Zemba

CHAPTER VII THE DELEGATES AGREE

THE man who entered the foreign minister’s office was one who commanded instant attention. Not only the fame of his name, but his very appearance marked him as a person of keenness. Of more than medium height, black-haired and with a square-jawed face, he appeared quite capable of the exploits with which the prefect of police had credited him.

“We were discussing you, Monsieur Robeq,” announced the foreign minister, extending his hand. “We were debating the subject of your search for Gaspard Zemba.”

“As I knew you would be,” returned Robeq, with a downward smile of his straight lips. His voice was a deep one. “That is the reason why I came here.”

Turning to the prefect, he shook hands; then, with a note of apology, added:

“I should have liked to visit you in your office, Monsieur le Prefet. But such would not have been wise.”

Without further ceremony, Robeq turned to the others. Stepping back so that all could view him, he came briskly to the point at issue.

“You have heard of me,” he stated. “You have been asked to rely upon me to effect the capture of Gaspard Zemba. I can assure you, messieurs, that such a course will be your only hope. In order to convince you, let me explain the conditions that exist.”

Pointing toward the wall, Robeq indicated the chart.

“That is Gaspard Zemba,” he declared. “The best description that can be gained of him. Yet, though the best available, it is a poor one. It aids us on one point only. The missing finger.”

Pausing, Robeq raised his left hand and tapped the tip of his third finger. Then, dropping his arms beside him, he stiffened in military fashion. Like a soldier at attention, he resumed:

“I was summoned to Paris. I was told to capture Zemba, the man with the missing finger. I was to work alone, my presence here unknown. Yet within twenty-four hours of my arrival, the underworld had passed the rumor: ‘Robeq is here; he is seeking Zemba.’ Such was the word that reached my own ears.”

“Ah, monsieur!” protested the prefect. “It was not a fault of mine. Every effort was made to keep the secret.”

“It was the fault of the police system,” asserted Robeq. “Many ears — many eyes — many tongues. Babblers! Bah! That is why I never visited your office. Word would have reached Zemba had I done so. I stayed away from the prefecture.”

Sheepishly, the prefect nodded his approval.

“But I came here,” added Robeq. “Why? Because I knew those here could be trusted. The only ones from the prefecture are yourself and this other man.”

He indicated Sergeant Rusanne. The prefect introduced his aid. Robeq shook hands with Rusanne.

“Yesterday,” declared Robeq, abruptly, “you bungled matters. You let Zemba escape you. You searched for him at a place where he had left. Meanwhile, I was waiting at a place where he was to be expected.

“That little street near the Boul’ Mich’ was a spot where I had seen Zemba before. I believed that he would return. I was stationed, watching, when he arrived. I was ready to effect his capture.”

“You might have done so,” challenged the prefect, suddenly, “if you had availed yourself beforehand. I could have supplied you with men.”

“With bunglers! Zemba would have shunned the place had police been there. He can see a police detective through a house wall! He could smell an agent a mile distant.”

“Then why did you not capture Zemba?”

“Because” — Robeq delivered his sour smile — “someone else was there also. Some one who intervened too soon.”

THE prefect looked puzzled.

“Have you ever heard of The Shadow?” queried Robeq. “The strange being whom the Apaches fear?”

An exclamation came from the prefect.

“L’Ombre,” he nodded. “Yes. An agent said that a dying Apache muttered the name last night. But there were others who gasped ‘Robeq’ — and when I received your message—”

“You promptly forgot what you had heard. Ah, monsieur!” His smile became friendly; Robeq clapped a hand upon the prefect’s shoulder. “It is possible for many things to happen. Last night, much did happen. Gaspard Zemba, the greatest rogue in Paris, walked into a double trap. One snare was prepared by Etienne Robeq, from Marseilles; the other by The Shadow, who comes — so they say — from nowhere.

“It was I, Robeq, who waited, once I had seen The Shadow. Knowing of his strange prowess, I expected him to deal with Zemba. The Shadow did deal with Zemba; but the rogue raised that hand of his, with the missing finger. Apaches came from everywhere.

“The Shadow dealt with them like a living fury. Paugh! What were a dozen against one like him? They were falling everywhere; all but Zemba. He was quick enough to run for it. That was when I stepped into the fight. Separately, The Shadow and myself completed the rout of Zemba’s henchmen. But The Shadow’s snare had come too soon; mine, too late.”

“The Shadow,” mused the prefect. “He has been in Paris before. Cloaked in black — a being with burning eyes — he has done much to aid us in the past.”

“And he will do much more,” promised Robeq. He raised his right hand and wagged his straightened forefinger. “That is why I count upon success. I, too, have heard of The Shadow. The underworld has breathed his name. It is known, at last, that The Shadow — like Robeq — is here.

“How can Zemba exist against such odds? The Shadow, a fighter who comes from the night itself? Robeq, who has learned to lie hidden upon the wide-stretched sands of the Sahara? What does it matter if all the underworld will move at Zemba’s bidding? Last night a score of his minions tasted their defeat.

“Zemba must stay hidden. Somewhere, he holds a fortress, guarded by those agents who fled to Paris from other countries. In that same place, he keeps his stolen plans. He has threatened to flee if the police disturb him with a search.

“But how will Zemba know that a search is proceeding, when it is conducted by two persons whom he cannot see? I, Robeq, for one; The Shadow, the other. Like ferrets, we each seek a skulking rat and the trembling mice who are with him.

“Let Zemba have his five days! Trust in me; count upon The Shadow. Then, if the five days fail, and Zemba still remains at large, you will know that he is invincible. You may treat with him on the last day, if you wish. But I declare that the fifth day will never come!”

ROBEQ had wheeled while talking. His words were addressed to Lord Bixley, whom he had accepted as spokesman for the visiting delegates. When the detective finished his harangue, Lord Bixley looked convinced. Then, about to speak, he changed his mind and turned to Delka instead.

“We were asking your opinion, inspector,” reminded Lord Bixley. “Now that you have met Robeq, what would you say as a final answer? By the way, gentlemen” — he turned to the others — “Inspector Delka is from Scotland Yard. He represents the Criminal Investigation Division.”

Delka arose.

“I have been in Paris before,” he declared. “On my last visit, I cooperated with your Department of Judicial Identity” — Delka had turned to the prefect — “and I hold high commendation for its methods. My respect extends to you, Monsieur le Prefet.”

The prefect smiled, highly pleased.

“And because of that” — Delka was turning to the delegates — “I would recommend any one whom the prefect mentioned as possessing high ability. Specifically, I refer to Monsieur Robeq.”

Pausing, Delka turned to the detective from Marseilles.

“I believe that you can trap Zemba,” said Delka. “Last night’s episode has proven that possibility. But it has proven something else as well. Any man who can observe The Shadow moving into action is certainly possessed of a marvelous ability.”

“You know of The Shadow?”

The query came from Lord Bixley. Delka nodded.

“The Shadow has operated in London,” he stated. “It was he who solved the case of the notorious crook called The Harvester (Note: See Vol. XV No. 2 “The London Crimes.”); it was The Shadow who exposed the ways of Barton Modbury, the master of Chiswold Castle.

“The Shadow is a superthreat to all who deal in crime. Since he is in Paris, I can state from experience that Zemba’s days are numbered. This is no discredit to you, Robeq” — Delka turned to the detective, who bowed — “because I know that you agree with me. You have, yourself, declared that The Shadow is a potent factor. Your own statement is a tribute to your wisdom.”

“I take it then, Delka, that you agree with the prefect,” declared Lord Bixley. “We should rely upon Robeq. Furthermore, we may be doubly confident, because of this mysterious worker whom you term The Shadow.”

“Quite so.”

LORD BIXLEY looked around the group. He received mumbles of approval. The French foreign minister smiled. The matter was settled. Robeq took the floor.

“I shall proceed at once with measures of my own,” he declared. “At the same time, I shall keep in contact with the prefecture. Not in person, nor by notes; but through one man whom we can trust. Not yourself, Monsieur le Prefet, for you are the very person who might be watched. I shall choose this aid of yours, Sergeant Rusanne.”

Robeq scrawled something on a sheet of paper. He folded it and gave the note to Rusanne.

“My address,” he told the sergeant, “and with it, the name that I shall assume. Be careful when you contact me, sergeant; and I shall be careful likewise. And to you, Monsieur le Prefet, this reminder. Whatever may be mentioned concerning myself, from any source, be sure to give the word to Sergeant Rusanne.”

“I shall do more than that,” affirmed Clandine. “I shall detail Sergeant Rusanne to the sole duty of handling all that pertains to Etienne Robeq.”

“But you must be sure that Rusanne appears to be handling other duties.”

“A good point, Robeq. Then none will suspect.”

“Exactly. It must not be known that I am in contact with the prefecture.”

“You may rely upon Rusanne and myself to protect the secret.”

Etienne Robeq turned on his heel. He strode to the door. There he stopped and extended his left hand toward his audience, with thumb and fingers straightened, wide apart. He spoke two words:

“Five days.”

“Then, dropping his left arm to his side, Robeq stiffened, clicked his heels and delivered a salute with his right hand, in the fashion of a legionnaire. As the others gestured in return, the soldierlike detective stalked from the office and closed the door behind him.

Buzzes of approval broke out among the delegates, while men of different nationalities shook hands in common accord. The delegates had agreed. They would trust in Etienne Robeq. Out from cover, the celebrated detective had gone back again, promising the capture of Gaspard Zemba.

One man present wore a keen smile. That one was Eric Delka. He had clinched the game for Robeq; but he did not expect the detective to capture Zemba. Delka was counting upon another to do that work. His faith lay in The Shadow!