The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER XI ROCHELLE RESPONDS

DARVIN ROCHELLE was seated behind his huge, flat-topped mahogany desk. His lips were firmly set. His gaze was harsh as his eyes turned toward the man who was sitting close to the huge globe of the world.

Rochelle’s companion was Maurice Twindell. The habitue of the Club Rivoli was attired in a business suit; he still retained the debonair manner that was characteristic when he appeared in evening clothes.

“We have met with difficulty, Maurice,” observed Rochelle. “The final goal was within attainment, until that trouble struck on the speedway.”

“I didn’t think Bugs Ritler would fail you,” remarked Twindell glumly. “It was a set-up — to kill Lito Carraza and get his papers. I don’t see yet how Bugs missed out.”

“I have the explanation,” asserted Rochelle. “Bugs managed to escape. That is fortunate. He reported back to Whistler Ingliss — in Agro — and told him what had happened. Bugs knows who it was that broke up his mob so swiftly.”

“Another crew of gangsters?”

“No. A lone fighter, Maurice. The one whom all mobsmen fear. The Shadow.”

Twindell showed signs of bewilderment mixed with apprehension. Rochelle smiled.

“The Shadow, Maurice,” explained the man with the limp, “is a power unto himself. His usual habitat is New York City, but he has frequently been encountered elsewhere. His pastime is to fight whole gangs; to down them single-handed. He has been despicably successful. That is why I state again that Bugs Ritler was lucky to escape.”

“You mean,” interjected Twindell, “that this one man mopped up a whole crew?”

“I did not say one man,” returned Rochelle. “I said The Shadow. He is more than a man, Maurice. He is a phantom of the night. A ghost that comes to life. For months, my schemes have been marked by steady success. Months narrowed to days; days to hours; hours to minutes. Then, when seconds only lay between me and the culmination of my scheme, The Shadow intervened!”

“To destroy your plans?”

“To balk them. From now on, Maurice, my old methods will be useless. Had we trapped Lito Carraza, I would have needed nothing more. Now, however—”

The telephone bell interrupted. Rochelle picked up the instrument and spoke. He changed from English into Agro.

“Kye kye zo kire?” he questioned. “Kye zay voso… Voso voso… Bole zee thone… Fee. Thone thone… Bole vake eef… Alk beeta bole reen kye zee sovo… Fee. Rema.”

Rochelle hung up the receiver. He turned to Maurice Twindell.

THE young man seemed to understand the reason for the annoyed expression which was on Rochelle’s face. Agro was plain to Twindell. But he had heard only one end of the conversation.

“Whistler Ingliss,” remarked Rochelle. “He tells me that secret-service operatives were at his place last night. You heard my answer. I told him to be very careful. Things are bad, but I promised to let him know when all is well.”

“With the operatives covering,” observed Twindell, “it’s a cinch you can’t make a move from the Club Rivoli.”

“Operatives?” Rochelle spat the question. “Bah! If another man should appear at the Club Rivoli with those papers that I want, I could snatch him out from under the noses of secret-service men.

“It is The Shadow who could prevent it!” Rochelle pounded the desk emphatically. “He scents mobsters as a fox trails a hare. Gangsters cannot thwart him. What is more, Maurice, The Shadow is a sleuth extraordinary. It is on his account — more so than that of the secret service — that I sent Anita Debronne into hiding.

“That is where you are going, Maurice. Out of town, to await my summons. This is your final visit here until my plans have been completed.”

“But how—”

“Listen.” Rochelle held up his hand for silence. “I am changing tactics, Maurice. I have used direct tactics because they succeeded. I needed you and Anita to lure victims to their doom. Such mechanism is useless now. I shall reserve it for the final stroke — the deeds which will follow the gaining of the documents which I have not yet obtained.

“Stealth is required. Real espionage, the art at which I am so skilled. The correspondence which Lito Carraza carried is stowed away in safety — deep within the safe at Carraza’s legation.

“Mob raids would be futile. I need a new instrument: one that I can use to full advantage. You, Maurice, have provided me with such an instrument.”

“I?”

“Yes.” Rochelle smiled with evil expression. “On the night of Bugs Ritler’s failure, you met a man from South America. Alvarez Menzone. You told me about him — a man of wealth, here in Washington to promote American capital for rail development in the southern continent.”

“Yes. He talked with me as we rode back from the Club Rivoli. I saw nothing of value, except that he had international experience.”

“That was sufficient.” Rochelle was tapping the desk as he smiled. “I have consulted my files, Maurice. I have learned facts that interest me concerning Alvarez Menzone. I saw how he might prove useful. There was only one drawback.”

“What was that?”

“His nonentity in Washington. A man may be important in South America, yet remain unrecognized here. Conversely, certain men of little repute in their own lands may be feted and lionized in this foolish city.

“Publicity is the deity which Americans worship. Let a man reach the news — his reputation is established. Since your acquaintance with Alvarez Menzone, his name has come into print.”

ROCHELLE reached to the side of the disk and tossed three newspapers to Twindell. The young man nodded as he noted Menzone’s picture on each front page.

“I saw these,” remarked Twindell. “Menzone has crashed the front page all right. You mean that this is to our advantage?”

“Positively. I should like very much, Maurice, to receive Alvarez Menzone as a visitor. Let me suggest that when you leave here, you call upon our friend from South America.

“Suggest that his scheme for continental transportation in South America is dependent primarily upon favorable international relations. Its success should, therefore, be greatly aided through cooperation with the International Peace Alliance.

“Give him a bit of information: namely, that the International Peace Alliance has begun a drive for millions of dollars to be spent on commodities that will be shipped to foreign lands. The lack of inland transportation is the one factor which may prevent South America from gaining the chief benefit of these funds.

“Our promise to ship steadily to South America, should rail facilities be provided there, will certainly be of interest to Alvarez Menzone.”

Maurice Twindell nodded. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was half past five. Darvin Rochelle smiled.

“Try to get Menzone before dinner,” he suggested. “Call there in person. Report to me by telephone.”

Maurice Twindell departed.

Shortly before six, he arrived at Athena Court. He went up to the third floor and rang Menzone’s bell. A young man of keen-cut appearance answered. It was Harry Vincent, Menzone’s new secretary. Twindell inquired for the South American. Harry informed him that Menzone would not be in until half past seven.

Twindell promised to return at that time. He went down to the street, found a drug store and entered a telephone booth. He called Rochelle and made a brief report.

“Kay zay eef kire,” declared Twindell, in Agro. “Kay zee kire rema. Sake goda. Seek coda joda. Alk keed.”

Twindell went on to a restaurant.

It was just half past eight when he returned to Athena Court. This time, Harry Vincent announced that Alvarez Menzone was at home. The South American was seated in the living room; he recognized Maurice Twindell immediately and arose to greet the man whom he had met at the Club Rivoli.

A few words passed in Spanish. Harry, partly familiar with the language, grasped that Twindell wanted to discuss some matter privately. Menzone ushered the visitor into a small room that served as his study. He closed the door.

HARRY, listening from outside the barrier, could not distinguish the low, buzzing words. He slipped back into the living room when he heard the scuffle of chairs. Menzone and Twindell appeared. They shook hands at the outer door.

“Tell him,” declared Menzone, in Spanish, “that I shall call shortly after nine o’clock tonight — it is almost nine now. You are sure that the hour will not be too late—”

“No, indeed,” interposed Twindell. “He will be glad to see you, Senor Menzone. Buenos noches.”

Menzone returned to the living room. He remarked to his new secretary that he intended to go out for a short while. He did not, however, mention his destination.

Maurice Twindell, when he reached the street, entered the same drug store where he had gone before. He put in another call to Darvin Rochelle and this time reported:

“Alk oto kay. Kay deek exat vodo. Sake ita.”

This done, Maurice Twindell strolled from the drug store. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to the Union Station. In accordance with Rochelle’s order, Twindell was taking a trip out of town.

Meanwhile, Alvarez Menzone was dressing for an evening visit. He called Harry Vincent and ordered the secretary to bring maps and mimeographed sheets. Harry left these on the study desk. Menzone appeared from his own room, carrying a bulky brief case. Harry saw him thrust the printed data into its interior.

As soon as Menzone had gone, Harry sat at the desk in the study. Drawing a pen from his pocket, The Shadow’s agent inscribed a coded message in blue ink. Sealing the message in a small envelope, Harry carried it to the hall outside of the apartment.

Beyond the elevator, at a corner of the stairway, hung a fire extinguisher. Harry tucked the envelope behind the big cylinder and returned to the apartment.

MINUTES passed. Blackness moved on the obscure and little-used stairway. A shrouded form appeared; a gloved hand that seemed like a thing of living blackness extended to the wall. It plucked the envelope that Harry had placed in readiness.

Shortly afterward, a cab driver pulled up at the curb near Athena Court in response to a whistle. He looked about for the person who had summoned him. He saw no one. He was startled, however, to hear a voice from the interior of the cab. He realized that despite his alertness, his passenger had entered without his knowledge.

The driver nodded, as a voice gave him an address. He started the cab. Paper crinkled in the rear as hands opened an envelope. Harry Vincent’s message appeared between black-gloved fingers.

By the light of street lamps which the cab was passing, The Shadow read the meager report which his agent had been able to obtain regarding Alvarez Menzone’s visitor and the subsequent departure of Menzone himself.

The coded writing faded. The paper and the envelope fluttered from the window. Blackness shifted within the gloom of the cab. Then came a whispered laugh. It was a token of keen understanding.

The Shadow, despite the little that he had learned through Harry Vincent, seemed satisfied with the way affairs were going. The meshes of his web were strung. The unseen network was ready to ensnare its prey!