The Embassy Murders

CHAPTER IX MARQUETTE REPORTS

ON the evening following the affray on the Virginia speedway, Vic Marquette appeared in the lobby of the Hotel Starlett. The secret-service operative approached a room telephone and called Fulton Fourrier.

Vic Marquette had a habit of noticing people everywhere he went. He also possessed the peculiar ability of spotting those who seemed to be worthwhile watching. He had used this propensity at the Club Rivoli when he had observed Alvarez Menzone. He looked about him tonight, as he passed through the lobby of the Starlett.

On this occasion, however, Vic’s ability failed him. He saw no one in the lobby who impressed him as important. He stared squarely at a tall, thin-faced man whose hawklike nose and keen eyes gave him a dignified expression. But Vic saw nothing about that individual to make a second look necessary.

The personage whom Vic Marquette passed by, was the guest who had registered as Henry Arnaud. He was located in the lobby for one definite purpose: to await the appearance of Vic Marquette.

As soon as the secret-service operative had taken one elevator, Arnaud arose and entered another. Alighting at the eighth floor, he moved swiftly to his room. In the darkness, a black cloak swished. A weird, shrouded figure appeared upon the balcony and began its precipitous and sidewise ascent to the outside of Fourrier’s window.

Henry Arnaud had again become The Shadow. Crouched on Fourrier’s balcony, his gloved hands eased the trifling space that he needed between the doorlike halves of the French window. Peering keenly through the crevice, The Shadow again became a silent listener to what was passing between Vic Marquette and his chief.

MARQUETTE was making his report. Fourrier, seated sidewise at the writing table, was ready with his questions. The Shadow took in every word.

“The Club Rivoli,” remarked Marquette. “Yes — I was there. I spotted a South American.”

“Not Lito Carraza?”

“No. That’s where I slipped up, chief. The fellow I picked is named Alvarez Menzone. He made friends with a young chap named Maurice Twindell. I trailed the pair to the apartment where Menzone is living — Athena Court. Twindell went on; Menzone turned in.”

“And all this while,” interposed Fourrier sourly, “crime was brewing out at the Club Rivoli. You’ve read the newspapers” — Fourrier picked up a journal and tapped it — “and you know what happened there. They tried to get Lito Carraza, an attache who had important legation correspondence on his person. He’s the man you should have been watching.”

“I know it,” admitted Marquette. “I might have been watching him — if I’d seen him. I picked another man, chief, and I think I’ve got a lead.”

“Let us discuss Carraza first,” decided Fourrier. “According to the newspapers, he was attacked by gangsters, purely as a holdup proposition. Carraza was driving an expensive car. He was coming from the Club Rivoli. They tried to kill him, but some other persons opened fire. The one explanation seems to be that gangsters battled among themselves.

“The first people to arrive were two men: a taxi driver and his passenger, a news-bureau man named Clyde Burke. They took Carraza to a hospital. He refused to talk.

“That’s why the real meat of the story was suppressed. The legation informed me of what had happened. I went over there; I kept the facts out of print and I listed them for reference. Here they are:

“Carraza was dining with a woman named Anita Debronne. He left her at the Club Rivoli. She evidently induced him to go there so that he would have to return alone along the speedway. I sent two men out to the Club Rivoli. They learned that Anita Debronne was known there; that she had been seen to leave shortly after Carraza’s departure.”

Vic Marquette stared. This was news to him. He realized now why Fourrier was disgruntled. Had Vic been on the job at the Club Rivoli, the sequel to last night’s happenings might have been different.

“So here is the story,” resumed Fourrier. “I’ve put more men to work. One is looking for Anita Debronne. Two others are watching the Club Rivoli. If that’s where attaches have been going before they disappear, we’re going to put a stop to it.”

“You’re not closing the place?”

“No. We’re crimping it — that’s all. We’ve got a lead on the Debronne woman. We’ve found a crew of dead mobsters. But we’re no closer home than we were before.”

“Thanks to me,” observed Vic moodily.

“Don’t take what I have said as a reprimand,” declared Fourrier, in an easier tone. “On the contrary, Marquette, I am highly pleased with what you have accomplished.”

Vic looked up questioningly.

“There is no doubt,” announced Fourrier, “about one thing. You picked the Club Rivoli as a starting point. That’s where trouble was waiting for Lito Carraza. I want you to keep on from there. I think you’re the man who can trail it farther.

“I’ve had to put other men on the case. It’s obvious that the attempt on Carraza’s life is linked with the disappearances that we’ve been trying to trace. This is still your job; the other operatives are covering you. Find some new clews. Go anywhere — everywhere. Back to the Club Rivoli — to legations — wherever you choose. I’ll fix all that’s needed. But bring in results.”

“Thanks, chief,” said Marquette. “You can count on me. I’ll follow the same tactics that I tried last night. All these cases involved South American activities. I’m watching South Americans. That’s why I picked Alvarez Menzone.”

“The wrong man—”

“I’m not sure about that. He’s an odd customer. He left the Club Rivoli right while his luck was running good. I followed him last night. I dropped around at the apartment house this afternoon.”

“What did you find out?”

“Nothing. Menzone has a Filipino servant — evidently one whom he hired here in Washington. The servant is dumb. Menzone was not at home.”

“Yet you still think that he may figure in this?”

“I’d like to know more about him.”

“That’s simple. I’ll get any information that’s available. In the meantime, don’t waste too much time on the man. Find others that may appear suspicious. We’ll trace them all down.”

“That’s just what I intend to do, chief. At the same time, I’m going to keep my eyes open for this fellow Menzone. If he crosses my path, I’ll give him more than just a once-over.”

THERE was a pause. Fourrier was thinking. A frown appeared upon the divisional chief’s forehead.

“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” declared Fourrier. “That fight last night was a mighty brief one. It left Carraza bewildered. All that he can remember was gunfire — from two sides. Then he heard a car come driving up — brakes grinding — more shots. He was clipped in the shoulder; but in the meantime, his rescuers mopped up the entire crew that had him trapped.

“The car must have made a quick getaway. Carraza heard it drive off; and he heard something else, too. He says he heard a laugh — a weird laugh — one that he will never forget. Some of these South Americans are superstitious, but when Carraza told me about that laugh, I knew he meant it—”

Fourrier paused. He looked with alarm toward Vic Marquette. The operative was staring at his superior; his face was rigid.

“What’s the matter?” questioned Fourrier. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I haven’t seen one,” responded Vic, in an awed tone. “I’ve just heard of one.”

“Heard of one? From whom?”

“From you. That laugh you mentioned. Chief, I know what it meant. You’re right that this affair is getting big. I know who it was who washed out that crew of mobsmen.”

“Are you going to tell me it was a ghost?”

“The next thing to it. Chief, it was The Shadow who got those mobsters. He’s the only person who could have done a job like that.”

“The Shadow?”

Vic Marquette smiled grimly. He nodded; then began his explanation. Fulton Fourrier listened half doubtingly. His interest increased as Marquette continued.

“They know about The Shadow in New York,” declared Marquette. “Who he is — what he is — that’s a mystery. The point is that The Shadow battles crooks. The underworld is afraid of him — more than they are the police.”

“I’ve heard something of it,” admitted Fourrier, in a tone of recollection. “But this isn’t New York.”

“It’s a case involving gangsters.”

“Yes. You’re right on that. But the theory ends there, Marquette. If this fighter you call The Shadow, is out to end gang rule, he’s accomplished what he’s after. Give him credit for wiping out that ugly band. But that ends his part.”

“Not a bit of it.” Vic’s tone was emphatic. “Chief, you can believe me or not when I tell you that The Shadow has played his part in putting down some of the greatest crime that this country has ever known.

“I’ve taken credit for some mighty big jobs. I’ll tell you, chief, that I’d never have come through some of them if it hadn’t been for The Shadow. He’s pulled me out of some tight jams.”

“And yet” — Fourrier’s tone was incredulous — “you don’t know who he is?”

“I’ve seen him.” Vic was speaking in a tone of serious recollection. “I’ve heard his laugh. He is a ghost — The Shadow — a phantom completely cloaked in black. He moves with incredible swiftness. He strikes without mercy. He leaves as he comes. You can’t trace him, chief.”

Fourrier’s brow was wrinkled. Vic noted his chief’s expression. He realized that Fourrier doubted these statements; that the chief was worried about his operative’s sanity.

“I’m not dreaming,” asserted Marquette, as he rose to his feet. “I’m telling you of things I’ve witnessed, under unbelievable circumstances. The Shadow is a power; and he fights for justice. If he is here in Washington, it’s not to handle a bunch of imported gangsters and then quit.

“It looks to me like The Shadow was in this deal. He has agents, and I’m mighty sure I know who one of them is. Maybe I’ll get a line on The Shadow while I’m working on this case. If I do, it’s going to help.

“Chief, the break is coming. I’m convinced of it; and you can count on me. I’m starting out tonight with more confidence than I’ve ever had — and if you want the reason, I’ll give it to you. It’s because Lito Carraza heard that laugh out on the speedway.”

Fulton Fourrier smiled indulgently. Marquette’s determination had put his chief’s mind at ease. Fourrier followed Vic to the door; there, he clapped his operative on the shoulder.

“I don’t disbelieve you, Marquette,” he declared. “Your record shows what you have done; and you wouldn’t take credit from yourself if you weren’t convinced that it belonged elsewhere. If you’ve received aid from some mysterious source and think you’re going to get it again, so much the better.

“Don’t worry too much about Alvarez Menzone. I’ll look up the fellow’s record. And don’t bank too much on The Shadow. Maybe you have a trend toward exaggerating his prowess.

“Get results. I’m counting on you. We’re going to get to the bottom of this plot that has taken off six men and failed only when it struck the seventh.”

Vic nodded his agreement. He went out through the door. Fulton Fourrier closed the portal, then turned back to his writing table, shaking his head in new doubt. It was evident that Vic Marquette’s talk of The Shadow had not been entirely convincing.

AT the writing table, Fulton Fourrier felt uneasy. He glanced back over his shoulder. He noted that the French windows were ajar. He went and closed them.

For one brief second, while his hands were upon the window frames, Fulton Fourrier was face to face with the very being whose existence he doubted!

Beyond those windows stood the black-garbed being of whom Vic Marquette had spoken. Fourrier, however, did not see the sable-hued form. Merged with outer darkness, The Shadow was a creature invisible.

Fourrier returned to the writing table. As he sat down, he started as a surprising echo reached his ears. It seemed like the faint, hollow tone of a whispered laugh. It reminded him of the mockery which Lito Carraza had described; of the mirth which Vic Marquette had corroborated.

Fulton Fourrier sat motionless. At last, he shrugged his shoulders. He attributed that weird sound to a touch of imagination. He decided to forget it.

Yet, as he studied report sheets, the chief could not shake off that haunting sound. It persisted as a chilling recollection.

Small wonder! That was a laugh which no one could forget. Fulton Fourrier, though he did not realize the truth, had heard the laugh of The Shadow!