Then, with a quick turn of direction that seemed intuitive, The Shadow stared toward a booth on the other side of the room. A waiter was approaching with a tray that held bottles and glasses.
A curtain opened; The Shadow sighted two persons within. One was a woman, whose lighted cigarette formed a white streak before her handsome, dark-complexioned face. The other was a young man whose sallow skin and heavy black mustache identified him as a South American.
Once again, The Shadow caught a momentary exchange of glances. The woman’s gaze went toward Whistler Ingliss. The gambler gave a nod that was barely discernible.
The Shadow had spotted Anita Debronne, the second of Darvin Rochelle’s agents. A soft laugh came from The Shadow’s lips. It stilled as Whistler Ingliss came across the roulette room, heading for the passage in which The Shadow stood. The gambler passed within two feet of the spot where the lurking watcher waited unseen. He continued toward his office.
The Shadow followed. Whistler had entered the office through the door from the main passage. The Shadow took the other way. He softly opened the side door and peered into the office. Whistler was seated at his desk, going over accounts. The Shadow watched.
Evidently, Whistler was here to stay a while. The gambler did not know that he was under observation. He had no reason to be acting in other than natural fashion.
A clock on the wall beyond Whistler’s desk showed twenty-five minutes after nine. Slowly, the door closed; its lock turned noiselessly. The Shadow’s form dwindled as it moved toward the end of the passage, to the door that led outside.
A FEW minutes later, Clyde Burke strolled from the roulette room. He, too, had noted the time; he had observed the big clock in the gambling hall. Clyde was following instructions — a mysterious message which had come to his office from The Shadow.
Posted at the Club Rivoli, Clyde was supposed to stroll to the front veranda at half hour intervals from nine o’clock on.
Reaching the spacious veranda, Clyde extracted a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Standing by a rail near the steps — beyond him darkness — Clyde felt positive that eyes were studying him. He looked about nervously; then thrust his hand into his pocket to obtain a match.
His fingers encountered an envelope!
Someone, from beyond the rail, had placed this message here during the brief interval between Clyde’s removal of the cigarette and his reaching for the match. The envelope could be but from one source: The Shadow.
Clyde opened the envelope. He removed a folded sheet of paper. He brought a match from his pocket, struck it to light his cigarette, and at the same time unfolded the message. By the glare of the match he saw coded lines which he read as easily as if they had been in ordinary script:
Watch people in Booth 6.
Observe young man who entered at 9:15; now playing roulette at Table 1.
Stocky man at Table 2 is Vic Marquette. Secret Service. Report his actions.
Await call.
Vivid blue ink faded as Clyde finished his perusal of The Shadow’s message. Puffing his cigarette, The Shadow’s agent thrust the blank paper and envelope in his pocket, as he strolled back into the Club Rivoli.
Clyde Burke had observed all persons mentioned. He had suspected nothing regarding any of them. It had remained for the Shadow to discover the participants in the new drama of crime that was unfolding at the Club Rivoli.
The Shadow had departed — somewhere in the darkness. Clyde Burke, as his agent, was intrusted with the work of keeping observation until the master might return.
Agents of murder were at work. The hand of their hidden employer was concealed. The Shadow had found no lead to Darvin Rochelle. Yet The Shadow knew that any deeds of crime would begin here at the Club Rivoli.
It was his purpose to match the schemer’s craft with his own. Before this night was ended, The Shadow would deliver the first counterthrust to the plotting of an insidious supercrook.
CHAPTER VII
TRAILS DIVERGE
NEW patrons were arriving in the roulette room of the Club Rivoli when Clyde Burke returned. The Shadow’s agent noted a predominance of South Americans. He realized that more arrivals in Washington were paying a visit to the exclusive gambling place maintained by Whistler Ingliss.
Clyde quickly spotted the two persons whom The Shadow’s message had mentioned as being at the roulette tables. Maurice Twindell — whose name Clyde did not know — was gambling heavily on the turn of the wheel. Vic Marquette, at the other table, was playing a conservative game.
Clyde drifted toward the booth which The Shadow had marked. As he neared that spot, he spied a newspaper correspondent entering the roulette room. Clyde waved to his friend; the other journalist approached.
“Hello, Burke,” greeted the newcomer. “What are you doing out here?”
“Hitting bad luck,” laughed Clyde. “Just about ready to try a sandwich. How about you, Logan?”
“I’m with you.”
Clyde drew back the curtain of booth five. He found it empty. He invited his friend to enter. Logan complied. Clyde took the seat that adjoined booth six. He left the curtain of his own booth open so that he could watch what happened in the roulette room. Logan seemed interested in the gambling. Thus, as the two men awaited the arrival of a waiter, Clyde could overhear the buzz of conversation that came from the next booth.
A man and a woman were talking. They were speaking in English — the man, however, had a foreign accent. Clyde caught the name “Anita;” a few moments later, he heard the woman address her companion as “Lito;” later came the name “Carraza.”
Clyde was making progress by the time sandwiches and cool drinks had arrived. He knew that a South American named Lito Carraza was in the next booth; his companion a woman called Anita. Moreover, from snatches of conversation, Clyde was sure that Lito Carraza was an attache of some South American legation.
Thus Clyde was content to keep no more than an occasional watch upon the two men at different roulette tables. He knew that the more important quest lay here. He listened for any bit of talk that might give information. Bits of Spanish, intermingled in the conversation between Carraza and Anita, made the task quite difficult.
MAURICE TWINDELL was having poor luck at roulette. The tall dilettante stepped back from the table and strolled about in dejected fashion. He glanced at various players, nodded to occasional South Americans who seemed to be acquaintances, and finally moved over to the second table.
Here Twindell noted considerable commotion. Among the players was a tall South American who was leaning forward with a gleaming smile. The man’s sallow face showed keen delight at the success which he was gaining.
“Caramba!” The exclamation came from a watcher. “The man has luck. Diablo! He has won a thousand pesos in less than a dozen minutes!”
“Who is he?” came a question.
“Alvarez Menzone.” Twindell heard the name. “From the Argentine, they say. Each night that he has come here he has won. Follow his play if you wish luck.”
Twindell studied Menzone. He knew that the shrewd-faced South American was probably a visitor who had come to the Pan-American Convention. The man had money; he was willing to hazard it. He was the very type of person whom Twindell was here to observe.
Edging close to Menzone, Twindell obtained a stack of chips. Menzone, clicking his own chips, began to set them in methodical fashion: some on the odd, others on the black; finally a stack of chips on the corners of four squares.
As the wheel began to whirl, Twindell duplicated the other’s hazard. Menzone looked toward the American and gave him a gleaming smile. The wheel came to its stop. The ball was resting in a pocket that was odd and black; its number corresponded to one of the four that Menzone had chosen.