The croupier pushed chips across the table. Menzone collected his in matter-of-fact fashion. Twindell withheld his eagerness as he gathered up his own winnings.
“You share my luck, eh?” Menzone spoke in excellent, but accented English as he looked toward Twindell. “Well senor, let us try again. Two hundred pesos — one hundred of your dollars — upon the odd. One hundred pesos here” — Menzone’s long-nailed fingers hovered above the squares — “upon the No. 13!”
Others, about to follow Menzone’s bet, hesitated superstitiously at the choice of the No. 13. They were not willing to hazard their money on the doubtful odds offered by a single square. Twindell, however, did not falter. He duplicated Menzone’s bet.
“Buenos!”
The exclamation came from Alvarez Menzone, as the wheel ended its spin. The ball was resting beside the No. 13.
Menzone had won more than fifteen hundred dollars on a single turn of the wheel. Twindell, by following Menzone’s lead, had made an identical gain.
WITH eagerness unrepressed, Twindell awaited Menzone’s next wager. The dark-faced South American glanced at the man beside him and laughed.
“You are looking for the next play, senor?” he questioned. “This is it!”
Menzone pushed his accumulated winnings toward the croupier, with a gesture that signified that he wished his chips to be cashed. The croupier was quick to comply. He had been wondering when Menzone’s winning streak would end.
In fact, Whistler Ingliss had appeared, summoned by news that a lucky player had started out to break the bank. Seeing Menzone cashing in his chips; observing Twindell by the South American’s side, Whistler strolled away, trilling a soft melody as he feigned indifference.
“We have been lucky, amigo,” laughed Menzone, clapping Twindell on the back. “We must not expect luck to last forever. Another night, I shall try. Should you be here to follow me — perhaps you may win if I should win.”
“Si, senor.” Twindell paused as he was counting the money that he had received. Then, in Spanish, he added: “You have but recently come to Washington?”
Menzone’s eyes lighted as he heard these words in his native tongue. He nodded in reply to Twindell’s question. Twindell watched as he saw Menzone add his winnings to a large roll of bills — all of high denominations, all probably gained here.
“I have other friends from South America,” purred Twindell, in excellent Spanish. “It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Maurice Twindell—”
“And mine” — Menzone was receiving Twindell’s handshake as they stepped away from the roulette table — “is Alvarez Menzone.”
New players were thronging about the table which the two had left. Twindell and Menzone were forgotten by those who had watched — with the exception of one. That was Vic Marquette.
The secret-service operative had kept his eye on Alvarez Menzone from the moment of the South American’s arrival. He had watched Menzone win; he had observed the approach of Maurice Twindell.
Moreover, Marquette had heard the introduction which the two had exchanged. He knew their names; and he was convinced that of all persons at the roulette tables, these two — particularly Menzone — would bear further watching.
The two were strolling toward the front door of the roulette room. Warily, Vic Marquette followed. Clyde Burke, watching from his booth, felt a secret satisfaction. He could not follow Maurice Twindell and still remain here at the Club Rivoli. The fact that Vic Marquette was on Twindell’s trail relieved Clyde Burke.
An odd culmination! To Clyde Burke, Alvarez Menzone was simply a man accompanying Maurice Twindell. To Vic Marquette, Menzone was the quarry with Twindell merely his companion.
WHEN the two men reached the driveway in front of the Club Rivoli, they hailed a taxi. There were several cabs in view, for this resort was a profitable place to pick up fares. As soon as the cab had started, Vic Marquette hurried from the veranda. He entered the second vehicle. He flashed a badge in front of the driver’s eyes and gave this order:
“Follow the cab ahead.”
The driver obeyed. In response to Vic’s occasional growls for caution, he kept well behind the other cab until both cars had reached the Potomac River.
Bridge traffic became heavy as the cabs neared the glowing city. Near the long block of buildings of the Bureau of Engraving, Vic’s cab closed in on the taxi ahead. When the glare of blue-lighted windows had been passed, the second cab was so close behind the first that Vic could distinguish the heads of Maurice Twindell and Alvarez Menzone.
The lead cab passed the monument. It threaded its way along cross streets until it reached one of the broad avenues that form the pattern of a spider’s web upon the map of Washington. The cab swung along the avenue.
Vic Marquette, peering almost from the driver’s side, observed that neither Twindell nor Menzone were conscious that they were being followed. Their cab took another side street. It pulled up near a secluded apartment building.
Vic growled to his own driver to slow down, then to stop. The secret-service man alighted half a block behind as the first cab came to a stop.
Alvarez Menzone and Maurice Twindell appeared upon the sidewalk. The cab waited at Twindell’s bidding while the two were concluding a conversation. Vic Marquette, approaching, could overhear their talk, which was in Spanish.
“Then you do not intend to return to the Argentine?” Twindell was saying.
“Not for some time to come.” Menzone wore an odd smile as he spoke. “Perhaps not at all. I have found the United States to be a very healthy place.”
“But you say you have chosen Washington—”
“Why not?”
“It is an expensive city in which to live; one that offers very little opportunity, except to those connected with the government.”
“Expensive — yes.” Menzone laughed. “My apartment on the third floor of this building costs much more than I ever paid in Buenos Aires. But there are times, senor, when extravagance brings return.”
Menzone’s lips were smiling as the South American placed a cigarette between them. Menzone applied a light; delivered some thoughtful puffs of smoke, then extended his hand.
“Buenos noches,” he said to Maurice Twindell. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, amigo mio. Let me express the hope that we shall meet again.”
“We shall,” responded Twindell, as he turned toward his cab. “Buenos noches, senor.”
Menzone, still puffing his cigarette, remained watching while the taxi pulled away. Then the South American turned and entered the apartment building. Hardly had he disappeared before Vic Marquette followed.
THE lobby was a pretentious one. It lacked attendants, however, and Vic Marquette strolled about for a few minutes, undecided whether he should pay a visit to the third floor. Finally, the secret-service man decided to the contrary.
Leaving the apartment house, Vic stopped on the sidewalk and noted the name above the door. He drew pad and pencil from his pocket. Methodically, he jotted down the name: Athena Court.
Even then, Vic was loath to leave the vicinity. He went across the street and stared toward the third floor, hoping that he might be able to locate the apartment occupied by Alvarez Menzone. Failing to gain any clew, the secret-service man stepped out into the street and whistled to a cab that was coming along.
“Hotel Starlett,” was the order that Vic gave to the driver.
As the cab rolled away, there was motion in the gloom at the side of Athena Court. From a narrow, cement passageway that led toward a rear fire tower, appeared a figure garbed in black. Outlined by dim light, this figure watched the departure of the cab.