Legira arose and clapped his secretary upon the shoulder. The consul’s face broke into a scheming smile. Lopez grinned in return. These two understood each other, from long experience.
“I shall tell you, Lopez,” declared Legira. “Soon, but not now. You remember the night that Pete Ballou came here. When he left, I asked you to bring me—”
His words ended, and he pointed his thumb toward the telephone. Lopez nodded. He remembered the brief conversation which Legira had held on that night, but he could not recall the number that the consul had called.
“That was it, Lopez,” said Legira. “You know me well. I am always thinking ahead, am I not?”
“Yes, senor.”
“I was thinking ahead that night. I am still thinking ahead. I have a plan, Lopez, a wonderful plan!”
Smiling, Legira turned and stared at the mirror in the same manner that he had employed on that other night. He swung back toward Lopez, and the secretary’s face began to gleam with understanding.
“Ah, senor,” he said. “I do not know what your plan may be, but it seems to me that it must be wise. There are men who watch you — all the time. There is that man called Powell. There are others which we do not see; but we know they are with that man Ballou. If you should do anything which they should suspect, it would be very bad. While you are here, you cannot do what you might wish. But if—”
Legira’s hand came up in warning. He shook his head as a sign that Lopez should say no more. Significantly, the consul pointed to the walls of the room.
“There are eyes outside this house,” he said, in a low tone. “There may be ears within. Let us forget these matters, Lopez. Tomorrow we shall go to the consular office as usual to take care of minor business. Little details must go on, even when large events are looming.”
Lopez nodded. He walked across the room and raised the window shade slightly. He wanted to make sure that the iron shutter without was still securely barred. His inspection proved satisfactory. But there was something which even the keen eyes of Lopez did not observe.
WHERE the side of the window frame met the sill, there was a narrow crack. Deep in that crevice ran a thin green wire, which became visible only beneath the sill. There it extended to a spot behind a radiator.
Legira smiled at his secretary’s apprehension. The consul, like Lopez, did not notice the thin wire. It, too, had made its appearance in that spot on the same night when Pete Ballou had called to deliver his ultimatum. It had been left after Ballou had gone. The Shadow had placed it there for future use.
“Remember this,” said Legira, speaking quietly to Lopez. “When a man has important work to do, it is well that he should deal with one — not with many.”
Lopez nodded.
“There is nothing more tonight,” declared Legira. “I shall resume my reading. You may go, Lopez. The office, tomorrow, at nine o’clock.”
The secretary left the room. Alvarez Legira took a book from the table and commenced to read.
Lopez, however, did not share his master’s calm. He went to the dark front room and peered out from the depths of the window. He was looking for vague shapes of watching men — those who were always there, yet who could know nothing of what transpired within these walls.
Despite his concern, Lopez did not for one moment suspect that there were other ways whereby tabs could be kept on what was happening at this house. He did not know that everything that he and Legira had said had been heard by a man stationed in the front room of the house next door — a man who could also see the street below.
Lopez ended his inspection of the street below. All was quiet tonight; quiet, as it had been for one week. The secretary returned and passed the door of the room where the consul was reading. A clock on the mantel was chiming twelve.
AT that very moment, the exact stroke of midnight, a light clicked in a room in another part of New York, far from the residence of Alvarez Legira. The rays of a green-shaded lamp fell upon a smooth-topped table. There, two hands appeared, bringing a long white envelope beneath the glare.
Strange hands! White, with long, slender fingers, the hands seemed as living objects that moved detached from the form that governed them.
As the left hand deftly tore open the end of the envelope, the light from above reflected the luster of a jewel that gleamed with a strange glow upon the third finger.
That gem was a girasol — the priceless fire opal which was the prized possession of The Shadow. It was unmatched in all the world; and the shafts of light that sprang from its iridescent depths were changing and mysterious. From a rich crimson, they varied to a purplish hue, then glimmered a deep blue.
Folded papers tumbled from the envelope. The hands of The Shadow opened them, and eyes from the dark began a study of the messages which they contained. These were reports from agents of The Shadow.
A tiny light shone from a black patch on the other side of the table. A hand stretched in that direction. It returned with a pair of earphones. They were adjusted in the darkness. A whispered voice spoke.
“Report, Burbank.”
The clicking sound of a voice vibrated through the receiver. The Shadow was listening, hearing the words of Burbank, the one operative who held direct communication with The Shadow himself.
“Report from Vincent,” came Burbank’s words.
“Proceed,” said The Shadow.
“No activities on the part of Martin Powell, when away from the vicinity of Legira’s residence.”
A pause; then Burbank followed with his next statement.
“Report from Burke.”
“Proceed.”
“Ballou has held communication with Silk Dowdy, who is watching Legira’s residence. No developments. Ballou has had no contact with others.”
“Give your own report.”
“Observations,” declared Burbank. “Martin Powell appeared on street at nine five, walking westward. Returned at nine sixteen, walking eastward. Appeared again at eleven eighteen. Remained until eleven twenty-two.
“Another man, identity unknown. Appeared at eleven eleven. Stopped at entrance of alley, apparently to receive instructions from Silk Dowdy. Resumed progress eastward at eleven thirteen.”
There was a momentary pause; then Burbank’s low voice continued its methodical monotony.
“Heard on the dictograph—”
The Shadow’s hand was at work as Burbank spoke slowly and steadily. The hand was transcribing a verbatim report of the conversation that had taken place between Alvarez Legira and his secretary, Lopez. With the completion of that message, Burbank’s report ended.
On the illuminated table lay the transcribed conversation. From the darkness, keen eyes were studying it. In black and white, that conversation was cryptic. It did not describe the actions of Legira and Lopez; how the consul had stared in the mirror; how the secretary had suddenly divined a hidden meaning in what had been said.
Now, the hands held the sheet of paper. They crumpled it and tossed it aside. The light went out. From the darkness came a low, sinister laugh that reechoed from the walls of a pitch-black room. Then silence reigned. The man of the night had gone.
IT was nine o’clock the next morning when Alvarez Legira and his man Lopez rode along a side street near Times Square, in a taxicab. The street was almost blocked by a crowd of men who were swarming toward the door of a narrow-fronted building.
“More men seeking employment,” observed Legira. “Every morning — always such a throng.”
“Yes, senor,” returned Lopez. “It has been that way for all this last week.”
Legira’s keen eyes spotted a man standing in the line. For an instant, the consul seemed elated; then he repressed the words that were coming to his lips. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The cab swept by and turned the next corner. On the avenue, it stopped before an office building. Legira and his secretary alighted.