Part 3 (2/2)
The Shadow knew what the crooks had stolen. They had picked up Aztec treasure, which Panchez and his mestizos had been gathering all along the route while Hedwin and his expedition were traveling from Yucatan to Mexico City. The treasure had been s.h.i.+pped along with the bone-fide Mayan relics intended for the museum.
Who was behind the game, remained a riddle. Whether or not Professor Hedwin had secretly engineered the crooked s.h.i.+pment, was a question not yet answered. Conversely, it might be that Fitzhugh Salter was covering the deliveries. Yet, either or both might be innocent, not guilty.
The best way to solve the problem would be to find the men who had carried away the treasure tonight.
Such was The Shadow's coming problem, in New Orleans.
CHAPTER VII. CRIME'S NEW CHANCE
LAMONT CRANSTON sat at a writing desk, in his room at the Hotel Montebazan. Another night had come to New Orleans, the fourth since his arrival. From the windows of his corner room, The Shadow covered every angle that he wanted.
In one direction, he could see the city's center; off, far beyond, the white shape of the strange but sightly pyramid that housed the Mayan Museum. In another direction, The Shadow overlooked the French Quarter, otherwise the Vieux Carre, which carried the charm of old New Orleans and was a place where many problems might be answered.
A third outlook showed the Mississippi, with its long curved line of docks. There lay the waterfront, where East met West, with North and South to boot, and the law of human survival prevailed in its rawest form. No city in the United States had a more polyglot waterfront than New Orleans, and The Shadow was quite convinced that the men he wanted would be found there.
The New Orleans police had investigated the attempted robbery at the Mayan Museum, but the belief that the marauders had departed empty-handed made the case an empty one, as well. Hence, the law had practically dropped the matter, leaving intensive investigation solely to The Shadow.
On the writing desk lay a list of names, all of persons who might have been concerned. Gamblers, smugglers, petty racketeers, even former politicians, were on The Shadow's list. He had crossed off names, a dozen and more, until only one remained: Pierre Laboutard.
It was difficult to cla.s.s Pierre Laboutard. Some termed him a modern Jean Lafitte, a cross between a smuggler and a pirate, yet a heroic figure who would turn patriotic when occasion called. Such a description exaggerated Laboutard.
He had been a rum-runner in the old days, and later had tried to muscle in on the shrimp-fis.h.i.+ng industry, to the extent of taking over some fis.h.i.+ng shacks from their rightful owners. To save his hide, he had subsequently tipped off Federal authorities to the whereabouts of some gun runners who were s.h.i.+pping weapons to Central America.
Thus Laboutard, the smuggler-pirate who went patriotic, was, in short, a bootlegger and racketeer who had turned State's evidence. Since then, Pierre Laboutard had faded neatly into the background; but he and his mixed tribe still had to live.
Lately, Laboutard Co. hadn't been seen, and it was supposed that they had gone back to the bayous.
But The Shadow had traced them to the New Orleans waterfront.
Laboutard wasn't in the habit of leaving a forwarding address, but The Shadow, familiar with life along the New Orleans docks, had finally narrowed down the hunt. Tonight, he expected to call on Laboutard; but first, he had another appointment.
Professor Darius Hedwin had arrived from Mexico, Andy Ames with him. Fitzhugh Salter was holding a reception at the Mayan Museum, in Hedwin's honor, and Lamont Cranston was one of the invited guests.
Since the event promised some threads to the past that might lead to the future, The Shadow had decided to attend, and look to Laboutard afterward.
Attired in faultless evening clothes, The Shadow reached the museum, where he was introduced to Professor Hedwin and Andy Ames; Fitzhugh Salter was there, of course, and The Shadow also foundGraham Talborn and Eugene Brendle.
Affable as ever, Talborn was surrounded by a group of prosperous looking men, contributors to the museum fund. Talborn's enthusiasm over the museum was quite contagious, and the grizzled exporter was very generous in his statements. Though Talborn was the largest contributor to the cause, he shared the credit with others, much to their pleasure.
A contrasting group acknowledged Brendle as their spokesman. They were men connected with the building trades, who had helped in the construction of the museum. There were architects among them, and craftsmen, and they all received a share of praise from Brendle.
The contractor made it quite plain that he had left many of the details to various specialists, knowing that they were both competent and reliable.
One man was noticeably absent: James Carland. He had been invited, as a matter of courtesy, but no one expected him to appear. There was a slight stir, however, when a girl arrived in Salter's office. The Shadow heard her name buzz through the group: ”Yvonne Carland!”
Promptly, The Shadow gathered that the girl was Carland's niece; that she lived in New Orleans with her uncle. She must have inherited her disposition, as well as her looks, from the other side of her family, for she wasn't a bit like her Uncle James.
YVONNE CARLAND was a brunette, with large brown eyes, and a complexion of a delicate cream that made an excellent contrast to her ruddy, smiling lips. Her features, like her name, denoted the French ancestry of her mother's family, while her voice had a slight touch of the musical Louisiana drawl.
”Uncle Jim wouldn't come,” Yvonne told Salter, ”and I can't say that I blame him. But I thought you ought to know that we appreciated the invitation, so I up and came myself.”
Dropping his smug style, Salter became profoundly polite.
”You are very welcome, Miss Carland,” he said. ”We feel that your uncle would still be one of us, but for his financial problems. We hope you will a.s.sure him on that point.”
Yvonne shook hands with Professor Hedwin, who scarcely noticed her during the process. His eyes were far away, as though his thoughts were still in Mexico. But Yvonne's eyes, The Shadow noted, were fixed on someone very close at hand. She had a warm smile, too, for Andy Ames.
”I knew you would come,” The Shadow heard Andy confide. ”Otherwise, I would have telephoned you, Yvonne.”
”Which would have been unwise,” the girl returned. ”It will take a while, Andy, before my uncle will be in a good humor. He won't hear or speak of anyone who has a thing to do with this museum, except Mr.
Brendle.”
”Because he owes Brendle money?”
”That's why. It's just good policy with Uncle Jim, to be friendly under such circ.u.mstances. Honestly, Andy” - the girl's eyes blazed - ”sometimes I hate my uncle.”
”You haven't anything on Professor Hedwin,” said Andy. ”All you have to do is say 'James Carland,' and he erupts like a Mexican volcano!” Andy's voice had raised a trifle. Hedwin was close enough to hear Carland's name and the reference to the volcano. Instantly, Hedwin's high-pitched voice cackled an interruption to all other conversations.
”James Carland!” he exclaimed. ”Why mention the man who tried to destroy all our efforts? He pledged himself to build this museum, and then abandoned us. He used his evil influence on others, too. There was a man from New York, named Jonathan Dorn, who offered to finance my expedition while it was in Yucatan.
”But Carland talked to him and wanted him to put money into rice fields. We heard no more from Dorn.
Bah! He was as bad as Carland!
”Don't try to stop me, Salter” - waving his arms, Hedwin pushed the curator away - ”because I don't like interruptions. Let me see.” The professor's glower became a reflective stare. ”What did I intend to tell you? Ah, yes!” Hedwin brightened. ”I meant to speak about the volcano; Xitli.”
The whole group showed relief as Hedwin changed the subject. They listened, with real interest, while the professor harped upon his theory that the Mayas had identified their fire G.o.d with the volcano. Once talking about Xitli, Hedwin became hard to stop.
”Let us go upstairs,” he finally suggested, ”and I shall show you the prize of this museum - the throne room of Xitli, furnished with the relics that I personally brought back from Cuicuilco.”
Riding up in the elevators, the group rea.s.sembled outside the throne room. Salter started to turn the combination, but Hedwin pushed him aside. Those two, it seemed, were the only ones who knew the combination to the big strong door.
When he opened the door, Hedwin turned on a light that gave the room a ruddy glow, symbolizing flame.
THE room contained the curios that Hedwin mentioned. Little images of the squatly fire G.o.d were in the niches along the walls. Two tablets of stone, with odd hieroglyphics, were on either side of the built-in throne. There were vases and urns about the room, but most important was the seat of the throne itself.
There, The Shadow saw a squarish block of basalt, smooth except for its special markings. He heard Andy telling Yvonne how the professor had unearthed the black stone on the last night at Cuicuilco.
Then, like the rest, The Shadow was watching Professor Hedwin parade across the room, to take his place upon the throne. Seated there, the gray-haired excavator cackled happily.
”I am Xitli!” announced Hedwin. ”And you” - he swept his withery hand about the group - ”are my followers. Because Xitli had followers” - Hedwin was nodding, wisely - ”yes, many of them. The Xitli cult was powerful, and dangerous. It survives to this day, and now its meeting place is in New Orleans, instead of at Cuicuilco!”
Salter was undertoning something to the persons near him. Rising from the throne, Hedwin advanced to the door, demanding sharply: ”What's that you are saying, Salter?”
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