A soft laugh came from hidden lips. The Shadow had observed Vic Marquette’s actions. He had heard the order given by the secret-service operative. He knew that Vic Marquette did not intend to follow Menzone again tonight.
More than that: The Shadow knew that Vic had not concerned himself with the affairs of Maurice Twindell. Should Vic, in the future, come to deal with Twindell, it would result because of Vic’s keen interest in the affairs of Alvarez Menzone.
Strange trails had begun tonight. Clyde Burke, back at the Club Rivoli, was watching two persons in booth six. Vic Marquette had taken up the trail of Alvarez Menzone. The Shadow, too, had found a quarry. Unknown even to Clyde Burke, The Shadow had left the Club Rivoli with the express purpose of watching Maurice Twindell.
After Twindell’s parting with Menzone, The Shadow’s course had changed. His figure, moving swiftly away from Athena Court, was retracing his way to the spot where crime still hovered.
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE SPEEDWAY
CLYDE BURKE was alone in the booth at the Club Rivoli. Logan had strolled away to play roulette. Clyde had dropped the curtain. He had been listening intently to the conversation which he had heard from the adjoining booth.
“So sorry, Lito.” The woman’s voice was speaking. “I thought we could stay here for a few hours longer. I haven’t played a single chip at the roulette table!”
“It is nearly eleven,” came Carraza’s reply. “I must go to the legation. I was told to be there by ten. It is important, senorita. I have papers—”
“Can you leave them there?”
“Si, senorita. They were to have been copied. I shall have to say that I did not have time.”
“And then?”
“The papers will be placed in the safe. Perhaps I shall be told to continue my copying tomorrow. Perhaps the work will be intrusted to another. I cannot tell.”
“Can’t you return here?” Anita’s tone was urging. “Leave the papers, senor. Come back to see me. I shall play at roulette while you are absent.”
“Very well.” Carraza’s tone was one of agreement. “But I must go quite soon. A few turns of roulette; then I shall leave, senorita.”
Clyde Burke rose from his seat. He opened the curtain and strolled toward a roulette table. He realized that a prompt report to The Shadow would be essential. The clock in the gaming room showed five minutes before eleven. If only The Shadow would be outside by the veranda at the end of his half hour!
THUS thinking, Clyde swung from the table and moved toward the outer door. An attendant was talking in a telephone booth; the man dropped the receiver and turned toward the roulette tables. At the same moment, he spied Clyde Burke.
“Ah!” exclaimed the attendant. “Mr. Burke! A call for you, sir, from the newspaper office.”
“Thanks,” returned Clyde. Entering the booth, he picked up the receiver.
“This is Burke speaking,” he informed.
“Report.” The word came in a weird, whispered tone. Clyde knew that this was not the voice that the attendant had heard. Used expressly for Clyde’s benefit, this eerie tone was a token of identity. Clyde knew that The Shadow was on the other end of the wire.
“The roulette player left,” began Clyde, in a low voice. “He was followed by Marquette—”
“The others.”
“They have just left their booth. The man is Lito Carraza, attache of a South American legation. The woman’s name is Anita.”
“Where are they now?”
“At the roulette table.”
“Watch them.” The Shadow’s monotone was an order. “Tell me what is happening. Look all about. Report.”
Clyde obeyed, half wondering. Suddenly, he caught the import of The Shadow’s order. Something was happening within the roulette room — something which Clyde Burke alone observed.
Whistler Ingliss had strolled from the doorway at the side of the room. Clyde could see the gambler’s lips pursed as they trilled a tune. Events of another night were undergoing repetition. Clyde was quick to whisper what he saw.
“Whistler is giving a signal,” he informed. “Men are coming from the side booths. The same men that I saw here before. Two — four of them.”
“Watch Whistler.”
“He is looking toward the roulette table. He has caught Anita’s eye. She is talking to Lito Carraza. The man is preparing to leave—”
“Report received. Off duty.”
Clyde Burke stood dumfounded as he heard the click of the receiver at the other end. He hung up his own receiver and stepped from the booth. The reason for The Shadow’s quick termination of the telephone call was dawning on Clyde Burke.
Lito Carraza, heading into Washington, was to become the prey of mobsters! Anita had lured the South American attache into a trap. Whistler Ingliss, receiving a sign from the woman, had ordered thugs to action!
The Shadow must have called from the city. That fact seemed obvious to Clyde. Could he reach here before Lito Carraza had left? That seemed impossible. The young South American was already on his way to the front door of the Club Rivoli.
Clyde watched Carraza’s departure. The attache seemed a trifle anxious; Clyde knew that his expression was brought about purely by the thought of the reprimand that might be awaiting him at the legation.
The door closed. Whistler Ingliss had retired to his office. The woman with whom Carraza had dined, was playing roulette. The attache’s departure had been observed by no one except Clyde Burke. The Shadow’s agent alone had seen a man start forth to doom!
OFF duty!
Such had been The Shadow’s order. Yet Clyde felt worried. Following Carraza’s path, he reached the veranda at the front of the Club Rivoli. The lights of a large, foreign roadster had been turned on; a man at the wheel was pressing the starter. It was Carraza, leaving. Clyde was tempted to leap forward and warn the man to stop. His confidence in The Shadow prevented him.
As Carraza’s car began to roll away, Clyde realized a new angle to the situation. Men had been dispatched to attack the South American, but they would certainly avoid an encounter in the neighborhood of the Club Rivoli. They would try to get Carraza between here and his legation.
The Shadow had foreseen that fact! There lay the reason for his prompt action. The idea brought quick decision to Clyde Burke. Off duty, The Shadow’s agent had become a news seeker. He would follow into Washington.
Clyde called to the driver of a cab. The taxi rolled to the steps. Entering the vehicle, Clyde told the man to take him into the city. He added that he was in a hurry. The jehu grinned.
“Wait’ll we hit the speedway, boss,” he said. “I’ll show you some fast time.”
“All right,” agreed Clyde. “I’d like to see it.”
The Shadow’s agent knew that speed would be necessary to keep up with the pace that Lito Carraza could make in his foreign roadster. In this surmise, Clyde was correct. Carraza, leaving the Club Rivoli, had stepped on the gas with a vengeance.
Heading toward the broad speedway, the South American attache was counting on a clear road for his quick trip back to the legation. The glow from the dashboard of his roadster showed his fuming lips. Carraza was annoyed because he had lingered so long at the Club Rivoli.
The roadster swerved as it reached the speedway. As Carraza pressed the accelerator, another car shot out from a side road. It was a rakish touring car. It took up Carraza’s trail. From a hundred feet behind, the pursuing car began to lose ground as Carraza piloted his roadster at a speed of eighty miles an hour.
The attache, eager to get back to headquarters, had figured that his position would serve him should traffic police observe his speed. The road ahead was clear. Beyond the bright lights that lined the Potomac was the glow of the city, dominated by brilliance that showed the capitol building and the monument.