“In Paris,” remarked Alonzo, the Spanish delegate, “he is a shadow. In Madrid, he would be a man.”
The others smiled. Alonzo’s remark was a play upon words in two languages: ombre, the French for “shadow;” and hombre, the Spanish for “man.”
“Last night,” declared Robeq, “he was a shadow, when the fray began. He became a man, at the finish, when he had lost his cloak and hat. Your statement actually covers the situation, senor.”
“Tonight,” added Delka, solemnly, “he may again become a shadow.”
“Without these garments?” queried the prefect.
“He may have others,” reminded Delka. “In fact, he probably has.”
Robeq smiled sourly at the remark.
“The Shadow is a fighter,” he admitted, “yet we may regard him as partly responsible for last night’s fiasco. I hope that he does not interfere again—”
Delka made no response. He was hoping the opposite. He knew from experience that the skill of Robeq could not match that of The Shadow.
The prefect was putting away the slashed cloak, ending the discussion of The Shadow. All turned to Etienne Robeq, as though indicating that he was their one hope. The detective smiled and bowed.
“Come to my hotel this evening, Monsieur Delka,” he said. “We shall plan for tonight and for the morrow. Au revoir, messieurs.”
The conference ended with Robeq’s departure. Eric Delka accompanied Lord Bixley to the latter’s hotel, the famous Palais d’Orsay, that overlooked the Champs Elysees. Lord Bixley had chosen it because the Palais d’Orsay was a rendezvous of English society in Paris.
DURING their journey, Delka maintained silence. New thoughts had gripped the man from Scotland Yard. Delka believed that Etienne Robeq could accomplish nothing tonight; that the French detective’s only hope would be a coup upon the morrow, when Delka would serve as proxy in the meeting with Gaspard Zemba.
Nevertheless, Delka still believed that much could happen upon this last night enough to completely change the situation before the morrow arrived. Delka was counting upon The Shadow.
That master of strategy was still at large in Paris. He — ahead of Robeq and Delka — had managed to reach the Allee des Bijoux and commence hostilities with Gaspard Zemba’s hordes. Delka did not agree with Robeq, when the latter had stated that The Shadow had interfered.
If any one had interfered, Robeq was the one. Such was Delka’s hunch; and it was correct, although the Scotland Yard man would have been amazed had he known the exact extent to which Robeq’s entry had disturbed The Shadow’s plans to deal with Zemba.
The hours that remained before midnight were to prove much more startling than Eric Delka could suppose. Long had The Shadow planned. Tonight, he would approach success!
CHAPTER XVI
THE SHADOW WITHOUT
NIGHT had arrived. The cloudless evening was bringing spontaneous gayety to Paris, after the drizzly spell. The effect of the improved weather was apparent even in the dilapidated studio of the mythical artist Lesboscombes. There was no patter of rain tonight, upon the roof of this room that lay above the wineshop run by old Monsieur Grotain.
A man was seated in the studio. It was Jacques. The Apache’s pockmarked face was moody. His squatty body was hunched upon a rickety chair, his long arms hanging almost to the floor. Jacques scowled suddenly as the door of the studio opened. He started to come to his feet; then sat back when he saw Georges enter.
The second Apache was wearing a grin that curved like the scar upon his forehead. He nodded a greeting to Jacques; then took a chair of his own. A moment later, both Apaches heard the approach of footsteps. This time it was Bantoire. Leering with evil pleasure, the third Apache showed his ugly teeth.
It was plain that Georges and Bantoire had gained success to-day — something that Jacques had not accomplished. But not one of the three was willing to confide in the others. The trio of cutthroats were awaiting the arrival of Gaspard Zemba. They looked like sans-culottes from the days of the Revolution; murderers plotting bloody deeds.
TIME drifted. Bantoire’s keen ears detected a sound. He looked toward the door; Georges and Jacques followed suit. Another had entered. They were staring at the ugly, distorted face of Gaspard Zemba. Their fierce-mannered chief was angry in mood.
“Why are you here?” came his harsh demand. “Do you fear the agents and the sergents de ville? Why are you not continuing the search that I ordered?”
“It was useless,” grumbled Jacques. “To-day, I began a trail that led nowhere.”
Zemba’s fists were clenching. Bantoire spoke.
“My trail was better,” said the second Apache. “It gave me a goal.”
“Mine also,” added Georges. “One better, perhaps, than Bantoire’s.”
Sharp eyes gleamed from Zemba’s fiendish countenance. His gaze was toward Jacques. The first Apache spoke.
“I went to the Cabaret du Diable,” informed Jacques. “I talked with Corchu, who keeps the cellar there. I knew that he was one of us. He was worried, Corchu was. He asked if I had come from Zemba.”
“And what did you answer?”
“That I had. I wanted to hear Corchu talk; and talk he did. He whined that the prisoner had escaped—”
An oath from Zemba. Jacques nodded.
“Escaped as by a miracle,” continued the Apache. “Out through a closed door, into the Allee des Bijoux. He was gone when Corchu went to carry him to a chamber that lay deeper in the cellar.”
A scowl from Zemba. Jacques added:
“Corchu was troubled. He fears the wrath of Zemba. I said that I would look for him — that man who had escaped — to bring him back. But I could find no trail.”
“That is not surprising,” growled Zemba. “The prisoner was The Shadow. I left him with the guardian whom you call Corchu.”
“L’Ombre!”
The ejaculation came simultaneously from the Apaches. Zemba’s face showed an annoyed scowl.
“His escape was no marvel,” declared the supercrook. “I discovered later that I had lost the key that Corchu gave me. It must have dropped in the cellar. But The Shadow! Bah! I want no news of him. Tell me — what about the quest to which I set you? Has news leaked out concerning my greatest hiding place?”
A headshake from Jacques. A pleased leer from Zemba, as his left hand, displaying its absent finger, came from his pocket with a pack of cigarettes.
“I have news,” stated Bantoire, suddenly. “I began inquiries about our comrades who were slain in last night’s brawl. I asked others where different ones had last been seen. I learned something regarding an Apache named Quintre.”
Georges looked sharply at Bantoire; but the latter did notice it. Zemba’s keen eyes caught the darted gaze. Bantoire was resuming; Zemba did not interrupt.
“Quintre, alone of all the fighters,” said Bantoire, “had been seen in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Why should he have been seen on the Rive Gauche when he belonged in Montmartre, on the Rive Droit?”
There was merit in Bantoire’s question. The Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the Left Bank of the Seine, was a contrast to the Montmartre, far beyond the Right Bank.
“I went to Saint-Germain,” continued Bantoire. “I searched about the places where Quintre had been seen. Bah! There were none that would have suited him. Only mansions of the rich — some homes that once were palaces — for that is where all aristocrats lived formerly.”
A SHRUG of his shoulders indicated that Bantoire had finished his report. A cunning gleam showed upon the face of Georges. His story had been reserved until the last. The fact pleased him.