The Shadow - The Mask Of Mephisto Part 3

Wheeling to the living members of the Krewe, Selbert snapped a fresh challenge.

"Chardelle was dealing with some really big shots," a.s.serted Selbert. "He couldn't have risked letting them down and he must have known it. His only way to be safe was to cut you fellows in on the deal!"

"Except that we wouldn't have listened," expressed Aldion, indignantly.

"As Seneschal, I'd have voted against such a thing!"

"As Seneschal, you would have no vote," reminded old Tourville, "nor would I as Scribe." Producing a scroll, Tourville pa.s.sed it to Selbert. "Read by-law 5-A, Captain, and you will see that King Satan has complete say on all matters of policy concerning the Krewe of Hades."

"But this would be different," argued Aldion. "It doesn't come under the head of policy -"

"All lotteries are policy," interrupted Selbert, "and without intending to be funny, I'd say that Scribe Tourville is right. All that Chardelle had to do was take it up with King Satan, which meant Ferrand. You fellows didn't count.

The most you could do was quit."

Tucking the scroll in his pocket, Selbert went into another tack.

"When did any of you last see Ferrand?"

Tourville shook his head and Aldion shrugged. Then Aldion stated: "We haven't seen Ferrand for some time. He's been moping, you know, over girl trouble."

Selbert raised his eyebrows to show he didn't know.

"Ferrand was going down to the bayou country, the last we heard," added Tourville. "I instructed Chardelle to find out if Ferrand would be back in time, and Chardelle a.s.sured me that he would."

Another idea was growing in Seibert's mind.

"You gave a lot of orders to Chardelle, didn't you, Tourville?"

"As Scribe of the Krewe of the Knights of Hades," returned Tourville, with dignity, "I am special deputy to His Majesty, King Satan. It is my prerogative to a.s.sign certain tasks to the Seneschal, and lesser details to theMessenger."

"We'll take over your duties," a.s.serted Seibert, a trifle sarcastically, "and it would please us, Scribe, if you would tell us where His Murderous Majesty might happen to have gone at present?"

"King Satan is answerable to no one but himself." Tourville was still taking his mummery seriously. "But it is his wont on Mardi Gras night to appear but briefly at the functions of the other Krewes."

"Good," decided Seibert, "we'll start a man-hunt or a devil-hunt, just in case he's showing nerve enough to go through with the old routine."

Turning to instruct the few police who were present with him, Seibert was pleased when the door opened and more arrived, including a few plain clothes men who were dressed as masqueraders since Carnival costumes were the equivalent of plain clothes on this final evening of Mardi Gras.

These arrivals were bringing news of ma.s.sed battle on a Humpty Dumpty float, and by questioning survivors they had learned that it traced back to the Hoodoo House that operated as the Devil's Den. Paramount was the account of a cloaked masker who had cracked loose from within a steel egg and gone his way into the night.

"Somebody masking as The Shadow -"

Before the informing detective could go further, the man named Shorke made an excited interruption.

"He must be the one who took the prize money!" Shorke's plea was addressed to Seibert. "I couldn't see him in the dark so he answers the description."

Waving for silence, Seibert inquired: "Any reports on The Shadow?"

"He was seen earlier," informed a detective, "when he ran into a man with a Mephisto Mask up toward Ca.n.a.l Street."

Seibert's eyes narrowed.

"Go on."

"And there was a girl with him," added the detective. "She was wearing a Columbine costume. Short skirts and long legs -"

"She's the one who was here!" broke in Shorke. "When I told her I'd been robbed, she didn't wait around!"

"Any further reports?" queried Selbert, briskly. "I mean on the Devil, The Shadow, or Miss Columbine?"

The detective nodded.

"Somebody saw the girl over at Exchange Place."

"Then what are we waiting for?" demanded Selbert. Turning to his own squad, he waved for them to take charge; then to the rest, he ordered: "Come on!"

The hunt had started and which it produced first, The Shadow or King Satan, Jim Selbert didn't seem to care!

CHAPTER VII.

ITEM by item, Lamont Cranston had connected the details that Margo Lane remembered from her grueling experience in the Devil's Den. On the table-cloth, Cranston had drawn a complete plan of the neighborhood around Hoodoo House as well as the interior of the building itself, the latter copied from Margo's descriptions.

Carefully, Cranston was marking crosses and dotted lines to represent various partic.i.p.ants and their courses, when the sound of a police siren reached him. They just couldn't seem to get along without sirens, even in NewOrleans.

So rapidly that Margo wondered what it was all about, Cranston came up from his chair and whisked her behind an open door.

"Stay there," he warned, "until after they all come through. Then go out the front way, because they'll have forgotten all about it. Here" - Cranston whipped away the table-cloth with its penciled evidence - "throw this over your head and shoulders and masquerade as a ghost until you get back to your hotel.

Then get out of that Columbine costume and hide it!"

Footsteps were pounding up the stairs while Margo was enveloping herself in the white drape and Cranston similarly was robing himself in black as he resumed the costume of The Shadow. Instead of looking for some place of concealment, he started for the door, showed himself in full light, and wheeled in the opposite direction.

Shouts from arriving police were drowned by the crash of a window. Next, the officers were storming through the deserted cafe on the trail of someone who was making as remarkable a flight as the one that Margo had attributed to King Satan.

Almost as remarkable but not quite.

No one had caught a glimpse of the crimson-clad Devil who had flown from Hoodoo House, but there were plenty of fleeting glimpses of The Shadow, despite his black attire.

That in a sense made The Shadow's trail more remarkable.

The Shadow intended to draw pursuers after him. He was spotted when he dropped from a low roof to the street; seen again when he cut diagonally to another sidewalk. Through a narrow alley which had once been a rendezvous for fencing masters, The Shadow showed a suitable technique by parrying the police clubs that swung at him.

Once through the alley, The Shadow evaporated. He had drawn the whole man-hunt, including Captain Selbert, along his own course, leaving n.o.body to witness the departure of an improvised ghost from the upstairs cafe back in Exchange Place.

The man-hunt then switched to terms of King Satan, though the man who wore the Mephisto Mask didn't realize it. Ken Langdon, bedecked in flowing crimson, was completing the tour as indicated on the typewritten time-sheet.

He'd paid his respects - or disrespects - to Comus, Rex, the Druids and the Zulus, though it was hardly more than a token courtesy - or discourtesy - considering that the evening parties thrown by those Carnival a.s.sociations had been hardly under way when Ken called by as Mephisto.

At least people could testify that he'd been there and now, to give the Devil his real due, Ken was making his final stop at the Borneau Mansion where the Greater Carnival a.s.sociation was holding a reception.

This was a new group whose aim was to encourage a bigger and better Mardi Gras in keeping with educational standards. New Orleans already boasted a school children's parade which went under the t.i.tle of the Krewe of Nor, and the Greater Carnival a.s.sociation felt that this should be the standard for future adult Krewes. Obviously the a.s.sociation was diametrically opposed to any secret and unsavory groups like the Krewe of Hades, no matter how prominent their members might be.

Which was probably why King Satan was to include the Borneau Mansion on his calling list, and knowing nothing about any of it, Ken Langdon stalked right into the sacred preserves of the city's most stodgy aggregation of ultra-conservative stuffed shirts.

The a.s.sociation members were in costume, but unmasked, since they werestrictly interpreting the rule that all masks should be off by sunset, an ordinance which the populace had been ignoring of late years. So the entry of a full-fledged Mephisto, clad cap-a-pie in crimson, devil's head and all, was something that should have created consternation.

There was a girl who foresaw this, a vivacious blonde who was wearing a Dutch costume. She clattered forward in her wooden shoes, clutched Ken's shimmering sleeve and stopped his Mephistophelean stalk with the ardent protest: "Fred! You shouldn't have come here!"

Tilting back his head, Ken looked down the Mephisto nose and turned to resume his stride. Then, something that even his obstructed vision had observed caused him to pause and reconsider the girl's plea.

She was really worried, this girl was, and the flash in her violet eyes carried something soulful that Ken wished was meant for him instead of somebody named Fred.

"It isn't right, Fred!" The girl's protest was heartfelt. "You know how these people are trying to improve the Mardi Gras. They didn't send the police to raid that secret Krewe of yours, so why should you impose upon them?"

Apparently the girl didn't know that the police had taken over the Krewe of Hades with all its Mystic Knights, but neither did Ken, so that made it mutual. Ken muttered something that might have pa.s.sed as Fred's voice in the hollow depths of the Mephisto Mask, but it only complicated the situation.

"I'll call Rolfe," the girl said. "He'll see that you get home all right.

He won't tell anybody who you are and I'm sure he'll be reasonable when he finds out that you're connected with the Krewe of Hades. You know that Rolfe doesn't approve of such organizations -"

Ken interrupted with a mutter consigning Rolfe, whoever he was, to the particular realm belonging to the character that Ken was impersonating instead of Fred. Meeting a girl like this was something Ken didn't want spoiled by anybody named Rolfe and since Fred was being blamed for staging the Mephisto act, Ken didn't care about him either.

What Ken chiefly wanted was to conclude this imposture within an imposture and collect for services as rendered. He turned away and strode in Mephistophelean majesty straight through the middle of the reception, leaving a rooted flock of astonished conservatives in his wake.

Such behavior was just too much for the blonde. Turning away, she started fleeing, only to run into a young man who was wearing a Colonial costume with fancy knee-breeches.

"What's happened, Joan?"

"It's Fred," the girl choked. "You must stop him, Rolfe, before he unmasks. If they ever find out who he is -"

"Why, he's Fred Ferrand," returned the Colonial gentleman, "and I'm Rolfe Trenhue, his best friend. Or didn't you know?"

"You still can't understand, Rolfe!"

"But I do understand. Why shouldn't Fred Ferrand come to a reception to meet Joan Marcy? Everyone knows that you two are engaged, so where one is invited, the other ought to be."

"But Fred was sent here by the Krewe of Hades as an insult. He's wearing a Mephisto Mask and he's probably been flaunting it all over town."

"Calm yourself, Joan." Rolfe Trenhue steadied the girl and helped her out through the door to a garden bench. "It can't be Fred. He's gone down to my hunting cabin among the bayous. He told me he intended to stay there."

"But he didn't tell you about the Krewe of Hades?"

Trenhue shook his head and his dark, round face showed a puzzledexpression.

"What is the Krewe of Hades, Joan?"

"Of course Fred wouldn't tell you," returned Joan, "knowing you don't approve of secret clubs. Go find Fred and ask him. Get him away before he makes fools of us as well as himself. You'll find him in the Devil's own costume."

The girl buried her face in her hands and Trenhue, disturbed by her sobs, decided to go and learn what the Mephisto menace was all about.

Meanwhile, the menace had disposed of itself. Ken hadn't unmasked because his time sheet didn't call for it. He strode out through a far door and found the most convenient street for the finish of his tour.

It was very simple from now on. The last stop was to be Moubillard's, back in the French Quarter and about a dozen blocks from the Borneau Mansion. At Moubillard's, Ken would leave the costume and go on his way.

Everybody knew Moubillard's, including Ken, although he'd never patronized the place. Henri Moubillard specialized in all sorts of fancy costumes and his business was big during Mardi Gras - so big that Moubillard always celebrated Mardi Gras Night himself. By then all his costumes were out and there was no use staying open.

Always, too, Moubillard left his shop wide open on this night of nights.

He boasted that he did this to prove that he had rented all his costumes; that if anyone entered the shop they'd find nothing to steal. But rumor had it that Moubillard left the door open because he wouldn't be able to unlock it even if he didn't lose his key, which he was likely to do, considering how thoroughly he celebrated on this annual splurge.

Ken knew therefore that Moubillard's would be open and he was glad of it.

As he strode along the streets, Ken could hear the wail of police sirens and if there was trouble in the neighborhood, he didn't want any part of it. If any maskers had become too riotous, the police were likely to blame the first they found, so Ken gave the sound of sirens a wide berth.

Moubillard's at last.

The shop was deep beneath an ancient balcony and true to custom the door was wide open. As usual there wasn't anything to be stolen, the show window so generally filled with the peering faces of grotesque masks, now being entirely empty.

Nevertheless it wouldn't do to just fling the Mephisto costume and forget it. Since Moubillard was keeping open house, even when absent, it would be better form for Ken to leave the costume in the office where the proprietor would surely find it. Besides, there was a chance that this might be the place where Ken was to pick up the other half of the hundred dollar bill.

Taking off the big Mephisto head, Ken Langdon saw his way through the gloom and reached the office. There he set the mask on a chair beside the desk and started to remove the gaudy crimson cape. Even in the faint light, the material had an intriguing shimmer, but Ken no longer cared about fancy costumes.

Striking a match, Ken looked around the desk to see if the half-bill had been left there. Then, as the match flame neared his finger tips, Ken extinguished it with a shake. It might be all right to be here in Moubillard's office, and again it might not be.

The thing that caused Ken to consider the latter prospect was the sound of footsteps entering the shop. Whoever the arrival was, Ken didn't want to meet him. What Ken wanted was a way out and a quick one.

If Ken Langdon had guessed all that was coming, he'd have wanted an exit that was double quick!

CHAPTER VIII

IT was strange, the sense of menace that moment of silence could produce when they served as prelude to new sounds which could not be identified.

Ken Langdon felt this as he waited in Moubillard's tiny pitch-black office, wishing he was back in his own studio on the other side of the Vieux Carre which was the natives' name for French Quarter.

Small wonder that Ken should be thinking in fancy terms considering the aura of phantasy that he had spread around New Orleans while stalking majestically as King Satan. Maybe some of the Devil's own faults were catching up with him right now!