The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER I FOOTSTEPS TO CRIME

IT was midnight. From the brilliance of one of Washington’s broad avenues, the lights of a large embassy building could be seen glowing upon the sidewalks of the street on which it fronted.

Parked cars lined the side street. One by one they were moving from their places, edging to the space in front of the embassy, where departing guests were ready to leave. An important social event was coming to its close.

The broad steps of the embassy were plainly lighted. Upon them appeared two men dressed in evening clothes. One was a tall, gray-haired individual; the other a stocky, square-faced man who leaned heavily upon a stout cane as he descended the steps. The two men paused as they reached the sidewalk.

“You have a car here, Mr. Rochelle?” inquired the tall man, as a uniformed attendant approached.

“No, senator,” returned the man with the cane. “It is not far to my residence. I prefer to walk. If you should care to accompany me—”

“Gladly,” interposed the gray-haired man. “Your headquarters is on the way to my hotel. The night is mild. We can talk as we stroll along.”

The pair headed from the direction of the avenue. Side by side, they followed the route that Rochelle indicated. The embassy attendant watched them as they moved along the street. His gaze centered upon the man whom the senator had addressed as Rochelle.

Coming down the embassy steps, Rochelle’s manner of locomotion had seemed quite normal. Upon the sidewalk, however, the man who carried the cane formed an odd and conspicuous figure. Every stride caused his body to incline heavily to the right, where its sagging stopped by Rochelle’s pressure on the strong walking stick.

Then came a momentary stop. Rochelle’s right leg, swinging forward, resumed its pace. His whole body seemed to twist with the effort. The halting limp continued with regular precision; yet despite it, Rochelle kept pace with the man beside him.

The man with the limp!

The embassy attendant knew him by sight. He was Darvin Rochelle, founder of the International Peace Alliance. His halting, sagging figure could be seen at all the important functions which took place at foreign embassies, for Darvin Rochelle was noted as a student of international problems.

TURNING a corner, Darvin Rochelle and his companion arrived upon a well-lighted street. Their faces showed plainly beneath the shadowy crisscross of broad-branched trees.

The tall, gray-haired senator was listening with dignified pleasure to the words which his limping companion uttered. Darvin Rochelle, his firm face gleaming with the fire of enthusiasm, was talking in modulated tones that carried real conviction.

“World peace!” Rochelle’s declaration came with emphasis. “It is not a dream, senator! It is reality. Look at the world today. Do you see war? Only in scattered portions of the globe. Peace is the predominating desire of our present era.”

“Perhaps,” maintained the senator dryly. “Yet the world has not changed. Nations — races — all have differences. War, despite its futility, seems to be the only choice when difficulties must be settled.”

“Agreed,” stated Rochelle, turning his head as he limped. “Next, you will point out to me the failure that seems to have gripped the League of Nations. I shall agree with you there. Nevertheless, world peace can be maintained. To further it is the work that I have chosen.”

“Commendable,” remarked the senator. “Let us hope, Rochelle, that your plans will succeed. From what you have told me, I realize fully that your work is worthy of support. The International Peace Alliance is unquestionably a new idea.”

“Yet a simple one, senator. It seeks to produce international understanding. That is all. We have representatives in every country. All are pledged to throw their influence into the scale that will bring the balance in favor of worldwide peace. They are workers in a common cause.

“There are barriers between countries. Such barriers were natural once, but today, with international communication a matter of great ease, the barriers are falling. The International Peace Alliance has stimulated trade relations between different countries. That, more than any propaganda, is the first step to permanent peace.”

“Certainly,” rejoined the gray-haired senator. “When nations depend upon one another commercially, their trend will be away from warfare. Yet international trade is handicapped—”

“By language,” interposed Rochelle. “More than by any other single cause.”

“You are right,” agreed the senator.

“Therefore,” resumed Rochelle, “the International Peace Alliance has found the way to remove that barrier. We are preparing our new universal language, called Agro. With its completion, there will be a positive form of international communication.”

“Will it work?” questioned the senator. “The same attempt has been tried before. Esperanto—”

“Esperanto?” Rochelle’s question was scornful. “Bah! Esperanto was a poor attempt at an international tongue. It was launched before its time. It died a natural death. Today, however, when all languages are becoming modern, the time is ripe for a universal system. Agro will fill the need.

“Agro will receive endorsement in every land. It will be taught in elementary schools. Each year, its vocabulary will be expanded. Agro is designed to grow until it will predominate. Then, senator, world understanding will be complete!”

THE two men had turned into another street. Rochelle’s halting limp came to a stop. Resting upon his cane, the enthusiast waved his hand toward a pretentious building.

“My residence,” he stated simply. “Also the headquarters of the International Peace Alliance. Will you come in, senator?”

“I should be back at my hotel—”

“Step inside for a few minutes. I shall order my limousine to take you to the hotel.”

The senator agreed. With Rochelle, he ascended the stone steps. The door opened as the two men arrived at the top. A bowing servant admitted Rochelle and his companion.

“Order the limousine, Gaillard,” instructed Rochelle. Then, to his companion: “Let me show you our arrangements, senator.”

There were two doors on each side of the hall. Rochelle led the senator through the door to the right. He pressed a switch; the light showed a room that was fitted like a museum. Shelves and show cases held specimens of curios and products that came from all the world.

“Our display room,” explained Rochelle. “It familiarizes all visitors with the customs and products found throughout the world. This” — he paused as he opened a door at the rear of the room and led the senator into what appeared to be an office — “is where all our detail work is done. At present, we have but a small force. That is all that we can accommodate. Later, we shall take additional offices elsewhere.”

Crossing to the left, Rochelle limped through a door that showed another rear room of the huge ground floor. This place was equipped with tables covered with magazines and newspapers; its walls were lined with books.

“Our international library,” informed Rochelle. “Current publications from all the world. These” — he was pointing to the books — “will all be translated into Agro.”

“A great undertaking,” commented the senator.

“Yes,” admitted Rochelle, as he led the visitor through to the front room on the left, “but a worthy one. Our publications will go everywhere. Here, senator, is our meeting room.”

They were standing in the front room. The senator stared at the walls. Beautifully decorated in many colors, they formed maps in mural style. The entire world was depicted. Darvin Rochelle smiled as he observed the keen interest which the visitor displayed.

The senator was still walking about the room from map to map when Gaillard entered to inform Rochelle that the limousine was in front. The senator heard the servant’s statement. He glanced at his watch. He walked toward the hall.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I really must get back to the hotel. When I have the opportunity, Rochelle, I shall come to see you. I want to hear more about your peace plans. You are here most of the day?”

“Nearly all the time.” They were in the hallway, and Rochelle waved his hand toward a broad marble staircase that led directly to the second floor. “My private office is above. Call at any time you wish, senator. Good night, sir.”

AS soon as the visitor had departed, Darvin Rochelle turned and limped toward the stairway. His halting stride ended as he moved up the steps. It began again when he reached the top.

The man with the limp opened a door and entered a large anteroom, where chairs lined the walls. He passed through to another door and stepped into an office that was furnished with expensive mahogany. Here, Rochelle seated himself at a huge desk near the center of the room.

Directly to the left of the desk was a huge globe of the world. It was more than three feet in diameter; it rested in a circular mahogany cradle atop a heavy metal tripod. Pausing by the globe, Rochelle rested upon his cane. With his free hand, he spun the big sphere and watched it revolve.

A strange smile appeared upon Rochelle’s face. Here in the lighted room, his features showed a curious change of expression. From those of an idealist, they became the countenance of a gloating schemer.

The spinning globe slowly dawdled to a stop. Rochelle seated himself behind the desk. He opened a drawer and reached inside. His fingers found a buzzer hidden at the top of the drawer. Rochelle pressed the button and waited. He was looking toward a mirror at the right side of the room.

The glass showed the reflection of a doorway at the back of the office. While Rochelle watched, the door opened and a stoop-shouldered creature entered with stealthy tread.

The newcomer was a dwarf, twisted in body, vicious in face. An ugly smile was on the deformed man’s puffed lips.

“Over there, Thurk,” ordered Rochelle quietly. He indicated the opposite side of the desk.

The dwarf complied. He took his stand in front of his master. Resting both hands upon the desk, he formed a grotesque monster with long, scrawny arms and head that seemed too large for the skinny shoulders which supported it.

Wild eyes gleamed from Thurk’s pasty face. Bloated lips moved while the hideous creature spoke in a harsh, strange tongue:

“Kye kye rofe kye.”

“Sovo,” returned Rochelle, in a quiet tone. “Reen kye kye doke?”

“Sake alta alta. Seek alta eeta.”

“Kye kye kode?”

“Fee.”

“Dake.”

With this syllabic utterance, Rochelle arose from his chair. He walked directly to the door where he had seen Thurk’s reflection. As the master limped in that direction, the dwarf followed with bounding steps.

BEYOND the door, Rochelle came to a spiral staircase. He descended, without the aid of his cane. Thurk continued, creeping downward, until they reached a small room at the bottom of the steps. Here Rochelle unbarred a steel door. He turned out the single light and opened the barrier amid darkness.

Rochelle limped out into the cool air of a walled courtyard. Directly ahead, showing dimly in the vague light that came from above, was an iron fence with a little gate. It formed the rear of Rochelle’s property. Beyond it was the back of a dilapidated house, for Rochelle’s mansion was on the fringe of a decadent district.

Through the gate, Rochelle unlocked the back door of the house in the rear. He entered and groped his way to a flight of stairs. At the bottom, Thurk, still following, could hear the click of his master’s cane against the stone of a cellar floor. Rochelle turned on a light.

Lying on the floor was the body of a young man. The blood-incrusted front of a tuxedo shirt showed where a bullet had ended the victim’s life. Rochelle sneered as he gripped a post beside him and used his cane to poke at the body.

Thurk, approaching his master, produced a large envelope from a pocket. He handed it to Rochelle and pointed significantly to the body on the floor.

“Rike zay folo folo,” declared the dwarf.

“Sovo,” returned Rochelle.

He took the envelope, thrust it in a pocket of his evening clothes and pointed to the body with his cane.

Thurk understood the gesture. He stooped; with a display of remarkable strength, he hoisted the corpse to his shoulders and carried it through an archway in the cellar. Rochelle, still gripping the post, was listening. He heard a splash as Thurk dropped the body into some hidden vat.

A soft, insidious snarl came from Rochelle’s lips. Leaning upon his cane, the man with the limp clicked back across the cellar. He retraced the course that he had taken; back into his own house; up the spiral stairway to his finely furnished office.

There, he opened the envelope that Thurk had given him. Within it was another envelope which bore the typewritten statement:

Documents came out upon the desk. With eager eyes, Rochelle began to study them. His visage showed an evil gleam, as he perused these papers which had been purloined from a murdered man.

Completing his inspection, Rochelle arose and moved to a safe in the wall. He turned the combination, opened the safe, then placed the papers within. He closed the door and turned to find that Thurk had come back. Rochelle dismissed the dwarf with a wave of his hand.

Alone again, Rochelle indulged in a fiendish smile that gradually faded from his lips to restore his benign expression. Then, with the aid of his cane, he clumped through another door at the back of the office.

The hollow taps of the walking stick faded. Darvin Rochelle had retired for the night. Yet the echoes of that clicking cane seemed to leave their mark.

Those clicks had told of the footsteps of Darvin Rochelle, a man whose life, presumably, had been devoted to ways of peace and friendship. Such, however, was a pretense.

The footsteps of Darvin Rochelle had led to crime. The man with the limp was a monster whose ways were those of murder!