Maxwell Grant
Shadowed Millions
CHAPTER I
THE SECRET MEETING
THE lobby of the Hotel Corona was thronged with an after-theater crowd. The big clock above the desk showed twenty minutes before twelve. The passive clerk blinked quietly at the gay host of visitors, who were on their way to the popular roof garden which this hotel maintained.
The Corona was known as one of the brightest spots in Manhattan. Big men of business frequented this place. The clerk had noted many well-known faces among tonight’s gatherers. Each elevator that went to the roof was filled with patrons. Business was always good at the Corona.
A tall, middle-aged man entered the lobby. He cut an excellent figure in his immaculate evening clothes. He strolled along, swinging a light cane and staring about him with a bored expression. His pointed mustache gave him a sophisticated air; his keen eyes indicated a shrewdness that his manner masked.
The clerk bowed courteously as the arrival glanced in his direction. This man was a most desirable patron of the Hotel Corona. The clerk recognized him as Alvarez Legira, consular agent of the newly formed republic of Santander.
The clerk smiled as Legira acknowledged his greeting with a curt nod. Such guests as this wealthy South American added to the prestige of the hotel’s popular roof garden. Legira was a frequent visitor at this hour. He was one of the celebrities that it was wise to cultivate.
The elevator on which Alvarez Legira rode upstairs was well filled with persons who were all bound for one destination — the roof garden. Arriving there, the passengers stepped into a lobby that was already overthronged. Bell boys pointed out the check rooms. Legira, with the others, moved in the direction indicated.
While he was waiting at the end of a line, the suave South American fitted a cigarette into a long holder. He struck a match and began to puff away, mildly surveying the persons who stood near by.
While thus engaged, he seemed to lose all interest in checking his hat and cane. By a mere chance, he lost his place in the moving line, and eased away along the wall, hat and cane in one hand, cigarette holder in the other.
THERE was nothing conspicuous about his action. There was no apparent haste. It seemed almost by coincidence that Alvarez Legira happened to reach the top of an obscure stairway, some thirty feet from the check room.
Here, Legira stood waiting languidly, watching the doors of the elevators as though expecting the arrival of some companion. Then, of a sudden, his lethargy ended. Satisfied that not a single eye was upon him, the suave-faced man swung quickly away, and in a fraction of a second his form had disappeared down the stairway.
There was stealth in the man’s action as he passed the turn in the stair. The loud buzz of conversation from the upstairs lobby was muffled and indistinct. Legira stopped and listened intently. The only sign of motion about him was a curling wreath of smoke that trickled up from the lighted end of his cigarette.
Satisfied at last that no one had observed his crafty departure, the consul from Santander continued his downward course.
The stairway was little used. Legira was alone and unwatched as he descended flight after flight. Each landing was set back from the hall; hence the suave-faced man could have been seen only from the stairway.
He stopped when he reached the eighth floor. There, he peered into the hallway. Seeing no one, Legira emerged from the stairway and betook himself toward the end of the corridor.
He seemed familiar with the route that he was following. As he neared the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned to look back. His sharp gaze showed him that the corridor was deserted.
Sure of this, Legira, his eyes still watching, reached forward and softly opened a door that bore the number 888. He stepped into a little entry. The door closed behind him.
Legira was at the entrance to a suite of rooms. There were two doors close beside him, and a blank wall in the middle. The visitor knocked at the door on the right. It opened, and Legira stepped into a small reception room.
The man who had admitted him was a solemn-faced individual who had the manner of a private secretary. He bowed to Legira, who merely nodded and raised his cigarette holder to his lips. The man who had opened the door closed it and turned the lock.
“They are waiting for me?” questioned Legira.
His words were spoken in perfect English, without the slightest trace of Spanish accent.
Legira’s companion responded with a solemn nod. With the air of a funeral director, he walked across the room and rapped at a door on the other side. The door opened, and he went through, leaving the South American alone.
Alvarez Legira laughed. He put out the stump of his cigarette, inserted a new one in the holder, and resumed his smoking. His white teeth gleamed in the dim light of the room as he strolled backward and forward. He seemed to possess a natural love of intrigue, and this secret visit suited his fancy to perfection.
Yet with it all, the man was nervous. His slow, restless stride, his incessant puffing of tobacco smoke, the occasional frown that replaced his gleaming smile; all betokened that he had only reached the threshold of tonight’s mission. Alone, he had been announced. Now, he was waiting the bidding of some other persons.
Legira stood by the window. It was high above the lowlying buildings that surrounded the hotel. Across flat-topped roofs, the observant South American saw the distant lights of brilliant Broadway. Half an hour ago he had been among those lights, just one of thousands leaving the gay rialto.
Leisurely, with calmly feigned indifference, he had come to keep a mysterious appointment. Here in New York, he had adopted the method of Santander, where secret cabals were held by stealth. A strange contrast — the intrigue of South America mingled with the practical ways of the United States.
Finishing another cigarette, Legira glanced at his watch. It showed exactly twelve o’clock, the time of his appointment. He had arrived early. It would not be long before he would be admitted to the other room.
STEALTHILY, Legira listened at that closed door. He heard nothing. He strode noiselessly across the room, and listened at the other door. He opened it softly, and peered into the entry. It was empty.
Satisfied, the crafty man returned and locked the door. Back at the window, he lighted another cigarette. He was staring idly at the myriad lights when he heard the door of the inner room open.
Without haste, Legira turned to look at the man who had ushered him here. The solemn-faced individual bowed and pointed to the inner door. Legira, more leisurely than ever, went to the door and opened it. He stepped into a larger room.
There, standing just within the doorway, he surveyed a group of nine men who were seated about a long table. It was a staid gathering of prosperous businessmen — an anticlimax to the odd procedure that had brought Alvarez Legira to this place.
The consul from Santander bowed to the men before him. His suavity was turned to courtesy. He had the air of a man who is seeking a favor, endeavoring to place himself in the most favorable light.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, in his perfectly intonated English.
Responses came from the men at the table. One, a portly individual, who sat at the end, arose and stepped toward the visitor.
“Hello, Legira,” he said, extending his hand. “Sorry we had to keep you waiting. You arrived a little earlier than we expected.”
“To be early is to assure punctuality, Mr. Hendrix,” returned Legira, with a gleaming, affable smile.
He shook hands with the heavy-set gentleman, who then ushered him to a chair at the far end of the table. With Legira seated, Hendrix took his place at the head.