MARQUETTE was making his report. Fourrier, seated sidewise at the writing table, was ready with his questions. The Shadow took in every word.
“The Club Rivoli,” remarked Marquette. “Yes — I was there. I spotted a South American.”
“Not Lito Carraza?”
“No. That’s where I slipped up, chief. The fellow I picked is named Alvarez Menzone. He made friends with a young chap named Maurice Twindell. I trailed the pair to the apartment where Menzone is living — Athena Court. Twindell went on; Menzone turned in.”
“And all this while,” interposed Fourrier sourly, “crime was brewing out at the Club Rivoli. You’ve read the newspapers” — Fourrier picked up a journal and tapped it — “and you know what happened there. They tried to get Lito Carraza, an attache who had important legation correspondence on his person. He’s the man you should have been watching.”
“I know it,” admitted Marquette. “I might have been watching him — if I’d seen him. I picked another man, chief, and I think I’ve got a lead.”
“Let us discuss Carraza first,” decided Fourrier. “According to the newspapers, he was attacked by gangsters, purely as a holdup proposition. Carraza was driving an expensive car. He was coming from the Club Rivoli. They tried to kill him, but some other persons opened fire. The one explanation seems to be that gangsters battled among themselves.
“The first people to arrive were two men: a taxi driver and his passenger, a news-bureau man named Clyde Burke. They took Carraza to a hospital. He refused to talk.
“That’s why the real meat of the story was suppressed. The legation informed me of what had happened. I went over there; I kept the facts out of print and I listed them for reference. Here they are:
“Carraza was dining with a woman named Anita Debronne. He left her at the Club Rivoli. She evidently induced him to go there so that he would have to return alone along the speedway. I sent two men out to the Club Rivoli. They learned that Anita Debronne was known there; that she had been seen to leave shortly after Carraza’s departure.”
Vic Marquette stared. This was news to him. He realized now why Fourrier was disgruntled. Had Vic been on the job at the Club Rivoli, the sequel to last night’s happenings might have been different.
“So here is the story,” resumed Fourrier. “I’ve put more men to work. One is looking for Anita Debronne. Two others are watching the Club Rivoli. If that’s where attaches have been going before they disappear, we’re going to put a stop to it.”
“You’re not closing the place?”
“No. We’re crimping it — that’s all. We’ve got a lead on the Debronne woman. We’ve found a crew of dead mobsters. But we’re no closer home than we were before.”
“Thanks to me,” observed Vic moodily.
“Don’t take what I have said as a reprimand,” declared Fourrier, in an easier tone. “On the contrary, Marquette, I am highly pleased with what you have accomplished.”
Vic looked up questioningly.
“There is no doubt,” announced Fourrier, “about one thing. You picked the Club Rivoli as a starting point. That’s where trouble was waiting for Lito Carraza. I want you to keep on from there. I think you’re the man who can trail it farther.
“I’ve had to put other men on the case. It’s obvious that the attempt on Carraza’s life is linked with the disappearances that we’ve been trying to trace. This is still your job; the other operatives are covering you. Find some new clews. Go anywhere — everywhere. Back to the Club Rivoli — to legations — wherever you choose. I’ll fix all that’s needed. But bring in results.”
“Thanks, chief,” said Marquette. “You can count on me. I’ll follow the same tactics that I tried last night. All these cases involved South American activities. I’m watching South Americans. That’s why I picked Alvarez Menzone.”
“The wrong man—”
“I’m not sure about that. He’s an odd customer. He left the Club Rivoli right while his luck was running good. I followed him last night. I dropped around at the apartment house this afternoon.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Menzone has a Filipino servant — evidently one whom he hired here in Washington. The servant is dumb. Menzone was not at home.”
“Yet you still think that he may figure in this?”
“I’d like to know more about him.”
“That’s simple. I’ll get any information that’s available. In the meantime, don’t waste too much time on the man. Find others that may appear suspicious. We’ll trace them all down.”
“That’s just what I intend to do, chief. At the same time, I’m going to keep my eyes open for this fellow Menzone. If he crosses my path, I’ll give him more than just a once-over.”
THERE was a pause. Fourrier was thinking. A frown appeared upon the divisional chief’s forehead.
“There’s one thing I’d like to know,” declared Fourrier. “That fight last night was a mighty brief one. It left Carraza bewildered. All that he can remember was gunfire — from two sides. Then he heard a car come driving up — brakes grinding — more shots. He was clipped in the shoulder; but in the meantime, his rescuers mopped up the entire crew that had him trapped.
“The car must have made a quick getaway. Carraza heard it drive off; and he heard something else, too. He says he heard a laugh — a weird laugh — one that he will never forget. Some of these South Americans are superstitious, but when Carraza told me about that laugh, I knew he meant it—”
Fourrier paused. He looked with alarm toward Vic Marquette. The operative was staring at his superior; his face was rigid.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Fourrier. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“I haven’t seen one,” responded Vic, in an awed tone. “I’ve just heard of one.”
“Heard of one? From whom?”
“From you. That laugh you mentioned. Chief, I know what it meant. You’re right that this affair is getting big. I know who it was who washed out that crew of mobsmen.”
“Are you going to tell me it was a ghost?”
“The next thing to it. Chief, it was The Shadow who got those mobsters. He’s the only person who could have done a job like that.”
“The Shadow?”
Vic Marquette smiled grimly. He nodded; then began his explanation. Fulton Fourrier listened half doubtingly. His interest increased as Marquette continued.
“They know about The Shadow in New York,” declared Marquette. “Who he is — what he is — that’s a mystery. The point is that The Shadow battles crooks. The underworld is afraid of him — more than they are the police.”
“I’ve heard something of it,” admitted Fourrier, in a tone of recollection. “But this isn’t New York.”
“It’s a case involving gangsters.”
“Yes. You’re right on that. But the theory ends there, Marquette. If this fighter you call The Shadow, is out to end gang rule, he’s accomplished what he’s after. Give him credit for wiping out that ugly band. But that ends his part.”
“Not a bit of it.” Vic’s tone was emphatic. “Chief, you can believe me or not when I tell you that The Shadow has played his part in putting down some of the greatest crime that this country has ever known.
“I’ve taken credit for some mighty big jobs. I’ll tell you, chief, that I’d never have come through some of them if it hadn’t been for The Shadow. He’s pulled me out of some tight jams.”
“And yet” — Fourrier’s tone was incredulous — “you don’t know who he is?”