“I too, inquired about Quintre,” informed Georges. “But not because I searched into the affairs of many who were dead. I had no need to do so. My reason for wondering about Quintre was different.
“Quintre had a comrade, Marlier. Like twins they were, everywhere together. I sought for Marlier, to learn his story of the battle. I found Marlier near the Place Saint-Michel. He was drinking absinthe, mourning for Quintre.
“Pourquoi! Because Marlier had not been with Quintre, to fight beside him. When I asked the reason, Marlier would not speak. Not at first; but afterward, he said that had Quintre been with him, no harm would have befallen.
“Where, you ask, had Marlier been? I learned where. In the very place that Bantoire has mentioned — the Faubourg Saint-Germain. It was there he went after he left the absinthe shop. I followed. He went to a graystone house and entered from an alley at the back. The windows of the house were shuttered.”
“Ah!” The interruption was blurted by Bantoire. “I know the place! Chez Vraillard! La maison de la duchesse!”
It was Zemba whose snarl came next.
“The old palace of the Duchess of Vraillard,” he corroborated. “What else do you know about it?”
“I know nothing,” replied Bantoire.
“Then say nothing,” growled Zemba. “Speak, Georges. What have you learned?”
“Only what Marlier told me,” returned the Apache, wisely. “He did not mention the old palace. Nor did he know that I followed him there. But he told me that he had been on guard last night. He and three others.”
“At the palace?”
“Where else? He was going back to the place, he said. That was why he had not been with Quintre. Then Marlier told me more. He and the others, he said, would guard three at a time; with one man off duty.”
“And what were they guarding? Did Marlier say?”
“Yes. He said that they were guarding those who were within!”
Georges delivered his final statement with a note of triumph. Its meaning dawned upon both Jacques and Bantoire. Georges had found the leak that Zemba feared. “Guarding those within” — it could mean but one thing. The Vraillard Palace was the hide-out where Zemba’s foreign agents were keeping under cover. It was the spot where Zemba’s stolen documents were stored!
FOR one long moment, the face of Gaspard Zemba remained unchanged. It held its characteristic distortion. Then came the transformation. It took on a fury that was greater than ever before. The Apaches stared, their mouths wide with gasps. Never had they seen such murderous ire.
“Marlier!” spat Zemba, his lips contorted into an incredible snarl. “Marlier — a traitor! The others! They may be as bad as he! Les cochons! None can be trusted!”
From the fierceness of his glare, the three Apaches believed that he had included them in his tirade. Then Zemba’s rage faded, to be followed by mutterings as he stood with his left hand thrust into his jacket pocket. Zemba’s face showed evil commendation as he stared toward Georges.
“You have done well,” growled the supercrook. “Perhaps too well. You have learned my secret. The Vraillard Palace is my last place of security. It was well chosen. The police — bah! They would never have suspected it. Robeq — The Shadow — they could never have guessed it, of all the places in Paris that I might have used for my headquarters.
“The guards must be changed, this very night. Three trusted men must take up new duty. What three? You! Jacques, Georges and Bantoire!”
Approval dominated Zemba’s tone. The three Apaches showed ugly grins of pleasure.
“I shall take you there, to the palace,” resumed Zemba. “I shall tell the others — no!” A sudden fury seized him. “They are traitors, perhaps! Once a man has talked, it means danger. We must deal with them as with any other whom we might suspect of treachery. I have a way that will do for them!”
Cunningly, Zemba considered; then spoke his plan:
“Go. All three of you, with Georges as your leader. Meet outside the Vraillard Palace. Enter by the door where Marlier went. Seize the three guards, singly, if you can.
“Should you be challenged, trapped; then ask for Marlier. He knows you, Georges. Tell him that you come from Zemba. He will believe you. Tell him that the guard is to be doubled.
“Once you are believed, all will be easy. You can seize Marlier and his two companions, unaware. Find the most distant compartment in the cellar. Take the prisoners there. Remain until I join you. The rest of the task will be mine.”
Zemba’s teeth showed fanglike as he gloated. “Once I have questioned them, I shall learn if they are traitors. Perhaps they are but fools, like Marlier. But as I said once before, fools are sometimes wise.”
The Apaches were rising. Zemba halted them.
“Wait!” he commanded. “I must leave here first. I must have time to summon others, to station them as reserves throughout the faubourg. Danger may be anywhere in Saint-Germain tonight. Do not leave here for another quarter hour.”
The Apaches watched their chief leave the studio. Chuckling to themselves, they paced about until the given time had elapsed. Then they shuffled from the room, stole down the creaky stairs and reached the street below. They headed for the nearest corner.
MELLOW street lamps made the Latin Quarter a district of hazy light. The Apaches were below the Boulevard Saint-Michel, principal thoroughfare of the Quartier Latin. They kept to narrow streets. They had not traveled far, however, before a shadowy shape glided up from neighboring darkness.
A phantom being, cloaked in black. The Shadow. Somehow, he had traced these three Apaches. Gliding along behind them, The Shadow remained obscure. He came closer as the three crooks stopped beside an old sedan that was parked in an unused entry drive.
Keen ears caught mumbled conversation. Gleaming eyes watched the Apaches board the car. The Shadow glided off into darkness. Reaching another street, he stepped aboard a waiting taxi.
When the carload of Apaches rolled into view, The Shadow’s taxi followed. The automobile was heading northward, the wrong direction for Saint-Germain. It reached the Rue Dauphine and crossed the Pont-Neuf — the “new bridge” which is the oldest bridge in Paris. On the far side, it turned right and kept on until the Pont-Au-Change. Turning right again, the car crossed to the Ile de la Cite, heading directly toward the Boul’ Mich’.
The course was intended to throw chance followers off the trail; and it succeeded, in a sense. Traffic intervened at the Pont-Au-Change. The Shadow’s cab was halted.
Apologetically, the driver leaned back to inform his passenger that he could not overhaul the car ahead. In quiet tones, The Shadow gave a destination; north of the Seine, not south.
The cab finally started. As it did, a whispered laugh sounded softly within the interior. Though The Shadow had lost the trail, he did not seem perturbed. He had heard words that passed between the three Apaches. Apparently, he had learned something regarding their destination.
The whispered laugh died; but its tones provoked a weird hollowness within the moving taxi. Somehow, that mirth had carried a chill that boded ill for the schemes of Gaspard Zemba!
CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW’S MOVE
WHILE The Shadow was concluding a brief journey that had commenced in the Quartier Latin, Harry Vincent was seated alone in the suite which he shared with Cliff Marsland at the Hotel Princesse.
Time had passed slowly to-day. Neither Harry nor Cliff had received any word from The Shadow. They knew that Herbert Balliol was not in his room. Hence they had come to the natural assumption that he had gone alone to the Montmartre.
That particular district seemed the logical place to pick up the trail of Gaspard Zemba. Nevertheless, Harry could not help but wonder how The Shadow could accomplish results by a new visit. The police had searched the Allee des Bijoux thoroughly. As for the Cabaret du Diable, The Shadow would scarcely venture there in the guise of Herbert Balliol. Nor could he go cloaked until after dark.