A new outlet for American millions! Clyde could see the editorial comment that the story would bring. The other Washington newspapers would pounce upon it. Alvarez Menzone would be interviewed by many before this day was ended.
Harry Vincent, already on his way to Menzone’s, would have immediate duties as secretary to the South American. Clyde smiled as he pounded out the concluding paragraph of his story, to complete the article before the copy boy’s arrival.
Alvarez Menzone was crashing the limelight. Why? Because The Shadow so desired. Somehow, The Shadow had foreseen this possibility. What was The Shadow’s purpose? Only The Shadow knew.
Spiderlike, The Shadow was spinning an invisible web. Here, in Washington, the being who battled crime was meeting craft with craft. Some master plotter of evil was lurking in the background. The Shadow sought to bring him to light.
Through the exploitation of Alvarez Menzone, the South American who had gained the acquaintanceship of Maurice Twindell, The Shadow was tending toward his goal. Action on the speedway was being followed by under-cover progress in Washington.
Through Clyde Burke, The Shadow had gained the points he needed. He was bringing Alvarez Menzone into prominence. He had placed his own man — Harry Vincent — close to Menzone.
The Shadow knew that this would bring results. The ultimate was something which The Shadow, alone, could foresee. The Shadow, master worker, was seeking to bring crime from its lair.
CHAPTER XI
ROCHELLE RESPONDS
DARVIN ROCHELLE was seated behind his huge, flat-topped mahogany desk. His lips were firmly set. His gaze was harsh as his eyes turned toward the man who was sitting close to the huge globe of the world.
Rochelle’s companion was Maurice Twindell. The habitue of the Club Rivoli was attired in a business suit; he still retained the debonair manner that was characteristic when he appeared in evening clothes.
“We have met with difficulty, Maurice,” observed Rochelle. “The final goal was within attainment, until that trouble struck on the speedway.”
“I didn’t think Bugs Ritler would fail you,” remarked Twindell glumly. “It was a set-up — to kill Lito Carraza and get his papers. I don’t see yet how Bugs missed out.”
“I have the explanation,” asserted Rochelle. “Bugs managed to escape. That is fortunate. He reported back to Whistler Ingliss — in Agro — and told him what had happened. Bugs knows who it was that broke up his mob so swiftly.”
“Another crew of gangsters?”
“No. A lone fighter, Maurice. The one whom all mobsmen fear. The Shadow.”
Twindell showed signs of bewilderment mixed with apprehension. Rochelle smiled.
“The Shadow, Maurice,” explained the man with the limp, “is a power unto himself. His usual habitat is New York City, but he has frequently been encountered elsewhere. His pastime is to fight whole gangs; to down them single-handed. He has been despicably successful. That is why I state again that Bugs Ritler was lucky to escape.”
“You mean,” interjected Twindell, “that this one man mopped up a whole crew?”
“I did not say one man,” returned Rochelle. “I said The Shadow. He is more than a man, Maurice. He is a phantom of the night. A ghost that comes to life. For months, my schemes have been marked by steady success. Months narrowed to days; days to hours; hours to minutes. Then, when seconds only lay between me and the culmination of my scheme, The Shadow intervened!”
“To destroy your plans?”
“To balk them. From now on, Maurice, my old methods will be useless. Had we trapped Lito Carraza, I would have needed nothing more. Now, however—”
The telephone bell interrupted. Rochelle picked up the instrument and spoke. He changed from English into Agro.
“Kye kye zo kire?” he questioned. “Kye zay voso… Voso voso… Bole zee thone… Fee. Thone thone… Bole vake eef… Alk beeta bole reen kye zee sovo… Fee. Rema.”
Rochelle hung up the receiver. He turned to Maurice Twindell.
THE young man seemed to understand the reason for the annoyed expression which was on Rochelle’s face. Agro was plain to Twindell. But he had heard only one end of the conversation.
“Whistler Ingliss,” remarked Rochelle. “He tells me that secret-service operatives were at his place last night. You heard my answer. I told him to be very careful. Things are bad, but I promised to let him know when all is well.”
“With the operatives covering,” observed Twindell, “it’s a cinch you can’t make a move from the Club Rivoli.”
“Operatives?” Rochelle spat the question. “Bah! If another man should appear at the Club Rivoli with those papers that I want, I could snatch him out from under the noses of secret-service men.
“It is The Shadow who could prevent it!” Rochelle pounded the desk emphatically. “He scents mobsters as a fox trails a hare. Gangsters cannot thwart him. What is more, Maurice, The Shadow is a sleuth extraordinary. It is on his account — more so than that of the secret service — that I sent Anita Debronne into hiding.
“That is where you are going, Maurice. Out of town, to await my summons. This is your final visit here until my plans have been completed.”
“But how—”
“Listen.” Rochelle held up his hand for silence. “I am changing tactics, Maurice. I have used direct tactics because they succeeded. I needed you and Anita to lure victims to their doom. Such mechanism is useless now. I shall reserve it for the final stroke — the deeds which will follow the gaining of the documents which I have not yet obtained.
“Stealth is required. Real espionage, the art at which I am so skilled. The correspondence which Lito Carraza carried is stowed away in safety — deep within the safe at Carraza’s legation.
“Mob raids would be futile. I need a new instrument: one that I can use to full advantage. You, Maurice, have provided me with such an instrument.”
“I?”
“Yes.” Rochelle smiled with evil expression. “On the night of Bugs Ritler’s failure, you met a man from South America. Alvarez Menzone. You told me about him — a man of wealth, here in Washington to promote American capital for rail development in the southern continent.”
“Yes. He talked with me as we rode back from the Club Rivoli. I saw nothing of value, except that he had international experience.”
“That was sufficient.” Rochelle was tapping the desk as he smiled. “I have consulted my files, Maurice. I have learned facts that interest me concerning Alvarez Menzone. I saw how he might prove useful. There was only one drawback.”
“What was that?”
“His nonentity in Washington. A man may be important in South America, yet remain unrecognized here. Conversely, certain men of little repute in their own lands may be feted and lionized in this foolish city.
“Publicity is the deity which Americans worship. Let a man reach the news — his reputation is established. Since your acquaintance with Alvarez Menzone, his name has come into print.”
ROCHELLE reached to the side of the disk and tossed three newspapers to Twindell. The young man nodded as he noted Menzone’s picture on each front page.
“I saw these,” remarked Twindell. “Menzone has crashed the front page all right. You mean that this is to our advantage?”
“Positively. I should like very much, Maurice, to receive Alvarez Menzone as a visitor. Let me suggest that when you leave here, you call upon our friend from South America.