I was swinging down upon him. Blame the agents for throwing away their flashlights. Well, let them take their time. They are too late. Zemba has escaped.”
Fighting had lulled. Apaches, the few that remained, were lurking, hoping that the agents would become unwise. But the officers were too wary. They held both ends of the street. They were satisfied.
True, the center of that thoroughfare marked the mouth of the Allee des Bijoux. But the alley was a blind one. Any one who backed in there would be trapped. So the agents waited; and the Apaches lingered also.
Oddly, something was happening in the Allee des Bijoux. A figure was moving; slowly, laboriously. It had come from the darkness of the beleaguered street. One fighter, tired, half crippled in the fray, was seeking temporary refuge. Gaining it, he slumped.
New footsteps crept inward. Another combatant had sought this same seclusion. He had heard the man ahead of him. He listened to the sliding sound of the sagging body. He approached. He reached the flattened form. A flashlight glimmered. It showed two faces.
The face on the sidewalk; grimy, bloodstained, was that of Herbert Balliol. The visage above, leering with its grinning lips was the countenance of Gaspard Zemba. Harry Vincent and Cliff Marsland would have been horrified had they remained to see this outcome.
The Shadow in the toils of Gaspard Zemba!
The flashlight blinked out. The stooping figure gripped the inert form upon the paving and hoisted it upward. Moving into the cul-de-sac, Zemba reached a flight of steps upon the right. Descending with his burden, he rapped at a metal-sheathed door.
At first there was no response; then the door opened slightly inward. A husky voice whispered:
“You can’t come through this way! The agents are here in the Cabaret du Diable! Hide in one of the caveaux—”
“Open the door farther!” snarled the burden carrier. “Look! At my left hand!”
The barrier moved inward. A wizened-faced man stared at sight of hand pressed flat against a grimy coat. Fingers were close together; but the next to the last was a single-knuckled stump.
“Gaspard Zemba!”
WITH this exclamation, the man within stepped back and allowed the arrival to enter. Chuckling, the grimy-coated visitor came into a basement room and deposited the inert figure of Herbert Balliol in a corner away from the light. He signaled for the guardian to close the door.
“Lock it,” he ordered, “and keep this fellow here. Give me the key. Then I can return later, after the agents have gone.”
“But if they wish to search—”
“Remove the man before they do. You will have the key to the upstairs door. You should have another to this lower door.”
“We do have another—”
“Then why be disturbed about this one?”
The inner guard grinned sheepishly. He watched the leer upon Zemba’s face as the grimy-coated man bent over the form of Herbert Balliol. He saw Zemba’s left hand in his pocket; he saw the right hand go to its pocket with the key.
“He will live.” Zemba’s face showed evil pleasure. His right hand came from his pocket. “That is good. I wish to question him; and I have ways to make men speak. Even such men as this one.”
The speaker was rising. Something slipped from his pocket, because of an inward stuffed flap. It made no clatter as it fell, for it struck the edge of the rumpled coat that was worn by the stunned man upon the floor. The guardian did not notice the glimmer of the object. It was the key that he had given Zemba.
Nor was the ugly-faced captor in a position to see the key. He was turning, ready to be led above. The guardian showed him the route; up an inner stairway, past a high counter where they stooped to avoid being seen by agents. Then to a loft above the noisy dance floor of the Cabaret du Diable.
The guardian breathed a sigh of relief after he saw the figure of Gaspard Zemba shift from a window and move across the neighboring roof. He was a member of the underworld. He had obeyed the bidding of Gaspard Zemba.
He hoped that he would gain future reward for his loyalty to the evil chief. But he did not forget that he had a prisoner below. The guardian locked the upper door when he went down to the cabaret floor.
MEANWHILE, a last sortie had taken place outside the Cabaret du Diable. The last Apaches in the side street had driven out upon the agents. The attack had been short-lived. Two Apaches were shot down; the others surrendered. The law entered to search the street and the Allee des Bijoux. Eric Delka was one of the first to advance. He stopped suddenly, as his flashlights picked out blackened garments. He turned and saw Etienne Robeq beside him.
“Look, Robeq!” whispered Delka. “The Shadow was in the battle. Here are his hat and cloak!”
“Good!” came the reply. “Bundle them up. Deliver them to Sergeant Rusanne. I shall call him about the matter. Tell Rusanne to show them to the prefect.”
Searchers, moving about, found wounded Apaches and carried them away. The agents also searched the caveaux, to no avail. They found the door into the Cabaret du Diable. They guessed where it led and decided to make a query inside. They went around to the front for that purpose.
Agents within the cabaret gave testimony to the fact that all had been quiet there. The proprietor was as great a rogue as the guardian who had charge of the room below. He swore that no one could have entered from the Allee des Bijoux and the agents believed him. The fact that the last Apaches had made a break for it seemed sufficient proof that there was no outlet.
THE light was out in the room below but a figure was moving in the darkness. A match glimmered. Its glow revealed the face of Herbert Balliol. The prisoner, recovered from his slump, was studying his surroundings. He managed to rise from the floor. Something clattered on the stone. Lowering the match, he found the key.
Eyebrows arched; lips formed a smile. Another match flame showed the door. Carefully, the prisoner unlocked it and crept out into the Allee des Bijoux. Lips still held their smile at the thought of such great luck. This simple escape was easier than any that The Shadow had ever experienced.