“And what is that?” inquired the prefect.
“The matter of Zemba himself,” returned Robeq. “He may not be there when we arrive. I should like to capture him; nevertheless, he is not the most important. We want those stolen documents. Unquestionably, they are in the Vraillard Palace, along with Zemba’s accomplices.
“Once we have the documents, we have destroyed Zemba’s game. Should he be there, we will seize him. Should he be outside, the presence of a police cordon may alarm him if he comes to the palace. Nevertheless, the cordon may be essential. You did wisely to order it, Rusanne.”
The limousine was nearing the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Rusanne, referring to a pocket map, gave the chauffeur instructions. They turned into a secluded street, followed it a few blocks; then slowed down before a crumbling building that stood darkened and alone. This was the Maison Jollet. The chauffeur wheeled the car into the driveway, up a steep incline of jouncing gravel.
The passengers alighted. No agents were about. Robeq pointed to a high porch; they ascended steps and paused there. Rusanne lighted a match and referred to the street map. He turned and pointed off through a space between some smaller buildings.
THERE, framed against the sky that shone with the city’s glow was a gray building, hemmed in by smaller structures that had encroached upon its once proud preserves. It looked like a fortress, with grim walls and heavy shuttered windows; It stood not much more than a hundred yards away, but lower because of a slight slope in the ground.
“Le Palais Vraillard,” commented Rusanne.
“Awaiting our visit,” nodded Robeq. “Is that the front of the building, Rusanne?”
“I believe so,” replied the sergeant, “according to the map. The Allee Mantinard should be on the other side. The agents will tell us.”
“When they arrive,” put in the prefect, sourly. “What is detaining them, Rusanne?”
“Nothing. They are here.”
Footsteps were crunching on the gravel. The men on the porch descended to meet the approaching soldiery. With military precision, the squad came to a halt beside the prefect’s limousine. A grizzled sergeant stepped forward and saluted. The prefect turned to Robeq.
“You shall take charge,” he stated. “Your orders will be obeyed.”
Robeq bowed; then turned to the sergeant.
“Lead us to the Vraillard Palace,” he ordered. “Proceed cautiously. We are anxious to give no alarm. We are dealing tonight with Gaspard Zemba.”
The sergeant stared for a moment; but made no comment, nor did his men. The importance of the mission seemed to have struck home. Tensely, the group moved from the driveway, one dozen strong, including those who had joined the eight agents.
The law was making its move; a follow-up to The Shadow’s plan. One problem remained: the part that crooks might play. Once again, a three-way meeting was possible.
Etienne Robeq — Gaspard Zemba — and The Shadow!
CHAPTER XIX
WITHIN THE PALACE
OBSERVERS had viewed the Vraillard Palace from the front. The bulky, gray building itself blocked the sight of the Allee Mantinard, which was the chosen route for entrance. Hence the invaders who represented the law were unaware of happenings behind the huge stone building.
There, close under the sheltering mass of grayish walls, Harry and Cliff were waiting for a signal. They were beside an obscure rear door, whispering between themselves.
“The time is nearly up, Cliff. The Shadow said five minutes—”
“And there’s only half a minute longer. I hope the chief hasn’t run into trouble.”
“That’s not likely, Cliff. The place is as quiet as a cemetery.”
“That’s why I don’t like it. It may be a trap. An unlocked door — nobody about—”
“That’s only a blind. The palace is supposed to be deserted.”
“But the windows are shuttered. Why shouldn’t this back door be locked?”
“Zemba’s orders, probably. He may be coming here. He wouldn’t want to bungle around, while he unlocked the door—”
Harry broke off. He had heard a sound. The door was opening inward. A single word was spoken, in a whispered voice:
“Come.”
Harry and Cliff entered the thick blackness of a basement. Beside them, they could distinguish a slight motion; but the darkness was so complete that they were unable to perceive the shape of the leader who had summoned them.
A flashlight blinked, in guarded fashion. It showed a curious cellar with vaulted archways that spread out like a catacomb. Some of the archways were open; others were blocked by wooden barricades, with doors set in them.
The flashlight, sweeping, picked out an open arch. Then it blinked at intervals, its bearer leading a forward course through the opening in the wall. The Shadow’s agents followed.
The place was like a labyrinth; Harry and Cliff promptly conceded that The Shadow had done speedy work within these vaults. Five minutes had been the time allotted; and in that period their companion had traced the course he wanted. The flashlight stopped its blinking progress. Its rays settled upon a door that was one step above the level of the cellar floor.
The door had a large, old-fashioned lock. Harry decided that The Shadow must have picked it at the first attempt, for the door opened without resistance, when a hand came into the light. It was the left hand, plain and unadorned. Frequently, The Shadow wore a talisman on that hand; a ring that contained a fire opal. Here in Paris, he had discarded that gem while playing the part of Herbert Balliol.
A wise procedure, from Harry’s viewpoint. Sometimes that fiery girasol worked against The Shadow. He needed it only as an occasional token, when dealing with persons who required a symbol by which to recognize him. It was seldom necessary when The Shadow was depending upon his agents as sole helpers.
THE flashlight was extinguished. They were moving up a flight of curving stairs. Dull illumination greeted them. They arrived in a barren hallway, where a single wall bracket provided light. Harry and Cliff looked to see if their chief had donned his cloak. They saw the face of Herbert Balliol, minus the blue-tinted spectacles.
A smile of Balliol’s lips answered Harry’s mental query. The Shadow had no need for shrouding garments of black. The total darkness of the cellar had been sufficient. Apparently, The Shadow intended to go through with the game in the guise of Balliol. The reason became evident.
“We are ready.” The whisper was Balliol’s, but toned to solemnity within the hushed space of this gloomy hall. “I have found the rendezvous. Observe that door, toward the back, beneath the grand stairway to the second floor. That is where the rogues have their headquarters.”
Harry and Cliff noted the door. It was slightly ajar; from its edges came dull streaks of light. Harry guessed that The Shadow had already spied into the room beyond.
“There are four men in the room,” resumed the whispered voice. “Also a large safe, which must contain the stolen documents. We shall surprise the men; while you two hold the culprits covered, I shall work upon the safe.
“Zemba is not here; but that is no cause for alarm. I shall be prepared to handle him. Your work will be to keep the others helpless. Remember that our prisoners are hunted men. They will be under tension. To preserve it, we should maintain strict silence.”
Guns were coming from carriers beneath Balliol’s tuxedo coat. Harry and Cliff produced their own automatics. A whisper told them to remain where they were. The tall form of Herbert Balliol crouched and crept forward.
Amazement held Harry Vincent as he watched the stealth of the advance. Harry knew The Shadow’s remarkable ability at silent approach, when garbed in black and covered by darkness. Rarely, however, had he witnessed The Shadow’s demonstration of this ability.