Herbert Balliol’s figure seemed obscure as it moved outward through the deserted Allee des Bijoux. Then it paused. Keen ears had heard motion ahead. Some one else was moving through the darkness. A meeting was imminent. The listener acted. His long arms shot forward.
A scuffle in the darkness. Quick blows; hard, twisting grips. The fighters rolled to the cobblestones. One lay still. The victor arose, found a flashlight that the vanquished had dropped. He clicked the light. The rays showed an upturned face; that of Etienne Robeq.
Sweeping the flashlight up and down, the pretended Herbert Balliol studied his prisoner’s attire. He saw the sleek raincoat; the kid gloves that adorned the hands.
With a slight chuckle, he pocketed the flashlight and kept on his way. He waited at the entrance of the cul-de-sac until he heard his half-stunned opponent stir. Then he departed, through deserted spaces.
It was Eric Delka who later encountered a man groping his way from the Allee des Bijoux. He used a flashlight and discerned the pale face of Etienne Robeq. He heard the detective give a sour laugh.
“I met The Shadow.” Robeq’s tone denoted chagrin. “He sprawled me in the alley and kept on his way. I did not realize who he was until after I recovered.”
“He must have recognized you,” smiled Delka. “It’s lucky it wasn’t Zemba. He would not have shown you such consideration.”
“I should like to meet him. Come, Delka. Let us make another search.”
AT the Hotel Princesse, Harry and Cliff were anxiously waiting in their suite when the door opened and they witnessed the return of Herbert Balliol. He still showed signs of strife; but his smile persisted as he stated briefly the facts that had occurred.
“Tonight was unfortunate,” he concluded. “Nevertheless, it is some satisfaction to have escaped from Zemba’s toils. As for Robeq, he is not hurt. Our mutual quest will proceed.
“I shall release the little Apache who is prisoner in my room. Let me have his knife. I shall give it back to him. He has not enough nerve to use it. He was simply a fake prowler whom Zemba sent to lead me into a trap.”
Harry and Cliff were speculative as they discussed matters afterward. The evening had started with unusual prospects. Action, however, had produced a medley of results, with no conclusion.
“The breaks were against us,” observed Harry. “But we can count on The Shadow to bring new opportunities.”
“The chief will find a way,” agreed Cliff. “He took a long shot and it failed. The next time will be different.”
“Zemba didn’t manage to keep him.”
“That’s one grand break. Too bad, though, that it wasn’t Zemba that the chief met in the alley. Instead of Robeq.”
Harry nodded; but his gaze was puzzled. Somehow, matters had twisted tonight, in a manner that Harry could not quite understand. Deep perplexity was gripping him, despite the fact that Cliff did not share the impression.
Harry felt sure of one point alone. He knew that The Shadow would certainly find the way to another and more important encounter. He believed that Robeq would once more be concerned. Such a three-way meeting, under better circumstances, might well decide the final issue.
Harry was right in his general assumption; but he was wrong in his visualization of the details. A new meeting of three factors would take place. The Shadow — Gaspard Zemba — Etienne Robeq. Their paths would surely cross.
But when that final issue was produced, strange elements would enter. Deep beneath the surface lay startling facts. Details which were fully understood by only one person among all who were concerned.
Only The Shadow knew.
CHAPTER XV
ZEMBA SENDS A WARNING
CRIME’S aftermath was stirring Paris the next afternoon. Following a drizzly dawn, the day had cleared. Parisians, strolling everywhere, had found one topic of discussion: the latest exploits of the notorious Gaspard Zemba.
Chatters beside the bookstalls along the quays held talk concerning Zemba. Any one following the parapet of the Seine’s left bank could hear the name buzzed time and again. Talk of Zemba, however, was not confined to that two-mile stretch of river front.
The supercrook and his deeds were the subject of discussion in every boulevard cafe. Customers who sat at tables gesticulated and flourished copies of Le Matin and Le Temps. The Paris newspapers had capitalized upon the law’s invasion of the Allee des Bijoux. The Cabaret du Diable, the nearest night resort to the battlefield, had already been thronged by curious visitors.
In contrast to the outside excitement, gloom reigned within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Louis Brezanne had called a new conference. The prefect of police had been invited; also Sergeant Rusanne. Both had arrived, to find the delegates from other countries: Alonzo, Chiozzi, Cleghorn and the others, including Lord Bixley.
“Last night was a blunder!” Brezanne was emphatic when he made this statement. “Bah! Are your agents helpless, Clandine? They held Gaspard Zemba in their grasp. Then — pouf! — he was gone. What excuse have you to offer?”
Clandine glared angrily at his questioner. The prefect resented the minister’s criticism.
“Place the blame upon Robeq!” he exclaimed. “It was his plan to make the attack. Sergeant Rusanne did no more than to supply information to Robeq. After that, of course, Rusanne followed instructions—”
“We shall hear Robeq’s version,” interrupted Brezanne, testily. “Lord Bixley has requested Inspector Delka to invite him to this conference.”
Both Clandine and Rusanne showed surprise. Before they could make comment, a secretary announced the expected visitors. Robeq and Delka entered, to meet the gazes of the men in conference.
THE two arrivals contrasted in appearance, exactly as they had the night before. Robeq was still playing the role of a fop. He was wearing a pale-gray fedora, a topcoat of the same color. He was wearing a small, white chrysanthemum in his lapel. He was carrying his gray-kid gloves and he held a walking stick tucked beneath his arm. Delka, in a dark coat and an old felt hat, looked somber beside his fashionable companion.
A chuckle from Robeq as he noted the antagonistic glances from the group.
“Ah, messieurs!” The detective shook his head reprovingly. “You do not like my garb? You think it unsuited to a detective? N’est-ce-pas? Is it not so?
“Let me tell you, then, where I have been to-day. I have gone to the Cabaret du Diable and to the Allee des Bijoux, to study the ground by daylight. I, Robeq, gawked with the rest—”
“And what did you learn?” interrupted the prefect.
“I learned nothing,” admitted Robeq, his square-face sobering. “Nothing that will help us locate Zemba. I am sure, however, that the rogue has left the Montmartre.”
“A fact which we already know,” said Monsieur Brezanne. “If you had not been wasting your time, Monsieur Robeq, we might have informed you sooner.”
“Regarding Zemba?”
“Yes.” The minister reached to his desk. “We hold a letter that was posted early this morning, from the Faubourg Saint-Denis. It is a new ultimatum from Gaspard Zemba.
“Substantially, he accuses us of having violated his rule.” Brezanne was referring to the letter. “He states that we must, therefore, agree to pay the full sums demanded; otherwise he will leave Paris, carrying away all the stolen documents.
“As guarantee of acceptance of his terms, we must insert a special advertisement in the morning journals. That will notify Zemba that we have obtained the millions that he wants; and are ready for a prompt exchange.”
Robeq’s face had lost its pleasant smile. The detective was repressing a display of anger at Zemba’s boldness.
“You are mentioned in the letter, Robeq,” added Brezanne. “Rather contemptuously, in fact. Zemba remarks that since you have the faculty for visiting districts incognito, you would make an excellent emissary to conduct the exchange.”