The man from Santander walked leisurely through the lobby, chatting with Lopez as he went. He paid no attention to a thickset man who stepped on the elevator with him, and who alighted at the fourth floor when he and Lopez stepped off.
The stranger walked in the opposite direction. His presence meant nothing to Legira. As the consul and his secretary passed the door of a deserted office, there was a slight click of a closing latch. Legira did not seem to notice it.
They reached the end of the passage. Before them was an office which bore the coat of arms of Santander emblazoned on the door. Lopez applied a key. He stood aside as Legira entered the consular office.
This was a large, single room, with a clothes closet in the corner. Neither Legira nor Lopez observed a thin green wire which ran from behind a desk along the baseboard of the wall and out beneath the door Lopez had closed.
“They are watching again, senor,” declared Lopez, in a low voice.
“As always,” returned Legira. “Watching — the fools. Martin Powell on the elevator. One of Ballou’s men, hiding in an office.”
“But they are not in here, senor—”
“No?” Legira’s question was accompanied by an arching of his dark eyebrows. “Perhaps not, Lopez. But remember what I said last night. Walls do not always prevent persons from hearing.”
Legira walked to the door of the closet. He opened it and stepped within. He pressed a hook on the wall. A panel slid aside to reveal a passageway. Legira released the hook. The barrier closed. The man emerged from the closet.
“Perhaps, Lopez” — Legira’s voice was cautious — “perhaps there will be a reason to use—”
He pointed toward the secret opening. Lopez looked puzzled. He knew of the existence of the sliding panel, but did not understand its purpose; had never known it to be used.
“They are watching,” said Legira softly. “Perhaps they are listening also. Let them watch. Let them listen. They will not learn.”
The consul smiled as he sat down before a large desk. The thoughts that were passing through his brain were known to himself alone.
Here, as in his residence, Alvarez Legira could not move without his actions being discovered. He knew the identity of certain watchers. Did he suspect the presence of others?
THE eyes of The Shadow had joined the vigil that surrounded this man from Santander. Through his agents The Shadow was watching. More than that, The Shadow had ears which Alvarez Legira did not know existed.
Yet the consul from Santander appeared unperturbed. Was his attitude due to confidence, or ignorance? Even Lopez, his one confidant, was perplexed by the expression which appeared on Legira’s face. The secretary could not fathom the consul’s thoughts.
Legira’s eyes were half closed. His lips were smiling as his fingers twisted the ends of his pointed mustache. He was picturing a face that he had seen that very morning — the countenance of the man whom he had noticed standing in the line outside of the employment bureau.
“This is the seventh day, Lopez?” the consul inquired suddenly.
“The seventh, senor,” replied the secretary solemnly. “There are only three more, senor.”
“Three will be sufficient,” declared Legira.
The cryptic remark was accompanied by a smile as Legira reached to the desk and began to consult a pile of papers that lay before him. Whatever eyes and ears might be watching and listening, the consul from Santander was unconcerned.
CHAPTER VI
A THOUSAND A WEEK
THE line was moving in through the door of the employment agency. Men were filing by a desk where a stenographer was noting questions regarding age, former occupation, and experience. The man whom Alvarez Legira had noted on the curb had now reached the inner door.
“Your name, please?”
“Perry Wallace.”
The girl looked up at the sound of the man’s quiet, well-modulated voice. Perry Wallace had the appearance of a gentleman, despite the shabby appearance of his clothes. His tanned face was passive; his dark eyes were dull as they stared toward the questioner. There was a certain sullenness about the thin lips beneath the black, unkempt mustache — the expression of a man who has been beaten in his battle with the world.
“What qualifications, Mr. Wallace?”
“Not many,” said the man frankly. “I worked as a bank teller for three years. I guess there’s not much call for any one in that line—”
“Just a moment, Mr. Wallace.”
The girl was noting the man’s appearance. She rang a bell on the desk, and an office boy appeared.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” said the girl. “Take him into Mr. Desmond’s office.”
The boy conducted the applicant to a door at the other end of the large room. Perry Wallace, hat in hand, was perplexed as he strode along. He had expected further questioning before being admitted to a special interview. He wondered why he had made so effective an impression.
The boy knocked at a glass-paneled door that bore the name:
FRANK DESMOND
A voice responded from within. The boy opened the door and pointed to the inner room.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” he announced.
“Shut the door,” said Desmond.
Perry Wallace complied; then turned to look at his interviewer.
Frank Desmond was a bland sort of a man; big, pudgy, and narrow-eyed. He was seated behind a desk in the center of the room, and he stared steadily at his visitor.
“Sit down, Mr. Wallace,” he said, after a short inspection. “I want to talk with you.”
Wallace dropped his hat on a table and took a chair opposite the employment manager.
“What is your experience?” questioned Desmond.
“Bank teller for the last three years,” answered Wallace mechanically. “Worked up-State — little town called Halsworth. The bank went up. I came to New York. Figured a job—”
“Before that?”
“Before I worked in the bank? I had a real-estate office with my uncle. Developing a summer resort. It went sour. I landed a job with the bank.”
“And before that?”
“Just odd jobs. I was in the army during the War. Served in France. Came back. Tried various forms of work; then joined up with my uncle.”
DESMOND, chin in hand, was staring firmly at his visitor. Wallace wondered about that stare. He knew that Desmond was on the point of asking an important question. He could not divine what it might be.
“You say you served in the army,” remarked Desmond. “Did you enjoy the excitement?”
Perry’s eyes gleamed.
“Sure thing!” he declared. “Say — if I saw another opportunity like that one, I’d hop to it in a minute!”
“I know of a job,” mused Desmond reflectively. “It will require nerve. It may mean danger. Most of all, it demands obedience to orders. Would you take it — without question?”
Perry Wallace eyed his questioner narrowly. He scented a hidden meaning in Desmond’s tone. Despite the fact that he was down and out, he was not willing to commit himself unknowingly.
“I do not believe so, Mr. Desmond,” he said coldly.
“There is excellent compensation,” replied the employment agent.
Perry Wallace shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
“What of it?” he asked. “There is excellent compensation for many jobs. Murder, for instance.”
“This does not involve murder,” declared Desmond.
“Crime, then?” questioned Perry shrewdly.
Desmond leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands.