The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER III THE CLUB RIVOLI

IT was nine o’clock when Clyde Burke reached the Club Rivoli. Located several miles from Washington, the bright spot appeared to be a large but obscure road house. The expensive cars parked at the side showed, however, that the Club Rivoli must have some unusual attraction.

Clyde had come in one of the cheap taxis so prevalent in Washington. He paid the driver, then entered the front door of the Club Rivoli. A modestly furnished lounge showed on one side; on the other a small, deserted dining room.

Clyde kept on through the hall. He came to a door farther on and rang a bell. A little wicket opened. Clyde held up his card for the man behind to see.

Bolts grated; the door opened. Clyde Burke passed through a small room. The chatter of people; the clicking of chips — both greeted his ears as he entered a long and well-thronged room.

The place was a gambling hall. The patrons were dressed in evening clothes. Women as well as men were gathered about two roulette tables where croupiers were spinning the wheels and raking in stacks of chips.

The near end of the room was lined with slot machines which took coins of half-dollar size. Several players were squandering their cash in these devices. Along the other walls were little curtained booths to which busy waiters were carrying trays laden with food and drinks.

There was a single opening at the right. This, Clyde knew, led to rooms where poker players gambled for high stakes. The office of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor, was located in that direction. Clyde, however, was chiefly interested in what was going on in the main gambling room.

The Shadow’s agent was quick to note that most of the players were foreigners, with Spanish Americans predominating. This was something that he had observed on previous visits.

Clyde knew that the Club Rivoli catered chiefly to legations and visitors from other lands. A Pan-American convention was beginning in Washington; it was only natural that many of the visitors had learned of the Club Rivoli.

Clyde made a particular study of the Americans who were present. Taking a vantage point between the tables, he studied his fellow countrymen one by one while he made a pretense of watching the roulette play.

WHILE Clyde was thus engaged, he became conscious of a soft, melodious whistling close beside him. The sound took on a symphonic trill. Clyde turned quickly to see a man in evening clothes standing a few feet away. He met the other’s gaze and recognized the suave face of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor of the Club Rivoli.

The recognition proved mutual. Ingliss smiled as he ceased his light trilling. He advanced and extended a hand which Clyde accepted. Ingliss, a tall, good-looking man in his middle forties, possessed a friendly personality that had accounted much for the success of his gambling club.

“Burke,” remarked Ingliss. “That’s the name, isn’t it? I gave you a card the last time you were here.”

“Right,” agreed Clyde. “Thought I’d drop in and watch the roulette roll. Like most newspapermen” — he was smiling wistfully — “I don’t have much to gamble.”

“Quite all right,” assured Ingliss. “My friends are welcome here to watch as well as to play. We want everyone to feel completely at home at the Club Rivoli.”

Conversation ended for the moment. Ingliss, watching with Clyde, began to trill a meditative tune. There was a charm about the soft music that came from the gambler’s lips. It was this habit of melody making that had given him the sobriquet of “Whistler.”

In fact, the tune was provocative of a soothing lull. Clyde Burke began to feel as he had felt on his other visits to the Club Rivoli: that the place was a mere pleasure resort which had no connection with any other enterprise. He turned to speak again to Whistler Ingliss. At that moment, there was an interruption. An attendant approached the proprietor and handed him a small envelope.

“What’s this?” inquired Whistler.

“Card inside, sir,” explained the attendant. “A gentleman came to see you — by the side entrance. He sent this in to you.”

Clyde watched warily while Whistler opened the envelope. He saw a sudden frown upon the gambler’s brow as Whistler removed and read the card. Clyde glanced away as Whistler raised his head.

From the corner of his eye, The Shadow’s agent caught Whistler’s quick look. Ingliss, apparently, wanted to know if his momentary discomposure had been noticed.

Seeing no indication on Clyde’s part, Whistler calmly turned to the attendant. He began to tear the card and envelope into small bits which he dropped in his pocket. He told the attendant:

“Ask the gentleman into the office. I’ll drop in there to talk with him.”

The attendant left. Resuming his trill, Whistler Ingliss strolled from table to table. He had adopted a perfect poker face. He showed no signs of hurry. Glancing toward Clyde Burke, Whistler noticed that the reporter was looking at the other table. Strolling away, Whistler headed for the archway and passed slowly into the hall beyond.

THE gambler descended a short flight of steps. Here a passage went off to the right. Two doors — one in each passage — indicated Whistler’s office. The gambler opened the one from the central passage. He entered a neatly furnished room. Seated beyond a desk was a languid-looking man; he rose to display his lankiness as Whistler Ingliss entered. The gambler closed the door.

“Sit down, Dolband,” suggested Ingliss, in a cordial tone. As the visitor obeyed, Ingliss took his own chair and brought out a box of cigars. “Have a real Havana and tell me what’s the trouble. This is kind of unusual — a secret-service operative dropping in on me.”

Dolband took a cigar. Whistler Ingliss eyed him as he bit the end. The gambler had met Carl Dolband in the past. He knew the secret-service operative to be a cagey individual. The flicker of Dolband’s match showed a white, intuitive face.

“Want to look at the cash in my till?” quizzed Whistler, in a crafty tone. “I’ve got plenty of mazuma — but I’ll bet you won’t find a queer bill in it—”

“I’m not bothering counterfeiters,” interposed Dolband. “There’s something else I want to talk about, Ingliss.”

The gambler assumed a perplexed attitude. Carl Dolband, leaning back in his chair, spent a full minute in studying Whistler’s face. Then, satisfied, he began to speak in a confidential tone.

“How’s business?” was his question. “Good receipts? Lots of people coming in and out?”

“Take a look,” returned Whistler, with a smile, as he pulled a ledger from a desk drawer. “If it’s income tax you’re checking on, this will satisfy you. I keep the books on the level.”

“Don’t worry about that,” rejoined Dolband, as he studied the entries in the ledger. “Here — this satisfies me. Put the book away. The money is coming in all right — that’s all I wanted to know.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Whistler, with a puzzled laugh.

“I just wanted to be sure,” stated Dolband, “that your joint was bringing in the gravy. I see that it is. So far as your gambling racket is concerned, that’s a matter for the State authorities. So far as I’m concerned, I wanted to make sure that your place was doing so well that you’d like to keep it going. The reason I say that is because I want your cooperation on a little matter.”

“You mean—” Whistler paused with well-feigned indignation.

“A shakedown?” Dolband laughed as he completed the words that appeared to be on Whistler’s tongue. “Not a bit of it. I don’t work that way, Ingliss. I’m after other game — and I want to know what you know about it. Straight. Do you get me?”

“Spill it, Dolband,” urged Ingliss. “Say — if there’s anything I can do to help you on a job—”

“You can,” interrupted Dolband. “That’s why I’m going to give you the exact lay. Listen, Ingliss: I’m on the trail of a fellow who disappeared last night — a man named Glade Tromboll. Did you ever hear of him?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Whistler shook his head. “I’d know the name if I’d heard it, Dolband. Who is Tromboll?”

“A government employee,” returned Dolband cautiously. “One who happened to have some important papers on him. South American correspondence, Ingliss. There’s a lot of South Americans come in here, aren’t there?”

“Plenty of them.”

“Not only that. Glade Tromboll, the man who is missing, was last seen just before he came to the Club Rivoli.”

“Last night?”

“Last night.”

“I don’t think he could have come here, Dolband.” Whistler again shook his head as he spoke. “No one gets in here without a card. If this fellow Tromboll cleared town, he must have done it before he headed for the Club Rivoli. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Unless someone brought him in. I give that privilege with guest cards.”

“Listen, Ingliss.” Dolband’s tone was severe. “I’ve got every reason to suppose that Glade Tromboll was here last night. It’s up to you to prove to the contrary. I want a close check-up — and you’ve got to get it for me.”

“If I fail?”

“It may be bad for you. I’m trying to be friendly, Ingliss, but I’ve got to report what I find. If you can convince me that Tromboll wasn’t here, I won’t mention your place when I report. If he was here, find out what became of him. That will keep you in right.

“But a halfway answer won’t help you or me. I’ve traced Glade Tromboll to this club. I’m going to trace him beyond. What can you do to help me — especially when you know that you may be in a fix if you can’t aid the cause?”

“Hm-m-m.” Whistler became speculative. “Have you got a description of this fellow Tromboll?”

Dolband tossed a photograph upon the desk. Whistler examined it and shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t remember ever seeing this fellow,” he remarked. “If he was out here last night, though, I’ll find it out. Things will ease off in the roulette room. Then I can talk to the attendants, one by one.”

“Do you want me to be here?”

“Better not. Listen, Dolband, I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ve got a good thing here; I don’t want it spoiled. You’re sure, though” — Whistler paused anxiously — “that you haven’t mentioned the Club Rivoli to anyone—”

“To no one,” interposed Dolband. “I’m working on my own, Ingliss.”

“That’s good. Where can I reach you?”

“Hotel Starlett.”

“All right. Wait here about five minutes — until I’m back in the roulette room. Then stroll out by the side door you came in. By midnight, I’ll be able to tell you all I can. If this mug” — Whistler had picked up the photograph and was pointing at it — “was here last night, I’ll know it!”

Whistler turned and walked from the office. He closed the door behind him. He strolled toward the steps that led up to the roulette room. He was trilling a familiar tune as he walked along.

Whistler stopped moving just after he gained the roulette room. His whistle, however, trilled a trifle more loudly. The tune changed.

CLYDE BURKE, eyeing the doorway where Whistler stood, saw a motion at one of the curtained booths not more than ten feet from the spot that Whistler had chosen. Two men in tuxedos stepped out. Clyde could see the hardness of their faces. He knew the pair for ruffians.

Indifferently, the two men strolled past Whistler. The gambler did not appear to notice them. The two men went through the doorway that led to the cardrooms and to the office. Another pair — in appearance they matched the first duo — came from a second booth.

Whistler Ingliss was strolling to the roulette tables. He passed within a few feet of Clyde Burke. Whistler’s tune had lessened; it still carried an intriguing obbligato. The men who had gone through the doorway did not return.

Minutes passed. Clyde Burke, feeling conspicuous, approached a roulette table. He took his stand close to the spot where Whistler Ingliss, now silent, was watching the play. Clyde produced a small roll of bills and joined the game. His luck was alternating.

Whistler Ingliss had strolled away. The men had not returned from the direction in which they had gone, although fully a half hour had passed. Clyde decided that they must have left the Club Rivoli by the side entrance.

Clyde left by the front. He called a taxi that was outside. Riding back to Washington, The Shadow’s agent stared from the window. Almost unseeing, he viewed the glow about the dome of the capitol building; with no impression he gazed toward the Washington Monument, which towered fingerlike amid its encircling illumination.

Beating through Clyde’s brain was the lilt of that final melody that had come from the lips of Whistler Ingliss. Somehow, Clyde Burke attached significance to that tune which had throbbed simultaneously with the appearance and departure of four sturdy ruffians.

Clyde Burke vainly sought the answer. He had gained an inkling of the truth. The whistled tune had been a signal, of that Clyde felt certain; but the purpose had escaped him. He did not know that Whistler Ingliss, with his trilling lilt, had signed a death warrant for Carl Dolband of the secret service!