The profiteer sank without a gasp. His body crumpled to the floor upon a square rug that rested beneath his chair. Thurk leaped from the globe and scrambled forward to crouch above his victim. Rochelle stood with an evil smile upon his face.
“Bole voke sovo, Thurk,” commended Rochelle. “Bole kade. Logo dake dake.”
Properly interpreted, Rochelle had said:
“You have done well, Thurk. Go. Then come back.”
The dwarf hoisted Herkimer’s body upon his shoulders. Gleefully, he staggered from the room through the door that led to the spiral staircase in the rear. On the small rug where Herkimer had lain, a pool of blood remained as evidence of murder.
Rochelle went to a closet and brought out a rug of the same size, but of different pattern. He moved the chair aside and placed the rug upon it. He went behind the desk. When Thurk returned, Rochelle pointed to the original rug with its blotting blood.
“Alk rajo eef kye,” he said; in English: “I do not want it.”
Thurk grinned. He folded the bloodstained rug and carried it from the room. The slight trace of crimson had seeped through. Rochelle covered it with the new rug and put the chair back in position. He closed the huge globe and resumed his customary chair.
The insidious leer on Rochelle’s features betrayed the fiend’s anticipation. To Darvin Rochelle, the violent death that Thurk had dealt to Croydon Herkimer was a mere appetizer to the feast of murder that was planned for this night of doom.
CHAPTER XVI
THE TRAP THAT FAILED
DARVIN ROCHELLE, most insidious of schemers, had laid a perfect death trap for Croydon Herkimer. Through it, the supercrook had dealt doom to a lesser exponent of evil. Herkimer had been willing to countenance death. His own demise was scarcely undeserved.
While Rochelle was still gloating over the crafty fashion in which he had disposed of the profiteer whom he no longer needed, another trap was awaiting a victim — elsewhere in Washington.
In the apartment on the third floor of Athena Court, Vic Marquette and Harry Vincent were lying in wait for Alvarez Menzone. Had Darvin Rochelle known this, his gloating would have turned to apprehension. Alvarez Menzone had become a most important cog in the criminal mechanism controlled by Rochelle.
Vic Marquette, swearing in Harry to service, had assumed full charge. Picking Menzone’s living room at the strategic point, Vic had posted Harry behind a table opposite the door. In turn, Vic had chosen a corner by a bookcase. Vic had provided Harry with a revolver. Waiting, the pair was ready to trap Menzone the moment that he might appear.
Through the hush of the room came Vic’s inquiring undertone — a question addressed to Harry Vincent:
“This Filipino of Menzone’s — can he make trouble?”
“No.” Harry’s whisper was reassuring. “Jose is always asleep. We have not disturbed him. We can handle him easily if we raise a commotion in capturing Menzone.”
“All right.” Vic seemed satisfied. “I’m going to cover this fellow Menzone the moment he walks in. You back me up — and be ready to handle Jose if he appears.”
“There’s a back door,” remarked Harry. “It leads to a hall by the fire tower. Jose could scramble that way; but he’ll have to come into the passage from his room.”
“Watch the passage then,” ordered Vic. “After we bag Menzone. We’re going to haul in the Filipino, too — even if he is stupid.”
MINUTES ticked by. Vic had raised a window to a space of several inches. He heard a sound from the street. He motioned to Harry.
“Sounds like a taxi,” warned Vic. “Maybe it’s Menzone coming home.”
“Listen for the automatic elevator,” whispered Harry.
A minute; then came the dull, mechanical sound of the elevator. Both Harry and Vic were timing it. Both were sure that the elevator had reached the third floor when it stopped.
Had Alvarez Menzone returned? Or had some other dweller on this floor come up by the elevator? No footsteps could be heard. The answer depended upon whether or not the click of a key would sound at the apartment door.
A full minute. Harry and Vic decided that Menzone had not arrived; nevertheless, they were tense. Some trifling delay might have caused the South American to pause outside the door of his apartment.
Then came the unexpected. Harry Vincent, startled by the sound of a fierce snarl, turned quickly toward the opening to the passage that led by Menzone’s study. Vic Marquette copied Harry’s example.
Both men were staring at a tall, sallow-faced intruder who had appeared from the passage. It was Alvarez Menzone!
In his hand, the South American held a stub-nosed revolver. From his position, he had Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette on an almost direct line. The gleaming grin on Menzone’s face; the fierce challenge that showed in his eyes — these were sufficient.
Helplessly, Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette dropped their revolvers and raised their hands. The trappers were trapped. Menzone’s sneaking arrival had caught them unaware. The South American had entered from a direction that Vincent and Marquette had not considered.
“Ah, senores.” Menzone’s velvet tones showed hidden venom. “You have been awaiting me? Very kind of you. I regret that I was unable to oblige you by entering through the door which you were watching.
“Sometimes, senores, one remembers a trifling mistake that may cause trouble. Tonight, I recalled a little book which I had left in my desk. What if someone should have found it!
“Ah, senores, that is why I decided to come in from the back door, after I had ascended in the elevator. I was wise, eh? I have found a traitor and an enemy.”
Menzone was moving into the living room as he spoke. An emphatic gesture of his gun hand brought understanding to Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette. With hands raised, the trapped trappers followed a beckoning motion. Menzone stepped aside and herded his prisoners toward the passage. Keeping them constantly covered with his revolver, he marched them into the study and forced them up against the wall.
Standing beyond the open door, Menzone uttered a sharp, hissing call for Jose. He repeated the cry. Its noise was penetrating. Menzone stepped into the study as Jose appeared. The Filipino entered, sleepily rubbing his eyes.
“Be ready, Jose,” ordered Menzone, in Spanish. “I shall need you.”
CALMLY keeping Harry and Vic covered, the South American seated himself at the desk. He called a number on the telephone. His eyes gleamed as he recognized the voice at the other end.
“Alt Mode,” announced Menzone. These words, Harry recalled, were letter symbols of the Agro alphabet. A. M. - evidently an initialed proclamation of Menzone’s identity.
“Boda co kye kye,” stated Menzone. “Rike… Ode alkro gomo… Fee… Teeba alk alk kye kye?… Sovo… Bole feer co kye kye…”
Harry was grasping the meaning as Menzone hung up the receiver. The South American had been talking to his chief. This was the import of his words:
“Two men. Here… At my house… Yes… Shall we question them?… Good… You will send men…”
Vic Marquette stared blankly. He had not examined the Agro code book closely enough to gain even a crude understanding of the phonetic language. Menzone smiled. With a bow, he explained:
“You are fortunate, senores,” he declared, in a sarcastic tone. “I have just talked with a man who is interested in your capture. He likes my suggestion that you be sent to him. He is making the necessary arrangements.
“You will have the pleasure, senores, of being present at a most important meeting that will be set for midnight. I shall be there — with many others. You will be questioned at that time. Perhaps, when persuaded, you will find it wise to talk.”