“Fine words,” one was saying. “Rochelle is an idealist. That is all.”
“They’re drinking it in,” commented the second American.
“What of it?” questioned the first. “It’s the kind of talk they like. Libertad! Shout that word among a lot of South Americans and they raise a bigger cheer than a Japanese banzai. But when they come to settle things among themselves, nationalism runs riot.”
“This Pan-American Convention is—”
“Bah! Soapsuds! It looks good because they’re away from home. Wait until they get back where they belong. I’m giving you the truth when I say that the undercurrent of South American antagonism is tremendous.”
The speakers moved away. Alvarez Menzone smiled. These Americans were discussing the very facts that Darvin Rochelle had mentioned. South America, like a volcano with a dozen craters, was ready for eruption.
MENZONE strolled past groups of courteous diplomats and attaches. Men in resplendent uniforms; others in evening dress; all were bowing and exchanging greetings. Spanish and English were intermingled languages.
Again, Menzone stopped by a spot where two Americans were speaking in low tones. He flicked his cigarette into an ornate receiver as he paused to listen.
“Do you catch the chatter?” one man was asking the other. “Nothing about Bolivia and Paraguay. You’d think that Gran Chaco didn’t exist.”
“I heard Rochelle spouting peace and good will,” was the reply. “It was going over big. Two thirds of the listeners were in uniform. That’s irony, isn’t it?”
“They like their wars in South America. Things have been too quiet there. Old-fashioned warfare was their business. Believe me, they’re all watching modern methods in Gran Chaco. If they like them, it may be just too bad.”
Menzone strolled onward. He reached a side room, and drew a cigarette case from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and looked for a match. He had none. Moving a few paces, he approached a stocky man who was staring toward the reception hall.
“A match, senor?”
The man turned at Menzone’s question. His hand, moving to his pocket, stopped. Menzone’s keen eyes met those of a firm-faced fellow, who could not conceal the sudden recognition that had gripped him.
The man whom Alvarez Menzone had accosted was Vic Marquette. In an instant, the secret-service operative had recognized the South American as the one whom he had trailed from the Club Rivoli.
“A match, senor?”
The manner in which Menzone repeated the question showed apparent failure to observe the look of surprise upon the face of Vic Marquette. The secret-service man produced a pack of matches. Menzone accepted them with thanks. He lighted his cigarette and returned the pack. He strolled onward. Vic Marquette watched him.
A thin smile crept over Menzone’s lips. The man’s sallow face seemed craftier than ever.
Menzone had been more observant than Vic Marquette had supposed. Placing his cigarette between his lips, Menzone puffed in thoughtful fashion as he returned toward the group with which Darvin Rochelle was stationed.
“It is late.” Rochelle was beaming as he spoke. “I have a busy day tomorrow, gentlemen. I am preparing a copious report upon the subject of international relationship. It will be read in full at the Pan-American Convention.”
Warm, enthusiastic handshakes were extended. All moved away with the exception of the ambassador. Side by side with Darvin Rochelle, the uniformed diplomat moved toward the doorway.
The pair paused close by the spot where Alvarez Menzone was standing. An attache approached the ambassador. As the bearded man turned to speak to him, Rochelle edged closer to Menzone. He did not look at the suave South American; Menzone, in turn, was staring toward the door as he puffed his cigarette. The words that they exchanged, however, were audible.
“Alk kade,” murmured Rochelle, in Agro. “Bole zee rike. Bole veek rema. Deek ake alkro gomo exat vodo. Bole reef folo folo.”
“Fee,” returned Menzone, scarcely moving his lips. “Alk zay fela.”
Rochelle was turning to the ambassador. He limped beside the diplomat as they continued toward the door. Alvarez Menzone remained, totally indifferent to the passage of the pair.
NO one had overheard the conversation in Agro. No one would have understood the words had they been overheard. Secretly — yet with positive surety — Rochelle had told Menzone that he was leaving. He had instructed Menzone to remain at the embassy; to act later. He had added that Menzone was to come to his home tonight, bringing the papers.
Menzone, in return, had given an affirmative reply of understanding, with the added statement that he was ready.
Menzone’s long fingers dipped into his pocket. Apparently, they were seeking a match or a cigarette. Actually, they were obtaining a most important slip of paper: the combination to the embassy vault.
Watching eyes were on Alvarez Menzone. They were the eyes of Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative was peering from the adjoining room. He had not noticed the exchange of words between Alvarez Menzone and Darvin Rochelle. He was watching Menzone alone.
The tall South American strolled away. Vic kept him in sight. There was nothing in Menzone’s actions that could excite new suspicion; yet Vic was determined to pursue his quarry. The longer he watched, the more decided he became.
The very fact that Menzone was moving about in purposeless fashion convinced Marquette that the South American had a special reason for being here. Vic was determined to learn that reason. He saw Menzone pass into a side room. Vic waited, then followed.
The secret-service operative went by a huge curtain. He kept on. The moment that he passed, Menzone stepped into view and doubled on his tracks. Keeping to the wall of the reception room, the sallow-faced South American gained a hallway. He followed it and reached a door.
Slowly, Menzone turned the knob. He opened the door cautiously. He saw a heavy-browed attache seated at a table, reading a Latin-American newspaper. With catlike stealth, Menzone crouched. As he launched himself for a spring, the attache turned.
The man started to cry out; he was too late. Menzone’s swift attack bowled over the man and the chair in which he sat. So powerful was the sweeping spring that the attache did not catch a glimpse of his attacker’s face. A springing form that overturned him helpless, upon the thick carpeting. That was the only impression that the victim received.
Pinning his powerless opponent face downward on the floor, Menzone clamped the victim’s hands behind his back. With a quick sweep, he snapped the man’s belt buckle and whisked the belt away, His knee in the fellow’s back, he bound the man’s wrists.
The attache started to cry out. Menzone flattened him and suppressed him with a firm hand. He used the man’s handkerchief for a gag. Then, with snarled words in Spanish that warned his victim not to struggle, Menzone arose.
THIS room had heavy curtains. They were held with stout, ropelike cords. Menzone removed these and returned to the man on the floor. He completed the binding in expert fashion. Trussed hand and foot, the attache could not escape.
All the while, the cowed captive had lain face downward. He had not caught an identifying glimpse of the attacker. Menzone, turning his eyes toward a huge vault at the other end of the room, saw that his coming work would give the prisoner a chance to observe him. With a slight laugh, Menzone settled that matter. He turned out the light, as he drew a flashlight from his pocket.
By the glimmer of a small torch, Menzone approached the vault. He drew forth the paper that bore the combination. Working smoothly, he turned the knobs. He swung the door open and focused his flashlight within.