Shadowed Millions

CHAPTER III WATCHERS OF THE NIGHT

AS Alvarez Legira stepped from his taxicab in front of a brownstone building on a side street north of Eighty-first, the light of a near-by street lamp plainly revealed the figure of the tall consul as he paid the driver. That light also showed the front of the building, which seemed a focal point in the middle of a sullen, dark-windowed row.

The house was distinguished from the neighboring buildings by a bronze plate located beside the door. The plaque bore the coat of arms of the new Republic of Santander. This marked it as the consular residence.

The cab pulled away, leaving Legira alone on the curb. With his blase indifference, the consul mounted the steps and rang the doorbell. There was a pulling of bolts; the door opened cautiously, and Legira entered. The street remained deserted, with the illumination still glaring on the front of that one conspicuous house.

All was dark across the street. The buildings there were old and unoccupied. Silence remained after Legira’s departure. Yet that darkness opposite the consul’s residence bespoke the presence of living beings. A passer might have imagined vague whisperings coming from the gloom of a little alleyway.

Footsteps sounded lightly. A man strolled along the street opposite Legira’s. He paused to light a cigarette. The glare of the match showed a keen, firm face. The man tossed the match in the gutter. His glance, following the bit of blazing wood, swung toward Legira’s house. He resumed his way toward the next corner.

By the time he was out of earshot, whispers were at work. Two men were talking, both unseen and unheard by the stranger who had passed.

“That’s him,” came a low voice. “Martin Powell. Told you he’d be along as soon as Legira got in the house.”

“What of it?” was the reply. “He’s no better than a flatfoot. Might as well carry a police whistle to let us know he’s coming.”

“He’s pretty smart, Pete.”

“Don’t worry about him, Silk. Just keep out of sight. He’s watching Legira — that’s all.”

“But listen, Pete,” said the first speaker, “he’s liable to come back. If you’re dropping in on Legira, he’ll see you.”

“What if he does?” questioned Pete. “He won’t know who I am. You’ve got to lay low, of course. He might recognize you as Silk Dowdy. You’re playing under cover. But nobody in New York knows me.”

“I get you, Pete. Better wait, though. Let him go by again. It would be bad to slide across the street from here.”

“Say, Silk, you’ve got a lot to learn, in spite of your rep. I’ve visited Legira before. You wait here. I’m going to cut back down the alley. When I show up at Legira’s, I’ll come in a cab.”

The whispering ended. A few minutes after silence had resumed its sway, footsteps again clicked on the sidewalk, and the muffled form of Martin Powell passed by the entrance to the alley.

THE darkened windows of the house across the street reflected the light of the street lamp. There were no signs of activity.

Neither the patrolling man nor the watcher in the gloom of the alley could tell what was going on in that house. To all appearances, the occupants might have retired. But such was not the case.

In an upstairs room at the side of the house, Alvarez Legira was seated at a table, upon which rested a single lamp. The shade was drawn nearly to the sill. Only a slight space revealed the presence of a closed shutter outside the single window.

Seated opposite the consul was a short, slender man whose sallow complexion and dark, flashing eyes betokened a Spanish ancestry. At the doorway stood a tall, silent fellow, whose swarthy cheeks and forehead were rough and pock-marked.

They formed a strange group, these three. Legira, suave and polished, was obviously the leader. The slender man appeared crafty and dangerous. The big man, despite his servile attitude, was formidable and villainous.

“Go, Francisco,” ordered Legira.

The big man turned without a reply and stalked from the room. His heavy tread sounded on the stairway.

“All right, Lopez,” said Legira.

“Ah, senor,” began the slender man. “Buena—”

“Speak in English,” commanded Legira quietly. “You need the practice. Forget the Spanish for a while. Remember, as my secretary, the better your English, the more useful you will be.”

“Accept my pardon, sir,” replied Lopez, with a humble bow. “I have forgot as you have told me. I shall try to speak in English — all the time, you know.”

Legira smiled wanly at his secretary’s odd pronunciation. Lopez was speaking with apparent effort. He seemed to gain encouragement from Legira’s smile, and his teeth shone as he grinned broadly.

“What happened tonight?” questioned Legira.

“That man was on watch,” declared Lopez. “He kept on the look when you were gone out.”

“You mean Martin Powell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is all right,” announced Legira. “We know all about him, Lopez. What of the others?”

“I am not sure, senor. I have think I have seen — looking from the front of this house. They have watched, too. That is what I think.”

Legira arose from his chair. He shoved a cigarette into his long holder and struck a match with vicious action.

“Trouble!” he growled. “That’s why they’re here. Trouble! They think they are fooling me, Lopez. I shall fool them!”

The secretary nodded.

“Remember in Maracaibo?” questioned Legira. “I looked for trouble then. They tried to kill me there, eh, Lopez? You remember?”

Lopez grinned and laughed with a menacing chuckle. The wickedness of his tone seemed to please Legira.

“Francisco was there, then,” smiled Legira reminiscently.

“Francisco is here,” responded Lopez.

“Yes. Francisco is here.” Legira paused to puff thoughtfully at his cigarette. “Francisco is here, but this is not Maracaibo.”

THE statement brought a solemn expression to the secretary’s face. Legira was silent for a minute or more; then he looked squarely at Lopez, and spoke in a low voice.

“The deal went through tonight,” he said. “Everything is the way I wanted it. Ten million dollars, Lopez!”

“Twenty million pesos!”

“It means more than that, Lopez. Dollars are safer than pesos. Yes, I can obtain the ten million dollars any time I want them. But after that—”

“You think they will know?”

“Not yet. Not for a while. But I am worried, Lopez. If I proceed quickly, all may be well. On the contrary, that might be a grave mistake. It is best to wait.”

“But not to wait long, senor.”

“No — not too long. Wait, to see if they know. If they do not know, we can act quickly and surely.”

“What of this man named Powell?”

“I can avoid trouble with him, Lopez. That is part of my plan. I have arranged negotiations so that I deal with only one man. That is Hendrix, the principal one of the financiers.

“I can handle Hendrix. That will avoid complications with Powell. Unless Powell learns of the others—”

“You mean if he should learn of Ballou. Eh, senor?”

“Not Ballou alone,” said Legira. “Those others, who are with Ballou. There is nothing to worry about so long as Ballou seems to be an individual by himself. But if his connections are discovered — well, it may spoil all, Lopez.”

“Could you not watch Ballou, senor?”

“I cannot move, Lopez. Surely, you must understand that. It is like a scales. A balance with Ballou and Powell. Either one could spoil the balance. That would end everything. Fortunately, Powell is watching me and is not concerned with Ballou—”

The ring of a bell interrupted Legira’s speech. The consul stared at his secretary. From below came the sound of Francisco’s footsteps as the servant answered the door. Then the heavy tread ascended the stairway. Lopez went to meet the servant.

The secretary’s dark visage registered excitement when Lopez returned to the room. Legira looked at him questioningly.

“It is Pete Ballou, senor,” declared Lopez. “He is down the stairs. He has a wish to see you.”

“Tell Francisco to bring him up here,” ordered Legira in a low whisper. “Come back here right away, Lopez. Tell Francisco to be slow.”

The secretary nodded. He left to dispatch the servant. He returned, and Legira gripped him by the shoulder.

“They suspect already!” hissed Legira. “Stay here, Lopez. Listen, from behind the closet door. You understand?”

Lopez nodded and hurried to the hiding place. Alvarez Legira looked about him nervously. Then, with a sudden shrug of his shoulder, he calmly resumed his chair and lighted a fresh cigarette.

He was staring reflectively at a cloud of tobacco smoke when the footsteps of two men sounded from the stairs.