The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER IV THE SHADOW HEARS

ON the following evening, a tall, keen-faced man arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Starlett. A bell boy took his bags. The arrival registered as Henry Arnaud and asked for a room that fronted on the side toward The Mall. He was given Room 817.

When he reached his room, Henry Arnaud tipped the bell boy. He placed his suitcase upon the bed. A thin smile appeared upon lips that were firm beneath a hawklike nose. As soon as the bell boy was gone, Henry Arnaud turned out the light.

The room had French windows that opened on a balcony. Arnaud approached them in the darkness and drew the two sections inward. A dim glow came from the city; the rolling of traffic sounded from the street below. Moving stealthily through the semidarkness of the room, Arnaud reached the spot where he had placed the suitcase.

There was motion in the gloom. Black cloth swung like a shroud above a head. Something swished as a black-cloaked figure approached the balcony. A tall, silhouetted form appeared within the rail; its shape was no more than a vague outline of a broad-brimmed hat above a spreading cloak.

The Shadow had come to Washington. From the balcony on the eighth floor of the Hotel Starlett, he was staring across the open spaces toward the tremendous obelisk which forms the most conspicuous landmark in the national capital — the Washington Monument.

Shrouded in the darkness of the balcony, The Shadow turned his keen gaze directly upward. The balcony above seemed to lure him to a test. Long arms stretched upward; gloved hands gripped the projection. Invisible against the darkened brick front of the hotel, The Shadow swung outward, high above the street. His gripping arms were firm; his strong arms drew his lithe body toward the objective. A dozen seconds later, The Shadow was on the ninth-floor balcony.

A projecting cornice formed a line between this balcony and the next. The same arrangement continued along the entire wall of the building. Pressing close to the wall, The Shadow swung over the rail. With firm, sidewise step, he moved to the next balcony. He crossed it and continued to the balcony beyond. There his progress ceased.

A light showed beyond the curtains of the French windows. The Shadow’s hand tested the barrier. Inch by inch the windows spread until they formed a crevice through which peering eyes could see.

The Shadow spied a rotund, baldheaded man seated at a writing desk. Beside this individual was an opened briefcase. A stack of papers were at the man’s right hand.

THE SHADOW knew the identity of this man. That was why The Shadow had chosen to register at the Hotel Starlett, under the name of Henry Arnaud. The man at the writing table was Fulton Fourrier, a divisional chief of the secret service.

In response to Clyde Burke’s report, The Shadow had come to Washington. Knowing, through Clyde’s statement of Glade Tromboll’s disappearance that this was a case for the secret service, The Shadow had chosen to watch the man to whom operatives would report.

Long minutes passed. The Shadow’s vigil went unrewarded until a telephone rang beside the writing table. Fourrier answered it. The Shadow heard him give instructions to come up to the room. The Shadow waited.

There was a rap a short while later. Fourrier arose and waddled to the door. He opened it to admit a stocky, heavyset man whose stolid countenance announced him as one who dealt with decisive action.

A soft, almost inaudible laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. The watching phantom at the window had expected the very man who had appeared. The stocky individual was Vic Marquette, secret-service operative.

Fourrier was brusque as he waved his visitor to a chair. The chief finished his reports; then wheeled and spoke to Marquette.

The Shadow viewed their profiles: Fourrier, though pudgy-nosed and concave in features, had a firm-set jaw; Marquette showed a straight line from forehead to jaw.

Words came to The Shadow’s ears; it did not matter when the distant rumble of a passing vehicle drowned them. The Shadow’s eyes were upon moving lips, reading them as plainly as though they had been speaking close beside him.

“So you haven’t heard from Dolband?” Marquette was anxious in his question.

“No,” returned Fourrier soberly. “I don’t like it. He should have reported tonight. So far as I can learn, he did not return to the hotel last night.”

“Carl should have reported, chief.”

“I know it.” Fourrier arose to his feet and stood with arms akimbo. “Vic, I shouldn’t have put Dolband on that Tromboll case. I’m afraid I know what has happened to him.”

“You mean—”

“The same thing that happened to Tromboll, whatever that is. The same that happened to the others. We haven’t found a trace of any of them. There’s murder in the wind, Vic.

“I gave Dolband carte blanche. I told him to work alone until he got something. That’s where I made my mistake — sending Dolband out alone. Poor fellow; I’m afraid he’s gone, Vic. It was a great mistake — sending him alone.”

“Who should you have sent with him, chief?”

“No one.”

“I don’t quite get you, chief. You say first that you shouldn’t have sent Carl alone — then you say that you shouldn’t have sent anyone along with him—”

“I mean,” interposed Fourrier soberly, “that I should not have sent Carl Dolband at all. It was a one-man job and he was the wrong man. I used Carl because he was a smooth operative. I know now that that was a mistake.

“This job requires one man, and it wants a chap who can take care of whatever comes along. There’s just one man for it” — Fourrier paused emphatically — “and you’re that man, Vic!”

THE operative stared. Vic Marquette had not expected this assignment. He was, in a sense, new to work in Washington.

Vic had dealt with the toughest of cases. He had landed Reds and counterfeiters. The work of secret assassins who struck from under cover was something that fazed him for the moment. Fulton Fourrier seemed to read the operative’s thoughts.

“It worries you, doesn’t it, Vic?” questioned the divisional chief. “Well, don’t let it throw you, old man. You’ve dealt with cutthroats before. They’re all alike — no matter how smooth they seem. At the same time, don’t forget that it’s a big job.

“You’ve got a great record, Vic. You’ve tackled them alone, out in the sticks, when all the odds were against you. But I’ll tell you something right now: here in Washington, with thousands of people about you, with police as well as secret-service men to aid you, you’re going to be in the greatest danger you’ve ever faced.

“We’ve linked five cases. Bolero — Piscano — both of them were South American attaches. Their papers went with them. Rexton and Clifford — like Tromboll — were Americans. But all of them had documents pertaining to South America. It’s part of the same plot — and we can’t even guess what it is.”

“Espionage,” suggested Vic Marquette.

“It looks like it,” admitted Fourrier. “Yet where’s the game? Some important documents were stolen; but murder seems an overstrong measure to obtain them. The people behind this game are using measures that would have been alarming even during the World War!

“I’ll tell you the nature of those stolen papers. They consisted chiefly of correspondence between South American ambassadors, our state department and the official governments of the countries involved. Singly, not one document is worth a picayune. Assembled, they might mean calamity. That’s why we know that the game is one and the same.

“Who’s behind it? Don’t ask me. I can only tell you that they’re not through yet. If they’re springing something, they’ll have to get more than they have. If I cut loose to stop them, they’ll close up like clams. The game will wait.

“That’s why it’s a one-man job. Dolband was after it in the right way. He was due to get results. They got him instead. That’s why it’s your job, Vic. Frankly, I expect you to blunder. Dolband must have blundered. Any man I put on the job will blunder. You’re the one man who can get yourself out of a jam.”

Fourrier paused. He turned toward the French windows. He seemed to notice that they were ajar. He moved in that direction to close them.

THE SHADOW did not stir. Fourrier changed his mind as he neared the windows. He swung and pointed directly at Vic Marquette.

“Vic,” he declared solemnly, “any man who goes into this is likely to get himself into a terrible situation. The man who gets into it — and out of it — will bring back the goods on the people we want.

“I’m giving you the same lead I gave Dolband. Get to the spots where you’re liable to find South Americans. Not around the embassies, but elsewhere. That’s how Dolband started. He never came back with his report. Is that sufficient?”

“That’s plenty, chief,” asserted Marquette, rising. “Dolband talked Spanish; so do I. I’ll stay at the Hotel Darma, where I am now. You’ll get my reports.”

“I’m counting on you, Vic,” nodded Fourrier. “Let me know any data you may need. I’ll be ready to help out.”

As Vic Marquette turned toward the door, Fourrier swung toward the French windows. He pressed the barriers tightly shut. He saw nothing amid the blackness beyond.

As the windows clicked, a form moved upon the balcony. It rose over the edge, followed the cornice, then swung from the edge of a balcony beyond. Swaying outward; then in to the wall, The Shadow loosed his hold. He dropped silently upon the balcony outside of Room 817.

A soft laugh sounded from the windows of the room which Henry Arnaud had taken. A weird, whispered tone, that laugh was carried through the cool night air. The strange mirth, restrained in volume, was as prophetic as the words of Fulton Fourrier.

Vic Marquette had started on a dangerous task. Alone, he was sallying forth to seek the answer to six mysterious deaths. He was taking up the task in which Carl Dolband had failed.

Yet in his task, Vic Marquette would not be alone. Paralleling the efforts of the secret-service operative would be another investigator whose ways would remain unseen.

The Shadow, too, had taken instructions from Fulton Fourrier. Invisible investigator of the night, the black-garbed sleuth was faring forth in search of insidious crime!