Zemba

CHAPTER VI THE THIRD FACTOR

AT two o’clock the next afternoon, Eric Delka arrived at a building on the Quai d’Orsay. This structure, an Italianate building with sculptured facade, was the Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres, which Delka translated as the “Ministry of Foreign Affairs.” It was the place that Delka wanted; for he had an appointment in the French Foreign Office.

Entering, Delka made an inquiry for Lord Bixley. He was ushered to a large reception room. After a short wait, he was brought into an office occupied by half a dozen dignified men. Lord Bixley was among the group. He introduced Delka to a Frenchman who was seated behind a large desk. This was Monsieur Louis Brezanne, French Minister of Foreign Affairs.

Eyeing the others in the group, Delka noted that none were Frenchmen. He took one for an Italian; another for a Spaniard. He saw one man who looked like an American. While Delka was wondering about the mixed nationality of the throng, Monsieur Brezanne opened the conference.

“Messieurs,” began the foreign minister, “we have done wisely to consult together. All of you are in Paris for the same reason. Each of your respective governments had been victimized by this bold rascal, Gaspard Zemba.

“In the past, various war offices were disturbed by the activities of one Boris Danyar, who headed the spy syndicate in Helsingfors. Danyar and his agents stole valuable secrets from various countries and sold them in other lands. Unfortunately” — Brezanne smiled and tugged at his pointed mustache — “there are certain war offices that will buy military secrets from men of Danyar’s ilk.”

Slight smiles passed about the group, despite the seriousness of the conference. Every one caught Brezanne’s inference. Such forms of dealing with free-lance spies was by no means an uncommon practice. One, perhaps, in which some of these present had engaged.

“However,” resumed the French minister, “the suppression of Danyar was a result that pleased us all. The rogue was a nuisance. I, for one, was glad when his ring was broken. But instead of Danyar, we are suddenly confronted by a greater scoundrel. Gaspard Zemba!”

MONSIEUR BREZANNE paused and waved one hand to indicate the entire group.

“All of you!” he exclaimed. “Why are you here? Because of Zemba. From each of you, he has stolen some important secret, which he is willing to restore at a given price. All of you have received letters, stating the amount.

“From you, Lord Bixley, he demands one hundred thousand pounds, in return for your submarine plans. From you, Senor Alonzo, a similar sum, for stolen fortification diagrams. From you, Signor Chiozzi, he requests a double price, because he has sealed packets that describe Italy’s complete arrangements for army mobilization in the event of war.

“He wants similar amounts from the rest of you. The sum total of his demands is large. I note, Mr. Cleghorn, that you have been making a paper-and-pencil calculation. Have you added the entire amounts?”

A nod from the man whom Delka had picked as an American.

“Including the half a million that Zemba wants for the airplane plans which he stole from Washington,” said Cleghorn, “his total demand comes to four and a half million dollars. I have figured as closely as possible, in considering the rates of exchange. I have translated other nations’ currencies into dollars—”

“Then add another half million,” interposed the French minister, solemnly. “My government is in the same predicament as yours. Our plans for anti-aircraft defense have been taken.”

Astonished gasps came from the listeners. They had not known that the French war office had also suffered. Monsieur Brezanne spoke emphatically.

“That shows the cunning of Gaspard Zemba!” he exclaimed. “He has placed all of us in the same boat. He has specialized in the theft of sealed documents. He knows that he can gain the highest prices from those who understand their worth; namely, the very ones from whom he stole them.

“If we refuse to purchase back our secrets, he can behave as any ordinary spy. He can offer the stolen plans to other governments. He will easily find unscrupulous buyers. Of course, his gain will not be so great. That is why he prefers to treat with us.

“He holds the plans, here in Paris; moreover, he is guarding the traitors who abetted him. All except Willoughby Blythe, who was tardy in leaving his own country. Under ordinary circumstances, the proper course would be to hunt him down; but Zemba has blocked that move by the deed which I so recently mentioned; namely, by his theft of documents belonging to the French government.”

The foreign minister produced a letter from his desk.

“Here is Zemba’s ultimatum,” he stated. “The French government, like others, must pay his price. We must grant Zemba and his agents the privilege of leaving France. Should the police institute a city-wide search, sufficient enough to jeopardize Zemba’s present safety, he will decamp from Paris, carrying the documents with him.

“He gives us five days to decide upon an answer. If we have not molested him; if we will make the payment and guarantee his freedom, our valuables will be restored. If we do not answer before the end of the fifth day, Zemba will go his way. Our documents will be forever lost.”

A GLOOMY pause. Men were about to speak, almost ready to suggest a meeting of Zemba’s terms. Then, one by one, they shook their heads. None could assume the initiative of proposing submission to these humiliating terms.

“We are in accord,” remarked Monsieur Brezanne, slowly. “Being in accord, I can, therefore, propose a course. There is one hope; one way in which we may trap Gaspard Zemba.”

He pressed a buzzer. A secretary answered. Brezanne told the man to introduce the prefect of police. A few minutes later, Monsieur Clandine arrived, followed by Rusanne. The bantamlike sergeant was carrying a suitcase. He placed it on the desk, at the prefect’s order. Clandine looked toward the foreign minister, who nodded; then spoke:

“You may speak in full, Monsieur le Prefet.”

“Messieurs,” declared Clandine, facing the group, “we have to deal with the notorious Gaspard Zemba, a criminal who has once more escaped us. Yesterday, his lieutenant, Rene Levaux, murdered a man named Willoughby Blythe. Levaux, in turn, was slain by Boris Danyar. To climax the sequence, Danyar was stabbed to death by Zemba, himself.

“With that, Zemba vanished from among the passengers who had arrived at the Gare du Nord. The mystery of his disappearance was not revealed until late last night. Though subsequent developments, we have guessed how Zemba escaped. Disguised as a guard aboard the Fleche d’Or, he transferred to the blue cars of the Mediterranean Express, and circled Paris via the Ceinture Railway.

“Aboard a blue car, he must have removed his uniform. Alighting at the Gare de Lyon, he took a taxicab to a place near the Place Saint-Michel. There, he engaged in a gun fray. Agents attracted from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, were too late to capture him.”

The foreign minister interposed a question:

“Which direction did Zemba take?”

“We do not know,” returned Clandine. “We know only that he could not have fled toward the Boul’ Mich’, because the agents came from all along the boulevard and did not encounter him. He could have chosen any other direction for flight.

“However, the agents slew the driver of Zemba’s cab; and in the vehicle, they found these garments — the uniform that Zemba had worn when disguised as a railway guard.”

The prefect produced the garments as he spoke. He laid the suit aside; then lifted one of the white gloves. Turning the glove inside out, he tugged a wadding of paper from the third finger.

“The glove from Zemba’s left hand,” announced the prefect, “with its telltale clue — a stuffed finger. Gaspard Zemba lacks that finger from his left hand. His glove covered his identity; but he was forced to make the finger appear like the others.”

FROM the suitcase, the prefect produced a chart. He attached it to the wall and let it unroll. It was a large chart on a substance resembling oilcloth and it bore the full-size figure of a man. Monsieur Clandine found a telescopic rod in the suitcase. He opened it to form a long pointer.

“A Bertillon chart,” he explained. “A reconstruction of Gaspard Zemba, from descriptions. Of medium height, more than average weight. Strong physique; hands brawny. Observe the left, with its missing finger.

“A rounded face; one with a fiendish glare. An evil rogue, whose very countenance should declare his identity. And yet” — the prefect spoke slowly — “not one of a dozen officers recognized him yesterday at the Gare du Nord.”

A lull; then, glumly, the prefect added:

“This proves that our chart is insufficient. Our reconstruction has been approximate; not accurate. The leering face of Zemba is a pose. Another of his cunning devices. He simply assumes an ugly countenance when engaged in crime. We do not know his real face. Only one point can identify him” — again the prefect tapped the chart — “and that is the missing finger.”

Telescoping the pointer, the prefect tossed it back into the suitcase. He eyed his gloomy listeners; then smiled as he stroked his Vandyke beard. Folding his arms, the prefect made a new announcement.

“All is not lost,” he assured. “There are five days still remaining. My police are powerless, for we have been ordered to use great caution in the search for Zemba. But, messieurs, we possess another weapon. We have Robeq!”

Robeq! The name struck home to Delka. He had heard of Robeq; Etienne Robeq, the noted French detective. A man whose exploits had made hazy history, during the past few years. For Robeq was a man whose feats had been kept from the public, except in the form of an unsubstantiated rumor.

“Proceed, Monsieur le Prefet,” urged the foreign minister, warmly. “Tell them about Robeq.”

“Very well. Etienne Robeq is a Parisian. Some years ago, he went to Marseilles; there, he joined the Foreign Legion. Captured by Tuaregs, he escaped. From then on, he became a lone spy in Africa.

“The messages that came from him were amazing. He paved the way to victory for the French campaign. When that was finished, Robeq appeared suddenly in Marseilles. Contacting the police through proxies, he arranged the arrest of les trots freres Cortonne, three desperate brothers who had murdered a dozen victims for their money.

“His next exploit was the uncovering of a ring of counterfeiters. After that, Robeq disclosed an assassination plot against the president of France. All the while, he has kept himself a hidden factor; but he has communicated with the police at regular intervals, in search of new assignments.

“Ten days ago, we heard again from Robeq. Word came from le prefet de police in Marseilles. We had need of Robeq. We ordered him here to Paris. Last night, messieurs, it was Robeq who sought the capture of Gaspard Zemba!”

IN proof of his statement, the prefect drew an envelope from his pocket. He extracted a message and referred to it.

“In Robeq’s writing,” he remarked. “It states that he encountered Zemba. He declares that he will capture the man within the five days that remain. We are to receive no more messages until the final hour. We may rely upon Robeq.”

The foreign minister put a question:

“How did you receive this message from Robeq?”

“It was brought to my office by a street gamin,” replied the prefect. “Robeq chooses such humble messengers. The boy remembered only that a man gave him the envelope, with a promise of five francs.”

“What is the answer?” inquired the foreign minister, turning to the visitors from other lands. “Are you willing to wait? To rely upon Robeq?”

Lord Bixley took up the task of spokesman.

“I should be glad to count upon Robeq,” he stated, “if I were more sure of his ability. Apparently, he is worthy of reliance; yet you have never seen him—”

“Because he works in secret!” interposed the prefect. “It is his way, monsieur! In secrecy lies our strength. Ah! If Robeq would declare himself, I would be greatly pleased! And yet, monsieur, I cannot so command him!” Lord Bixley considered. He looked toward his companions. Some seemed convinced; others were doubtful. Lord Bixley thought of Delka; he turned to the C.I.D. man. Before Delka could respond, a tap came at the door. Monsieur Brezanne gave the order to enter. A secretary appeared, approached the desk and whispered to the minister.

A look of delight appeared upon Brezanne’s mustached face. Nodding, he waved the secretary to the door. Facing the others, he ejaculated the news that he had received.

“All is well, messieurs!” exclaimed the minister. “There is no need for further questioning. The man of whom we speak has come to join us.”

Standing at the desk, he waved his hand toward the door to indicate a visitor whom the secretary had beckoned. In dramatic tone, the foreign minister spoke a name of introduction:

“Etienne Robeq!”