THE Agent’s nerves were tingling. He crept forward across the dark floor. Perfume bottles and powder jars stood on the dresser. There was the vague odor of scent in the air. This was the exotic Lili’s chamber. A strange place for Agent “X” to be.
He put his ear to the door, listened intently. He hoped he would hear enough in the next few minutes to size up the situation. The throaty voice of the brunette reached him. His eyes shone.
“Don’t be impatient, Otto. I am hungry. Let us have dinner first. We can discuss this afterwards.”
Von Helvig’s answer was harsh.
“It is safer here — where there are none to listen. You know as well as I that every restaurant in Washington is a hotbed of espionage. Tell me what you have to say. Then we can enjoy ourselves at dinner — and at the ball afterwards.”
“Yes — the ball,” said Lili, speaking in a husky drawl.
“Come — come, Lili, don’t fence, or I shall think you are stringing me along, as the Americans say.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Lili softly. “Perhaps I pretend to know things I do not know just to enjoy your company, Otto.”
Von Helvig gave an angry exclamation.
“Don’t,” said Lili. “You look so fierce that I am afraid. I shall be frank with you. I must have two or three days more.”
“You don’t know where they are then?”
“Not precisely — I told you that. But I think I know how to go about finding them. Two or three days more, Otto, with your help, and we shall have them.”
“They are here in Washington then? They haven’t been taken away?”
“If it were otherwise how could I expect to get them,” said Lili evasively.
“I hope you realize, Lili, that I’m not a man to be trifled with?”
The Agent’s mind leaped back. That was what von Helvig had said earlier in the day to him — and the man had proved it. If Lili was fencing, she had better watch out.
What “X” had heard was not encouraging. Lili herself did not seem sure. Perhaps she was only playing a game with von Helvig. Or perhaps she really knew. In that case it would mean hours, perhaps days of patient shadowing. Could either Shank or Zeb be trusted? Wouldn’t Betty Dale be more of a help? Lili Damora moved in the diplomatic set. He would ask Betty to discover if possible exactly who her friends were and how she spent her days. He listened a moment more.
“I am disappointed,” von Helvig was saying. “Very disappointed.”
“Don’t be sulky, Otto. Trust me — and remember — keep your eyes open tonight. Every one of importance in Washington will be present at the ball, including Senator Cobb!”
The Agent started. Was Lili merely trying to confuse von Helvig. It almost seemed so.
“X” moved back across the bedroom to the door. Von Helvig would be coming for his coat presently — and “X” had heard enough to convince him that a fog of mystery still hung over the stolen Browning plans. It was still a race between himself and the green-masked murderer who had killed Saunders and Peters.
AMONG the brilliant guests at the home of Senator Marvin Foulette that night was a young man introduced as Raphael Sancho, descendant of a wealthy South American family and the nephew of a president.
He was here in Washington, it was said, to study the American form of government at close range. He was an ambassador of good will. It was at the request of a high government official that the Foulettes had invited him at the last moment.
They welcomed him at the door. Mrs. Foulette, a dignified, white-haired lady, murmured a conventional phrase of greeting. The senator shook his hand perfunctorily. He passed on into the ballroom of the senator’s big home, now ablaze with lights, and filled with people. A few débutantes cast admiring glances at him, but otherwise he was unnoticed. There was no representative present from the particular country from which he came.
The young man, however, appeared perfectly at ease. He strolled about the big room and, using excellent Spanish, engaged the Brazilian ambassador in a conversation concerning South American tariffs.
As his tongue rattled off dry statistics, his alert eyes scanned the main door. The even flow of his words ceased for a moment as Senator Blackwell and his party arrived. Suzanne Blackwell was with her father, escorted by Sam Barkley. Suzanne’s college chum, Betty Dale, held the arm of the senator.
It was upon her that the eyes of Raphael Sancho dwelt. And in their veiled depths was a look of fondness and admiration.
The girl whose hair held the golden glint of imprisoned sunlight was radiantly beautiful tonight. A simple green dress set off her dainty figure. Her eyes held a sparkle of excitement, making them seem as bright as the single jewel at her throat.
Others arrived, Lili Damora, dark, almost serpentine in her lithe grace, with full, pouting lips and a dazzling smile; Otto von Helvig, wearing the ribbon of a military order across his chest, courtly as a prince of the blood.
Upon these, too, the eyes of Raphael Sancho rested for a moment, while a thin smile twitched the corners of his mouth. Senator and Mrs. Foulette left their position by the entranceway and circulated among the guests. They took pains to introduce Raphael Sancho to a number of eager young women. It wasn’t long before he was gliding around the ballroom to the strains of a languorous dance from the Argentine.
But his eyes still followed the form of the girl in the green dress, the girl with golden hair and a single jewel at her throat.
Betty Dale seemed at times preoccupied, too. Once her eyes met Sancho’s and looked beyond him. Again he smiled thinly. Not until a series of formal introductions led him to the side of Suzanne Blackwell did he mention what was on his mind.
They had danced to one number. He was leading Suzanne back toward her father. He spoke softly.
“The girl in the green dress, with the golden hair. Is she not a friend of yours, Miss Blackwell? Did she not enter with your party?”
Suzanne Blackwell laughed. “Yes,” she said, “and I am jealous, Señor Sancho. I believe you danced with me just to get an introduction to her. My friend Betty Dale is always pulling the choicest plums out of the pie.”
“Plums?” said Sancho vaguely. “Pie?”
“That’s right,” said Suzanne. “A nice kind of fruit, you know, and an American form of pastry. But come — here’s Betty now. I’m sure you’ll find her a more accomplished dancer than I.”
The young Señor Raphael Sancho bowed low over Betty Dale’s slim hand.
“Miss Dale,” he said. “I am so happy to meet. Is it that you will dance with me?”
Betty’s voice was perfunctory as she accepted. Her expression was slightly worried. Someone she had hoped to see was not here. Raphael Sancho whirled her into the rhythm of a sinuous bolero. His tones were ingratiating as he talked with his charming Spanish accent. But she hardly listened. To her he was just another of the indolent young men to be found in the gay society of America’s capital. Betty Dale, for all her youthful appearance, had the keenness of maturity and experience.
It wasn’t until Raphael Sancho uttered a sudden mysterious phrase in perfect English that Betty became electrified.
“There are shadows beneath the sunlight,” Sancho said.
The blue eyes of Betty Dale grew bright. She tensed in the arms of Raphael Sancho. Her gaze met his.
“Careful,” he added. “Wolves lurk in the shadows.” Then, as the music stopped, he drew her to a seat in the corner. “Let me show you a picture of my country, Miss Dale.”