“I’ve seen him.” Vic was speaking in a tone of serious recollection. “I’ve heard his laugh. He is a ghost — The Shadow — a phantom completely cloaked in black. He moves with incredible swiftness. He strikes without mercy. He leaves as he comes. You can’t trace him, chief.”
Fourrier’s brow was wrinkled. Vic noted his chief’s expression. He realized that Fourrier doubted these statements; that the chief was worried about his operative’s sanity.
“I’m not dreaming,” asserted Marquette, as he rose to his feet. “I’m telling you of things I’ve witnessed, under unbelievable circumstances. The Shadow is a power; and he fights for justice. If he is here in Washington, it’s not to handle a bunch of imported gangsters and then quit.
“It looks to me like The Shadow was in this deal. He has agents, and I’m mighty sure I know who one of them is. Maybe I’ll get a line on The Shadow while I’m working on this case. If I do, it’s going to help.
“Chief, the break is coming. I’m convinced of it; and you can count on me. I’m starting out tonight with more confidence than I’ve ever had — and if you want the reason, I’ll give it to you. It’s because Lito Carraza heard that laugh out on the speedway.”
Fulton Fourrier smiled indulgently. Marquette’s determination had put his chief’s mind at ease. Fourrier followed Vic to the door; there, he clapped his operative on the shoulder.
“I don’t disbelieve you, Marquette,” he declared. “Your record shows what you have done; and you wouldn’t take credit from yourself if you weren’t convinced that it belonged elsewhere. If you’ve received aid from some mysterious source and think you’re going to get it again, so much the better.
“Don’t worry too much about Alvarez Menzone. I’ll look up the fellow’s record. And don’t bank too much on The Shadow. Maybe you have a trend toward exaggerating his prowess.
“Get results. I’m counting on you. We’re going to get to the bottom of this plot that has taken off six men and failed only when it struck the seventh.”
Vic nodded his agreement. He went out through the door. Fulton Fourrier closed the portal, then turned back to his writing table, shaking his head in new doubt. It was evident that Vic Marquette’s talk of The Shadow had not been entirely convincing.
AT the writing table, Fulton Fourrier felt uneasy. He glanced back over his shoulder. He noted that the French windows were ajar. He went and closed them.
For one brief second, while his hands were upon the window frames, Fulton Fourrier was face to face with the very being whose existence he doubted!
Beyond those windows stood the black-garbed being of whom Vic Marquette had spoken. Fourrier, however, did not see the sable-hued form. Merged with outer darkness, The Shadow was a creature invisible.
Fourrier returned to the writing table. As he sat down, he started as a surprising echo reached his ears. It seemed like the faint, hollow tone of a whispered laugh. It reminded him of the mockery which Lito Carraza had described; of the mirth which Vic Marquette had corroborated.
Fulton Fourrier sat motionless. At last, he shrugged his shoulders. He attributed that weird sound to a touch of imagination. He decided to forget it.
Yet, as he studied report sheets, the chief could not shake off that haunting sound. It persisted as a chilling recollection.
Small wonder! That was a laugh which no one could forget. Fulton Fourrier, though he did not realize the truth, had heard the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER X
BURKE’S INTERVIEW
ON the following morning, Clyde Burke entered his office to find an unposted letter in the mail box. He opened it and scanned blue-inked lines that were inscribed in The Shadow’s code. The message contained concise instructions:
Interview Alvarez Menzone, Athena Court. Suggest that he may become a man of consequence in Washington. Offer to obtain a competent secretary to handle his correspondence. Return to your office and await a call.
The name of Alvarez Menzone was not familiar to Clyde Burke. The newspaperman picked up the telephone book and looked for the name. He did not find it. He located the apartment house, however, and decided that a visit to Menzone’s residence would be the best step.
Clyde picked up the paper which had contained The Shadow’s message. The sheet had turned blank while Clyde had been consulting the telephone book. The Shadow’s agent tossed the paper into the wastebasket. He took his hat and left the office.
Arriving at Athena Court, Clyde looked over the name plates and discovered that of Alvarez Menzone. The apartment number was 3-D. Clyde entered the deserted lobby, took the automatic elevator to the third floor, and found the apartment that he wanted. He pressed a button beside the door.
A minute passed. The door opened. A dull-faced Filipino, clad in white coat and black trousers, stared at the visitor.
“What you want?” he asked.
“I have come to see Mr. Menzone,” replied Clyde.
“Nobody is home,” informed the Filipino. “Mr. Menzone, he is away.”
The servant was about to close the door in Clyde’s face when a voice called from an inner room:
“Who is it, Jose?”
“Man to see you, sir,” replied the Filipino, in a dull monotone.
“Tell him to come in,” repeated the voice. The accents showed the speaker to be a foreigner.
Jose complied. He stepped aside and reluctantly allowed Clyde Burke to enter.
THE newspaperman found himself in a well-furnished living room. As he stood within the door, a man attired in a dressing gown appeared from another doorway.
Clyde Burke could not repress a stare. He had seen this man before. He was the South American whom Clyde had viewed from the booth at the Club Rivoli — the one who had gone out with an American whom Clyde had watched — the one whom Vic Marquette had followed!
“Buenos dios, senor,” greeted Menzone, with a gleaming smile. “I am Alvarez Menzone. You have come to see me?”
“Yes,” answered Clyde. “My name is Burke. I am manager of the National City News Association — a Washington organization that corresponds with journals in other cities.”
“Ah!” Menzone’s tone showed interest. “You have come to interview me?”
“Exactly,” returned Clyde.
Menzone seated himself in an armchair and waved Clyde to another seat. He picked up a wooden box, opened it to extract a cigarette, and offered one to Clyde Burke. The newspaperman accepted.
“You must excuse my servant,” remarked Menzone, as he was lighting his cigarette. “He is very stupid, sometimes. I told him that I wished to see no one until later. He should not have told you that I was out, however. Gentlemen of the press are always welcome.
“An interview.” Menzone smiled reminiscently. “I have given many of them, senor, but always in South America. This is my first experience in the United States. I suppose you wish to know why I am in Washington?”
“Yes.”
“I have come” — Menzone seemed very serious — “to aid in the promotion of international good will. I am an internationalist, senor, so far as South America is concerned. The entire continent is familiar ground to me.
“Ah! What a future lies there! Through peace and harmony, South America could lead the world. Communication. Better communication. That is the first step that we must make. Not communication, senor — that is not exactly the word I want. Let me see what—”
“Transportation?”
“That is it, senor! Transportation. Let me explain.”
Menzone went to the corner of the room and brought back a huge stack of papers. He produced a large printed map of South America. He pointed to lines of different colors.