The Shadow - The Mask Of Mephisto Part 5

As for Selbert, he was drawing a police revolver, indicating that he meant to settle with a murderer and consider the evidence later. The police captain came up from the desk, faster than Ferrand could follow him with the shot-gun.

Shaking only a trifle of his complacence, Cranston intervened by blocking Selbert's aim and gesturing the revolver aside. Before Jim could start an angry protest, he saw Cranston's reason. Already two friends had followed through thedoorway after Ferrand and were tugging his shot-gun upward.

One was Rolfe Trenhue, the other Joan Marcy. Trenhue had been at the previous hearing and had evidently met Joan afterward to bring her here. Their arrival in Ferrand's wake was therefore quite timely.

Ferrand could have flung off a pair of men like Trenhue, for the latter, though wiry, was mild of brawn compared to the big boy of the bayous. However, Joan was supplying more than the needed share because Ferrand was reluctant to become too rough with her. The net result was a clatter of the shot-gun and Ferrand, sullen rather than enraged, was letting his arms stay gripped as he still glared at Selbert.

With a nod of thanks to Cranston and the others, Selbert put his revolver away. Then: "All right, Ferrand," said Selbert. "Tell your story. I'll listen."

"I don't have a story," gruffed Ferrand. "I just didn't get back to town for Mardi Gras, that's all."

"Why not? Your friends were expecting you, weren't they?"

"I tried to reach them," returned Ferrand. "Only they were all out when I phoned."

"Where did you phone from?"

Ferrand hesitated at answering the question, and finally said: "From a place down near Yscloskey."

"Not very far away," commented Selbert. "Less than fifteen miles, Yscloskey."

Ferrand let that estimate ride.

"What were you hunting, Ferrand?"

About to reply, Ferrand decided on silence.

"Let's keep it to New Orleans then," decided Selbert. "Our records show"

Jim was referring to a little book - "that you ordered a special costume with a Mask of Mephisto, from Moubillard's Costume Shop."

"Suppose I did?" queried Ferrand. "I wasn't here to wear it. Besides, why couldn't somebody else have gotten a costume and played the Devil?"

"Because you were the only person who could have known about the Louisiana Lottery money. Chardelle would have told you."

"Only Chardelle didn't. Why should he?"

"Because you had full say in the affairs of the Krewe of Hades."

"As long as I reigned as King Satan, yes," conceded Ferrand, "but when I wasn't around - and I wasn't - the Scribe had charge. So it was up to Tourville."

Shaking his head, Selbert brought a scroll from the desk drawer and unrolled it.

"Evidently you don't know your own by-laws," Selbert told Ferrand. "It says here that in the absence of King Satan, or during his inability to rule, the majority vote of the other officers shall be needed to appoint a subst.i.tute or successor."

By the other officers, Selbert specifically meant Tourville, Aldion, and the defunct Chardelle, who as Scribe, Seneschal and Messenger were recognized officials of the Krewe. Not having Chardelle's body handy to confront Ferrand with it, Selbert did the next best thing.

The police captain pressed a buzzer; a door opened and both Tourville and Aldion were ushered in from another room where they had been kept in temporary custody. But if Selbert expected this surprise to produce results, he was guessing very badly. Tourville and Aldion nodded amiably but warily to Ferrand who returned the greeting in his usual abrupt style, then turned to Selbert and demanded: "What do they have to say?" "Only that they knew nothing about Chardelle's deal with the Lottery,"

returned Selbert. He paused, to add casually: "I'm rather inclined to believe them."

"Then why not believe me?"

"Because Tourville and Aldion were accounted for at the time of Chardelle's death," declared Selbert. He tapped a diagram with his pencil.

"Tourville was here beside the orchestra platform and Aldion was at the outer door."

Ferrand stared at a big letter "M" which marked the beginning of a curved line that trickled into a row of dots.

"I suppose the 'M' stands for Mephisto and is supposed to mean me."

"It might," said Selbert drily, "and we'd know for sure if you traced the rest of the line for us. We're sure you must have gone as far as the third floor, but where you went after that, we don't know."

"Suppose I couldn't tell you?"

"Do you mean couldn't or wouldn't, Ferrand?"

"Both," retorted Ferrand, "since you want to be obstinate about it. You seem to think that I was lurking upstairs in the Mephisto costume, that I came down, shot Chardelle, fled upstairs again, jumped on a saddle-pigeon and flew back to Bayou Yscloskey."

Ignoring Ferrand's humor, Selbert studied the diagram.

"You couldn't have dropped to the front alley," Selbert decided, "but you might have doubled around through there after coming down from a side roof.

There's a pa.s.sage around Hoodoo House, leading through a gate into the alley.

Doubling back seems to be your specialty, Ferrand.

"You doubled back through Moubillard's shop" - Selbert's eyes lifted and fixed steadily on Ferrand - "although you could have taken a side alley to another street. There's a gate alongside of Moubillard's too. Maybe you're forming bad habits, Ferrand."

Of the many eyes that were on Ferrand, the steadiest were Cranston's. He wanted to get the bearded man's reactions and with good reason. Cranston knew that Selbert was playing a wrong hunch in talking about doubling back. That trail at Moubillard's hadn't been reversed by the man who murdered the old costumer.

Whatever Ferrand knew, he didn't betray it. Instead, he seemed inclined to keep Selbert guessing and did so. There were other eyes that gazed questioningly at Ferrand, a violet pair belonging to Joan Marcy. Then, rather than stare too long, the girl let her gaze drift, and she noted how closely Cranston was watching Ferrand.

Joan's chance observation stirred a curious recollection that was to produce immediate results.

"Don't tell us you couldn't have gone to Moubillard's," Selbert was saying to Ferrand. "You were seen at the Borneau Mansion earlier and we checked the time. It gave you just the right number of minutes to get over to the costume shop -"

"I was seen at the Borneau Mansion?" interrupted Ferrand. "Why, I wasn't within miles of the place. Who says they saw me there?"

"Miss Marcy, for one."

Ferrand wheeled so savagely toward Joan that she stepped back quickly past Trenhue's protecting arm. Before Ferrand could question Joan, Selbert did it for him.

"Tell us, Miss Marcy," said Selbert. "Didn't you see somebody in a Mephisto Mask at the Mansion?"

"Why, yes," admitted Joan. "Only -"

"Only what?" "Only I'm not sure it was Fred."

"Didn't you speak to him?"

"Yes, I did."

"And he answered, didn't he?"

"In a way, yes," Joan conceded, "but I couldn't swear it was Fred's voice."

"Trying to disguise it, was he?"

"I don't know." Joan frowned, then brightened suddenly. "Yes, frankly I think the voice was disguised. In fact I have an idea who might -"

The last words were lost, drowned by the ugly snarl that Ferrand hurled Joan's way. Fred was calling the girl a double-crosser, but he spent a while getting to the term, due to a supply of preliminary adjectives. This time, however, Ferrand was reckoning rightly with Captain Selbert.

Coming around from his desk, Selbert caught Ferrand off guard and by the shoulders, spinning him with a twisty shove that landed Ferrand in a chair that broke and deposited him in its wreckage. Facing Joan, Selbert demanded abruptly: "All right. Are you sure or aren't you as to the person in that mask?"

Joan's reply was to Selbert, but her eyes were elsewhere. The girl was looking straight at Cranston when she said: "I am not sure."

Old Tourville and young Aldion were helping Ferrand to his feet, promising him their moral support as well as physical, but Ferrand wanted none of it.

Delivering a contemptuous snarl in Joan's direction, Ferrand faced Selbert in challenging style.

"Since I need an alibi," declared Ferrand, "I'll give you one. Come down to the bayous with me and talk to the people there. We'll find somebody who will remember seeing me some time last night."

"I'll make the arrangements," agreed Selbert, tactfully. "Meanwhile everyone else is free to leave. Only I'd like you all to be on call, particularly you two."

By "you two" Selbert meant Tourville and Aldion, as he indicated. A pair of detectives took custody of Ferrand while the rest of the group filed out, Cranston included. There were two persons, however, who paused outside the door of Selbert's office.

Cranston noted them: Joan Marcy and Rolfe Trenhue. But it wouldn't have been good policy to have stayed and eavesdropped on their conversation.

Besides, Cranston had a good idea what it was all about and the accuracy of his surmise was to prove itself quite soon. His whispered laugh, unheard as he departed, was more than vaguely reminiscent of The Shadow's.

CHAPTER XI.

OYSTERS ROCKEFELLER formed a tasty dish that delighted Margo Lane, particularly the kind that were served in a certain French restaurant just within the borders of the Vieux Carre. At present however, Margo was neglecting this specialty to furnish Lamont Cranston a bit of tidy news.

"Don't look now," undertoned Margo, "but there's an old friend of mine who doesn't know me when he sees me. He must think he's going to collect some prize money that he didn't get or he wouldn't be so interested in local blondes."

Cranston looked, by way of a restaurant mirror, and gave Margo a nod.

"I know who you mean," said Cranston. "Howard Shorke."

Margo stared, a bit puzzled. "You've met Shorke?"

Cranston had, but he didn't say so. Instead, he replied: "I've met the blonde."

Such a revelation would have put Margo in a fighting mood, if it hadn't occurred to her who the blonde in question was. Margo recalled her as a girl in Dutch costume that had made her look considerably different.

"But what does Joan Marcy see in Shorke?" queried Margo.

"Nothing," replied Cranston. "It's what she wants to hear from him."

"You mean details about last night's fiasco?"

"The police called it murder, Margo, and they've put the blame on Ferrand.

Joan probably wants to clear him."

"And why? I understood they weren't clubby any more, and from the way you said Ferrand acted -"

"Ferrand's actions are Joan's main reason," interposed Cranston. "She wants to clear the book. Trenhue stayed at headquarters, probably just to tell Ferrand that Joan was doing all she could for him."

"And is she?"

"I think so." His tone extremely confidential, Cranston explained why.

"Joan has listed her own candidate for Suspect Number One in the Mephisto murders."

"Do you know who he is?"

"You're looking right at him, Margo."

Since she was looking right at Cranston, Margo continued to stare, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"It was rather odd that I should show up at the Borneau Mansion,"

reminded Cranston. "If Mr. Mephisto had time to get from there to Moubillard's and toss off a murder, I for one had time to get back to the Mansion. Besides, n.o.body has asked me where I was at the time Chardelle was killed."

"But Lamont! Of all the nerve!"

"That's a mere side issue, Margo. I think I'll go the rounds and maybe run into Tourville or Aldion, to hear their opinions. When you're clear, you might phone young Langdon and tell him that it would be advisable for the missing Mephisto to stay under cover a while longer."

With that, Cranston pa.s.sed Margo an envelope which had dropped from Ken's pocket during last night's trip across Moubillard's roof. It bore Ken's name and address to which Cranston had thoughtfully added a pencilled phone number.

From the corner of her eye, Margo watched Joan follow Lamont's departure.

If she hadn't learned the truth, Margo would have cla.s.sed the blonde's gaze as a designing one. But then Margo was over-suspicious of blondes, just as she underestimated the intelligence of such milk-toast gentry as Howard Shorke.

While Margo was watching Joan, Shorke was watching Margo. Turned slightly from the table, Margo was resting one knee upon the other and Shorke, who had an eye for mirrors too, was catching the reflection of some very sightly legs that reminded him of the trim limbs of a Columbine.

When Shorke leaned over to say something to Joan, Margo supposed it referred to Lamont instead of herself. She finished the last of the fancy oysters and sauntered from the restaurant, planning to do a little shopping and then to phone Ken.