The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER VI AGENTS OF MURDER

THE brilliance of early evening had come anew to Washington. Darvin Rochelle’s headquarters showed somber in the gloom of its side street when a young man, strolling from the bright lights, ascended the steps of the mansion.

He was evidently an expected visitor, for the door swung open as he arrived. The servant who served as usher bowed and indicated the marble stairs. The young man ascended. He pressed a button at the entrance to the anteroom.

A minute passed. The door popped open. Darvin Rochelle, leaning upon his cane, smiled a cheery greeting as he beheld the visitor.

“Maurice Twindell!” exclaimed the man with the limp. “Come in my friend. Come in.”

Rochelle led the way into the office. He took his place behind the desk. The young man seated himself at the side.

In the light of the office, Maurice Twindell presented a gentlemanly appearance. His evening clothes were faultless. His face, friendly in appearance, was a handsome one. His only fault was a shiftiness of gaze — a habit which he seemed anxious to overcome.

“Tonight,” began Rochelle in a quiet, but emphatic tone, “I want you to go out to the Club Rivoli. Play the part of a habitue of the place. That is all.”

“There is no one tonight?”

“Yes.” Rochelle smiled. “There will be a victim. I have arranged, however, for Anita Debronne to take care of him. An attache of a South American legation.”

Rochelle paused to smile.

“You have done your share, Maurice,” he said reflectively. “Bolero, Rexton, and Tromboll. Anita, however, has figured in only two cases: those of Piscano and Clifford. It is her turn again tonight.”

“Who is the victim?”

“A young chap named Lito Carraza. Anita arranged to meet him early. Hence he has committed the folly of not going back to his embassy. He will have papers which he was supposed to copy. He does not know their value. That is fortunate.

“Tonight, Maurice, I want you to be cordial to any Spanish-Americans whom you may chance to meet. There will be convention delegates at the Club Rivoli. Make friends with any who may be of use.”

The telephone rang as Rochelle completed his statement. Rochelle picked up the instrument. He listened to words that came through the receiver; then answered in his odd language.

“Key zay kire golo?” His tone was questioning. “Sovo… Fee… Kay zay rike. Kay deek rema… Fee. Alk fare kay ake robole gomo.”

Rochelle hung up the receiver. He turned to Twindell, who put a casual question, pointing to the telephone as he spoke.

“Whistler Ingliss?” inquired Twindell.

“Yes,” returned Rochelle. “Anita is out at the Club Rivoli. I told Whistler you would be there soon. Remember what I have told you, Twindell. Keep your eyes open at the Rivoli. So far, I have confined our work to definite tasks. Now, with the goal in sight, we may need special information; we may also be able to use other aids.”

ROCHELLE was tapping thoughtfully upon the table. His conversation with Whistler Ingliss had brought a sober expression to his face.

“A few nights ago,” remarked Rochelle, “Whistler was forced to dispose of a troublesome visitor. The man was a secret-service operative. He came to the Club Rivoli to question Whistler regarding Glade Tromboll.”

Maurice Twindell started in momentary alarm. He regained his composure and stared hard at Rochelle.

“Bugs Ritler was at the Club Rivoli,” resumed Rochelle, “with members of his crew. Whistler gave Bugs the signal. Bugs did the rest. Whistler called me afterward, to tell me how he had acted. I commended him upon his promptness.

“That is why I phoned you, Maurice, and told you, in Agro, to stay away from here until this evening. The fact that a secret-service man had gotten as far as the Club Rivoli made it advisable for us to be cautious.

“However, there has been no recurrence. Whistler is sure that Dolband — the secret-service man — was working on his own. If another investigator should take up the trail, Whistler may be forced to act again.

“So be wary, Maurice. Call me before you visit. Use Agro as usual; and avoid mention of names over the wire. Initials — in Agro — of those whom we know will suffice; for strangers, spell the names in Agro letters.”

Rochelle opened a drawer as he finished speaking. He pulled a stack of bills into view and tossed the money to Twindell. The young man’s face gleamed. There was a thousand dollars in the bundle.

“Keep track of any losses if you play roulette,” reminded Rochelle. “I shall make them good, as usual. If you win — keep the profits for yourself. But remember — do not play too heavily. It would not look well.”

Maurice Twindell nodded as he pocketed the money. An avaricious smile appeared upon the young man’s face. Rochelle noted it and repressed a smile of his own.

He knew Twindell’s weakness. He had bought this man as he had bought others. Rochelle indulged in a chuckle as the door of the anteroom closed behind the departing form of Maurice Twindell.

Outside of Rochelle’s mansion, Maurice Twindell strolled to the nearest avenue. There he hailed a taxicab. He ordered the driver to take him to the Club Rivoli, across the Potomac. The cab rolled along. Twindell, lighting a cigarette, stared from the window as the cab passed the Hotel Starlett.

ODDLY, a taxi parked close to that hotel had just picked up a passenger for the same destination that Twindell had chosen. The driver of the second vehicle, however, had not been hailed from the street.

His first inkling that he had a passenger came when a voice spoke quietly from the rear seat of the parked cab. A whispered monotone ordered the taximan to drive over the Potomac to the Club Rivoli.

The driver started his cab. He wondered, as he drove along, how that passenger had entered without his hearing. The cab driver had been quite alert, watching for possible passengers. Had he known the identity of the fare who occupied his cab, he might have gained the explanation.

The passenger was The Shadow. He, too, had chosen the Club Rivoli as his objective. The Shadow had divined the truth of Carl Dolband’s disappearance. It had not taken him long to gain that trail.

Since his arrival in Washington, The Shadow had received a report from Clyde Burke. It had told of mysterious happenings which Clyde had observed at the Club Rivoli. The Shadow had spotted hidden crime.

Coupled to this was the talk that The Shadow had overheard between Vic Marquette and Fulton Fourrier. Clyde’s report of a special visitor to see Whistler Ingliss; the departure of men who looked like thugs — these had been sufficient for The Shadow to assume that Carl Dolband had met with misfortune at the gay night club across the Potomac.

Moreover, the Club Rivoli was a logical spot. It was a meeting place that attracted many South Americans. This was not the first visit that The Shadow was making to the gambling hall run by Whistler Ingliss. He had traveled to the Club Rivoli each night since his arrival in Washington.

The Shadow’s cab made a rapid trip. The driver pulled up near the front door of the Club Rivoli. A hand came through the partition and tendered a bill. The driver took it and began to make change. When he looked for his passenger, he found the cab empty.

Perplexed, the driver scratched his head; then pocketed the bill that he had received and started the trip back to Washington.

As the cab swerved in the driveway, its headlights threw a beam toward a walk that led to the little used side entrance of the Club Rivoli. Long streaks of shaded blackness showed in the gleam. The driver did not notice them. Mere shadows did not interest him.

When the cab had passed, however, there was motion at the spot where the driver had viewed nothing but blackened streaks. There was a slight swish in the darkness. A being who moved with invisible stealth was making his way to the side entrance of the Club Rivoli.

A SPECTRAL form reached a locked doorway. A slight click marked The Shadow’s prying efforts with a pick. The door opened. The Shadow entered the little side passage that led by the office which Whistler Ingliss used.

Reaching the secluded door of the office, The Shadow performed another silent operation with the pick. The door opened inward, by inches. Peering eyes gazed into the lighted office. The room was empty. The door closed. The Shadow moved toward the main passage.

With ghostly strides, the mysterious visitant ascended the short flight of steps. He paused by a niche just before he reached the roulette room. Here, totally unseen, he watched, his tall, black-garbed form merged with the darkness of the niche.

The roulette room was well thronged. Yet The Shadow, with piercing gaze, singled out each person one by one.

He spied Whistler Ingliss, standing near a roulette table. Beyond, he saw Clyde Burke. The newspaperman was playing a cautious game of roulette.

Farther away, The Shadow observed a third man. It was Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative was wearing a tuxedo. He was playing the part of a chance visitor to the Club Rivoli. A soft laugh came in an almost inaudible whisper from The Shadow’s hidden lips.

Vic Marquette was playing a wise game. He was one operative who was not known in Washington. He had not made the blunder of announcing himself to Whistler Ingliss. Like Carl Dolband, Vic Marquette had picked the Club Rivoli as a spot to watch; but he was following a course that showed discretion.

New patrons were entering the club. The Shadow spotted them with steady gaze. One was a young man in faultless evening attire. It was Maurice Twindell. The Shadow’s eye followed the direction of Twindell’s gaze. He saw the young man stare toward Whistler Ingliss; he caught the gambler’s return glance. That was all.

Then, with a quick turn of direction that seemed intuitive, The Shadow stared toward a booth on the other side of the room. A waiter was approaching with a tray that held bottles and glasses.

A curtain opened; The Shadow sighted two persons within. One was a woman, whose lighted cigarette formed a white streak before her handsome, dark-complexioned face. The other was a young man whose sallow skin and heavy black mustache identified him as a South American.

Once again, The Shadow caught a momentary exchange of glances. The woman’s gaze went toward Whistler Ingliss. The gambler gave a nod that was barely discernible.

The Shadow had spotted Anita Debronne, the second of Darvin Rochelle’s agents. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. It stilled as Whistler Ingliss came across the roulette room, heading for the passage in which The Shadow stood. The gambler passed within two feet of the spot where the lurking watcher waited unseen. He continued toward his office.

The Shadow followed. Whistler had entered the office through the door from the main passage. The Shadow took the other way. He softly opened the side door and peered into the office. Whistler was seated at his desk, going over accounts. The Shadow watched.

Evidently, Whistler was here to stay a while. The gambler did not know that he was under observation. He had no reason to be acting in other than natural fashion.

A clock on the wall beyond Whistler’s desk showed twenty-five minutes after nine. Slowly, the door closed; its lock turned noiselessly. The Shadow’s form dwindled as it moved toward the end of the passage, to the door that led outside.

A FEW minutes later, Clyde Burke strolled from the roulette room. He, too, had noted the time; he had observed the big clock in the gambling hall. Clyde was following instructions — a mysterious message which had come to his office from The Shadow.

Posted at the Club Rivoli, Clyde was supposed to stroll to the front veranda at half hour intervals from nine o’clock on.

Reaching the spacious veranda, Clyde extracted a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Standing by a rail near the steps — beyond him darkness — Clyde felt positive that eyes were studying him. He looked about nervously; then thrust his hand into his pocket to obtain a match.

His fingers encountered an envelope!

Someone, from beyond the rail, had placed this message here during the brief interval between Clyde’s removal of the cigarette and his reaching for the match. The envelope could be but from one source: The Shadow.

Clyde opened the envelope. He removed a folded sheet of paper. He brought a match from his pocket, struck it to light his cigarette, and at the same time unfolded the message. By the glare of the match he saw coded lines which he read as easily as if they had been in ordinary script:

Vivid blue ink faded as Clyde finished his perusal of The Shadow’s message. Puffing his cigarette, The Shadow’s agent thrust the blank paper and envelope in his pocket, as he strolled back into the Club Rivoli.

Clyde Burke had observed all persons mentioned. He had suspected nothing regarding any of them. It had remained for the Shadow to discover the participants in the new drama of crime that was unfolding at the Club Rivoli.

The Shadow had departed — somewhere in the darkness. Clyde Burke, as his agent, was intrusted with the work of keeping observation until the master might return.

Agents of murder were at work. The hand of their hidden employer was concealed. The Shadow had found no lead to Darvin Rochelle. Yet The Shadow knew that any deeds of crime would begin here at the Club Rivoli.

It was his purpose to match the schemer’s craft with his own. Before this night was ended, The Shadow would deliver the first counterthrust to the plotting of an insidious supercrook.