The prefect of police had been right in his conjectures concerning murder. Willoughby Blythe had been on his way to join Gaspard Zemba. Rene Levaux, covering, had murdered Blythe when he saw the Englishman was being trailed. Boris Danyar, also in the game, had recognized Levaux and had craftily poisoned Zemba’s dangerous lieutenant.
But Gaspard Zemba, himself, had left nothing to chance. As a guard aboard the French express, he had seen neither Blythe nor Levaux; but he had spotted Danyar and had guessed what had occurred.
Man of evil, master of murder, Zemba was muffling his face as he walked through the lighted area of the P. L. M. Depot. Not an agent was in sight here at the Gare de Lyon. By swift, unseen strokes with a stiletto, through a clever disguise and well-timed action, Zemba had totally baffled the law, to gain complete freedom from those who had been close enough to almost witness his latest deed of crime.
He was still muffling his face when he stepped into the lights of the Boulevard Diderot, outside the Gare de Lyon. But Zemba had shifted his package to his right arm. It was his left that was raised to his chin. The fingers of his left hand were clenched. His eyes keen, Zemba had spied a lonely taxicab and recognized the driver. As the man looked in his direction, Zemba unclenched his left fist.
THE taxi driver saw the missing finger, among those that were outspread against the dark cloth of Zemba’s cloak. He nodded and struck down the little flag marked Libre that signified his cab was not engaged.
As the driver opened the door, Zemba stepped aboard and dropped his package to the seat. He growled an order and slammed the door himself. The taxi pulled away.
Instantly, a response took place within another cab parked only fifty feet away. A quiet voice spoke from the gloom, ordering the driver to trail the cab that had just left. The quiet tone was The Shadow’s. This was the same cab that he had entered at the Gare du Nord.
Zemba’s cab rolled through the traffic of the Boulevard Diderot, turning eastward toward the Pont d’Austerlitz, the nearest bridge across the Seine. Close behind it swung the taxi that The Shadow occupied. Full night had settled over Paris; with it, a trail had been found.
The Shadow, master sleuth, had uncovered the notorious Gaspard Zemba and was tracking the evildoer to his lair!
CHAPTER V
DEEDS IN THE DARK
LONG had the French police been seeking a trail to Gaspard Zemba. At last such a trail had been uncovered; but not by the law. The Shadow had found it; and he could have gained no better. He was following Zemba himself.
The police, had they been in The Shadow’s place, might not have been content to follow. They would have looked for an opportunity to deal with Zemba before his cab reached the Pont d’Austerlitz. But The Shadow, working alone, held preference for areas where traffic would be less thick.
Moreover, the speed of Zemba’s cab was not great. The infamous crook was in no haste to reach his destination, wherever it might be. That fact betokened false confidence on Zemba’s part. Sure that his craftiness had deceived all followers, Zemba would be paying but little attention to his trail.
Once Zemba’s cab had reached the left bank of the Seine, it veered away from the more important streets. The course it chose was a threading one; but The Shadow, watching ahead, was positive that Zemba merely wished to escape notice of persons whom he might pass. Nothing in the action of the crook’s cab indicated that the threading process was used to throw off pursuers. Bearing northward at intervals, Zemba was progressing back toward the Seine which curved eastward from the Pont d’Austerlitz; and his cab would soon reach the Boulevard Saint-Michel. This was a district of picturesque little streets, with houses that were reminiscent of old Paris.
The cab ahead took a sudden turn. The Shadow’s driver, turning quickly from the wheel, thrust a startled face toward his unseen passenger. Fear showed upon his bewhiskered face. He intended to follow no farther.
“No, m’sieu’! C’est une rue de la mort!”
A street of death. Such was the taximan’s verdict; and the narrow alley looked the part. The facings of its buildings were of somber stone. The street lamps had a dullness, as though descending night had stifled them. Grim silence gripped this neighborhood.
THE SHADOW hissed an order. Startled by the sound, the driver gripped the wheel. He stared straight ahead and turned the corner. Hoarsely, he whispered:
“La Mort!”
Such was the name that he had suddenly given his weird passenger. Until this moment, the taxi driver had thought that he was conveying a chance American tourist, who had shown freakish ideas of trailing cabs in Paris. But the driver had suddenly realized a transformation. Looking into the back seat, he had seen no passenger; but he had heard a whispered voice.
Death!
That being had become his passenger, according to the taxi driver’s present notion. Who else but Death could have rendered himself invisible? Who but Death could have hissed that order to proceed? Who but Death, himself, would wish to continue along this street where murder lurked?
Had a grinning skull peered suddenly beside the driver’s face, the man would have been terrified, but not surprised. His one hope was that no such phenomenon would occur. To prevent such a happening, he obeyed the command of his mysterious passenger.
Zemba’s cab was taking another turn when The Shadow’s vehicle came into view. The slowness of the first cab showed that it was going to stop, just around the next corner. The Shadow hissed another command. His driver brought the cab to a halt, just before it reached the corner.
The Shadow spoke. His tone was like a knell; a weird, whispered warning that made the driver tremble. The man was to reverse his cab and back to the street where he had faltered. There he was to await his passenger’s return. Mumblingly, the taximan promised to obey.
The door of the cab gave a slight slam. That marked the exit of the passenger. Though he strained his eyes in the dark, the taxi driver could catch no glimpse of a departing figure. Quaking, he reversed his cab and obeyed The Shadow’s order.
Perhaps the taximan’s eyes lacked sharpness; possibly, he did not stare long enough, for The Shadow did give visible token of his progress. Near the corner was a street lamp. Beneath its glow, a dark shape glided. Cloaked, phantomlike in form, The Shadow appeared momentarily as he took up Zemba’s trail; and although the driver’s eyes did not see him, there were other eyes that did.
A MAN was crouching in an old doorway across the street from the lamplight. He heard the slight thud of the taxi’s door. He looked in the right direction. He had seen the first cab go by. Then he saw the living shape that had followed from the second cab. The huddled man moved forward in the dark.
The Shadow had already turned the corner. His silent progress was amazingly swift, for he wanted to deal with Zemba before the rogue had time to disappear. The Shadow’s conjecture was correct. Zemba’s cab had stopped and a street lamp showed the taxi driver on the sidewalk. Zemba was emerging with his package. Approaching, The Shadow saw him speak to the driver. The fellow stepped back into the cab.
Close to Zemba was a flight of stone steps that led into the basement of a sinister-looking house. The Shadow passed that opening, just as Zemba turned away from the cab. The taxi was about to move onward. Zemba was stepping from the range of the lamplight when The Shadow loomed suddenly before him.
In the dull light, Zemba’s face showed ugly fury. It was an evil, distorted countenance, with glaring eyes and twisted lips that revealed the man’s criminal character. In public, Zemba must have known how to control his facial contortions, otherwise, he could not have passed himself as a railway guard.