The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER XIII THE THEFT

THE lights of a large embassy were aglow. A diplomatic function of consequence was taking place upon this evening. Situated near a broad avenue, the building formed a spot of interest to people who were driving past in the direction of the northwest.

This embassy housed the legation of which Lito Carraza was a member. The gay function now in progress was a prelude to the opening of the Pan-American Convention, which was scheduled to begin upon the morrow.

The ambassador, a dignified, bearded South American, was attired in military uniform. Formerly a general in the army of his native land, he adopted this attire at important receptions. Kindly-faced, this elderly ambassador lacked the warlike pose that might have been expected by those who viewed his medalled chest.

As proof that his thoughts turned to peace rather than war, the ambassador was listening with nods of approval to the talk of Darvin Rochelle. The head of the International Peace Alliance, surrounded by a lionizing throng, was beaming with good will as he discussed his favorite subject — that of friendship between nations.

“South America!” Rochelle was enthusiastic, as he leaned upon his cane. “One great country, gentlemen. A continent divided into separate nations, it is true, but all have the same purpose. All but one speak the same language; and that one has a kindred tongue. All are republics. It is the new world that shows the example to the old!”

Murmurs of approval greeted this statement. Most of the listeners were Spanish-Americans; diplomats, they understood the English phrases which Rochelle uttered. The spirit of good will seemed to prevail, with Darvin Rochelle as its sponsor.

Alvarez Menzone was present. A guest at the embassy function, the shrewd-faced adventurer was avoiding the limelight. Although away from the group of which Rochelle was the center, Menzone could catch the words that the other said. Also, Menzone was close enough to overhear the talk between two other men — Americans — who had drawn away from the group about Rochelle.

“Fine words,” one was saying. “Rochelle is an idealist. That is all.”

“They’re drinking it in,” commented the second American.

“What of it?” questioned the first. “It’s the kind of talk they like. Libertad! Shout that word among a lot of South Americans and they raise a bigger cheer than a Japanese banzai. But when they come to settle things among themselves, nationalism runs riot.”

“This Pan-American Convention is—”

“Bah! Soapsuds! It looks good because they’re away from home. Wait until they get back where they belong. I’m giving you the truth when I say that the undercurrent of South American antagonism is tremendous.”

The speakers moved away. Alvarez Menzone smiled. These Americans were discussing the very facts that Darvin Rochelle had mentioned. South America, like a volcano with a dozen craters, was ready for eruption.

MENZONE strolled past groups of courteous diplomats and attaches. Men in resplendent uniforms; others in evening dress; all were bowing and exchanging greetings. Spanish and English were intermingled languages.

Again, Menzone stopped by a spot where two Americans were speaking in low tones. He flicked his cigarette into an ornate receiver as he paused to listen.

“Do you catch the chatter?” one man was asking the other. “Nothing about Bolivia and Paraguay. You’d think that Gran Chaco didn’t exist.”

“I heard Rochelle spouting peace and good will,” was the reply. “It was going over big. Two thirds of the listeners were in uniform. That’s irony, isn’t it?”

“They like their wars in South America. Things have been too quiet there. Old-fashioned warfare was their business. Believe me, they’re all watching modern methods in Gran Chaco. If they like them, it may be just too bad.”

Menzone strolled onward. He reached a side room, and drew a cigarette case from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and looked for a match. He had none. Moving a few paces, he approached a stocky man who was staring toward the reception hall.

“A match, senor?”

The man turned at Menzone’s question. His hand, moving to his pocket, stopped. Menzone’s keen eyes met those of a firm-faced fellow, who could not conceal the sudden recognition that had gripped him.

The man whom Alvarez Menzone had accosted was Vic Marquette. In an instant, the secret-service operative had recognized the South American as the one whom he had trailed from the Club Rivoli.

“A match, senor?”

The manner in which Menzone repeated the question showed apparent failure to observe the look of surprise upon the face of Vic Marquette. The secret-service man produced a pack of matches. Menzone accepted them with thanks. He lighted his cigarette and returned the pack. He strolled onward. Vic Marquette watched him.

A thin smile crept over Menzone’s lips. The man’s sallow face seemed craftier than ever.

Menzone had been more observant than Vic Marquette had supposed. Placing his cigarette between his lips, Menzone puffed in thoughtful fashion as he returned toward the group with which Darvin Rochelle was stationed.

“It is late.” Rochelle was beaming as he spoke. “I have a busy day tomorrow, gentlemen. I am preparing a copious report upon the subject of international relationship. It will be read in full at the Pan-American Convention.”

Warm, enthusiastic handshakes were extended. All moved away with the exception of the ambassador. Side by side with Darvin Rochelle, the uniformed diplomat moved toward the doorway.

The pair paused close by the spot where Alvarez Menzone was standing. An attache approached the ambassador. As the bearded man turned to speak to him, Rochelle edged closer to Menzone. He did not look at the suave South American; Menzone, in turn, was staring toward the door as he puffed his cigarette. The words that they exchanged, however, were audible.

“Alk kade,” murmured Rochelle, in Agro. “Bole zee rike. Bole veek rema. Deek ake alkro gomo exat vodo. Bole reef folo folo.”

“Fee,” returned Menzone, scarcely moving his lips. “Alk zay fela.”

Rochelle was turning to the ambassador. He limped beside the diplomat as they continued toward the door. Alvarez Menzone remained, totally indifferent to the passage of the pair.

NO one had overheard the conversation in Agro. No one would have understood the words had they been overheard. Secretly — yet with positive surety — Rochelle had told Menzone that he was leaving. He had instructed Menzone to remain at the embassy; to act later. He had added that Menzone was to come to his home tonight, bringing the papers.

Menzone, in return, had given an affirmative reply of understanding, with the added statement that he was ready.

Menzone’s long fingers dipped into his pocket. Apparently, they were seeking a match or a cigarette. Actually, they were obtaining a most important slip of paper: the combination to the embassy vault.

Watching eyes were on Alvarez Menzone. They were the eyes of Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative was peering from the adjoining room. He had not noticed the exchange of words between Alvarez Menzone and Darvin Rochelle. He was watching Menzone alone.

The tall South American strolled away. Vic kept him in sight. There was nothing in Menzone’s actions that could excite new suspicion; yet Vic was determined to pursue his quarry. The longer he watched, the more decided he became.

The very fact that Menzone was moving about in purposeless fashion convinced Marquette that the South American had a special reason for being here. Vic was determined to learn that reason. He saw Menzone pass into a side room. Vic waited, then followed.

The secret-service operative went by a huge curtain. He kept on. The moment that he passed, Menzone stepped into view and doubled on his tracks. Keeping to the wall of the reception room, the sallow-faced South American gained a hallway. He followed it and reached a door.

Slowly, Menzone turned the knob. He opened the door cautiously. He saw a heavy-browed attache seated at a table, reading a Latin-American newspaper. With catlike stealth, Menzone crouched. As he launched himself for a spring, the attache turned.

The man started to cry out; he was too late. Menzone’s swift attack bowled over the man and the chair in which he sat. So powerful was the sweeping spring that the attache did not catch a glimpse of his attacker’s face. A springing form that overturned him helpless, upon the thick carpeting. That was the only impression that the victim received.

Pinning his powerless opponent face downward on the floor, Menzone clamped the victim’s hands behind his back. With a quick sweep, he snapped the man’s belt buckle and whisked the belt away, His knee in the fellow’s back, he bound the man’s wrists.

The attache started to cry out. Menzone flattened him and suppressed him with a firm hand. He used the man’s handkerchief for a gag. Then, with snarled words in Spanish that warned his victim not to struggle, Menzone arose.

THIS room had heavy curtains. They were held with stout, ropelike cords. Menzone removed these and returned to the man on the floor. He completed the binding in expert fashion. Trussed hand and foot, the attache could not escape.

All the while, the cowed captive had lain face downward. He had not caught an identifying glimpse of the attacker. Menzone, turning his eyes toward a huge vault at the other end of the room, saw that his coming work would give the prisoner a chance to observe him. With a slight laugh, Menzone settled that matter. He turned out the light, as he drew a flashlight from his pocket.

By the glimmer of a small torch, Menzone approached the vault. He drew forth the paper that bore the combination. Working smoothly, he turned the knobs. He swung the door open and focused his flashlight within.

The interior of the vault showed various compartments, marked with South American titles. Menzone found the one he wanted. He opened it and rapidly fingered sheaves of papers. He drew forth the packet that he sought.

A few minutes later, Alvarez Menzone appeared at the door of the darkened room. He regained the hall, made his way along it and reached the reception room. Pressing a cigarette between his lips, he plucked a match from a stand. The flicker of a flame showed a thin smile on Menzone’s lips.

The South American strolled across the reception room. Vic Marquette, coming from a side room, suddenly spied the man whom he had been seeking. To all appearances, Menzone had not been out of the reception room. Yet Marquette had searched there, without finding him.

Chagrined, the secret-service operative watched Menzone stroll about, then prepare for his departure. Vic, although his suspicions still persisted, decided not to follow. He had made one bull trailing Alvarez Menzone upon another night. He knew where the man could be reached. Vic remained as Menzone left.

TEN minutes afterward, an excited attache appeared in the reception room. Most of the guests had left. Hence the man’s wild gestures were not noticed as he passed the word to another member of the legation. The second man gesticulated, motioning the informant away. Calming himself, the man who had received the news, started off to speak to the ambassador.

Vic Marquette hurried to the passage which the first attache had taken. He saw a light from an opened door near the end of the hall. He hastened to that spot. He viewed two men: one the attache who had brought the news; the second, a helpless attache bound and gagged upon the floor. Beyond was an opened vault.

The ambassador arrived. With alarmed eyes, he stared at the two men; one freeing the other from his bonds. He saw Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative showed his badge. The ambassador nodded. He made for the vault, with Vic beside him.

Scurrying attaches were entering. The ambassador addressed them in Spanish. He told them to go back to the reception room; to give no indication of the fact that trouble had occurred here. All left, save the ambassador, the first two attaches, and Vic Marquette.

As the ambassador began his inspection of the opened vault, a motion occurred at the end of the darkened hall. A window moved noiselessly upward. A dim form was outlined in the space. Silent footsteps approached the lighted doorway. Like a specter, The Shadow viewed the scene within the room.

The ambassador had turned to Vic Marquette. Soberly, the grizzled diplomat was announcing his discovery.

“Important correspondence has been stolen,” he declared, in English. “It is serious, senor. Very serious.”

The ambassador paused, then resumed:

“It is the correspondence, senor, which was carried by Lito Carraza, the night that men sought to kill him across the river.”

“So they got it, eh?” growled Vic. “What’s this fellow got to say?”

He pointed to the attache who had been found on the floor. The ambassador quizzed his aid in Spanish. The man replied. Vic understood the words; the ambassador, not knowing this, went on to translate them.

“He cannot identify his assailant, senor,” explained the ambassador. “He says that he was struck down suddenly. The man who opened the vault, turned off the lights. He used a little light of his own.

“Senor Fourrier must learn of this. We must notify him at once. Nothing must be said. Those papers are important, but their existence must be kept a secret. It would be a terrible mistake, senor, to let this be known just before the Pan-American Convention.”

“I understand,” nodded Marquette. “Do you suspect anyone of this robbery?”

“No, senor,” returned the ambassador with a shake of his head. “It is incomprehensible.”

Vic Marquette stood silent while the ambassador closed the vault. Evidently the head of the legation was anxious to suppress the news of robbery. It was Vic Marquette’s duty to comply. Nevertheless, the operative could not restrain an assurance which he felt.

At the doorway of the room, he stopped the ambassador and made a cautious statement of the suspicions which he held.

“I was watching a man who was here tonight,” explained Vic. “A South American — not connected with an embassy. He was out of sight a while before this happened. If he’s the robber, you can count on me to get him.”

“His name?” questioned the ambassador eagerly.

“Alvarez Menzone,” replied Marquette.

“An invited guest,” explained an attache, who had overheard the name. “He is here to obtain capital for railroads in South America—”

“I recall him,” interposed the ambassador. “I would not have suspected him of theft. Do you feel sure—”

“I’m going to trace him,” interrupted Marquette. “I’ll take the matter up with my chief. I simply wanted you to know that I’m starting with a clew.”

They had reached the hall. The ambassador was nodding with a show of satisfaction. Side by side with Vic Marquette, the uniformed diplomat moved toward the reception room, with the attaches following.

DARKNESS moved in the hallway past the door from which the men had come. Keen eyes beneath a broad-brimmed slouch hat watched the departure. The quartet reached the reception room. The Shadow stood alone.

With piercing gaze, The Shadow stared into the lighted room which held the closed vault. Then, with a quick turn that brought a swish from the black cloak which shrouded his form, the mysterious visitor departed by the way he had come.

The window closed noiselessly. A figure glided through the gloom at the side of the embassy building. The whispered tone of a weird, knowing laugh came from concealed lips.

The Shadow had arrived after the theft had been completed. He had seen the ambassador’s discovery that the correspondence had been stolen. He had heard the plans to keep the matter quiet. He had learned of Vic Marquette’s new suspicions of Alvarez Menzone.

The Shadow’s own agent — Harry Vincent — was covering Menzone. The Shadow, himself, had appeared in the vicinity of Athena Court. Yet The Shadow had not made his secret entrance into the embassy until after Alvarez Menzone had left, with stolen correspondence in his pocket.

Why had The Shadow failed to appear beforehand? What was the answer to the passive, hidden part that he was playing?

Only The Shadow knew!