He turned and spoke to Jose. The Filipino went from the study. He returned, bringing two lengths of rope, which Harry remembered having seen about a large, old-fashioned trunk in Menzone’s bedroom.
Gripping Jose’s right hand with his own left, Menzone drew it to his gun hand; with a deft movement, he passed the short-barreled revolver to Jose without uncovering the prisoners.
While Jose held Harry and Vic at bay, Menzone went to each in turn. With rapid skill he trussed the prisoners and left them seated on the floor. He whisked handkerchiefs from a desk drawer and used them as gags.
Vic Marquette recalled the bound attache whom he had seen at the legation. He realized how cleverly the bonds had been applied to that man. He knew that Menzone was unquestionably the robber who had opened the ambassador’s vault.
“Guard them,” ordered Menzone, speaking in Spanish to Jose. “I shall leave the back door open. Men will come to take the prisoners. Remain here, Jose, until you hear from me. Be careful not to harm these prisoners. They will be needed later.”
Jose grunted his understanding. Alvarez Menzone turned and leered viciously as he faced Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette; then his suave smile returned. The shrewd South American bowed ironically and strolled from the study, leaving Jose in charge. Harry and Vic heard the front door close, announcing his departure.
Vic Marquette’s prediction was to be realized. Through an encounter with Alvarez Menzone, he and Harry Vincent were to meet the conspirator behind the schemes in which Menzone had played a single part. But they were not to meet that enemy as Vic had hoped. Helpless prisoners, they were to be carried to his domain!
Harry Vincent’s thoughts were bitter. If only he had been able to notify The Shadow. Harry did not know that The Shadow had been here. He did not realize that he and Vic Marquette had been left to prepare their trap for Alvarez Menzone.
Two against one: snarers in ambush! The odds — seemingly — had been with Harry and Vic, yet the waiting pair had failed.
How much had The Shadow banked on their success? That was a question. The fact remained that Alvarez Menzone was unconquered.
Darvin Rochelle’s lieutenant would keep the midnight meeting with his chief, despite the efforts of Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette. The two men upon whom The Shadow could most certainly rely had failed to ensnare Alvarez Menzone!
CHAPTER XVII
THE SHADOW WITHDRAWS
IT was nearly eleven o’clock. Clyde Burke was at the Club Rivoli. He had come here at The Shadow’s bidding — in response to one of those mysterious communications that came at unexpected intervals.
Clyde’s task tonight was a simple one. He had merely to keep an eye on events in the roulette room. Two men mentioned by The Shadow were under his observation. They were the secret-service operatives whom Fulton Fourrier had placed at the gay night club.
Clyde had also looked for gangsters in the booths close by the side entrance from the roulette room. Those booths were empty. Clyde had decided why. Whistler Ingliss unquestionably knew that secret-service men were on the job. He was not chancing gunmen in the place.
Whistler, himself, was free from surveillance. The secret-service men had evidently passed him. Clyde Burke, however, had not. On two or three occasions, he had seen Whistler saunter through the opening toward his office. Clyde was suspicious of those trips.
The Shadow’s agent had a hunch. Beyond the doorway at the side were cardrooms. What if Whistler had a new crew of mobsters stationed in one of those rooms! Out of sight of the secret-service operatives, the thugs would still be at Whistler’s beck!
That was why, as eleven neared, Clyde Burke decided to end his passive observations. Although The Shadow had ordered him to remain in the roulette room, Clyde felt the urge to extend the field of his inspection.
Whistler Ingliss had gone to his office. Clyde Burke decided to follow. The roulette room was well thronged. Clatter of chips and cries of croupiers caused considerable din, broken by the exasperated exclamations of losers at the tables.
Clyde made an easy circuit of the room, reached the doorway at the side and stepped into the passage. He had hopes that he would gain some valuable information to give The Shadow, should communication with his mysterious chief be established at eleven.
Clyde descended the steps. He went by a side passage that led off to the side exit from the Club Rivoli. He noted a door that was ajar; light issued from within. Clyde peered inside.
IT was Whistler’s office. The gambler was seated at his desk, telephoning.
“Fee.” The words that Whistler uttered were in Agro. “Kye kye kode. Sake alta joda. Seek boda joda… Kye kye deek ake bole… Fee… Kye kye reef co kye kye…”
Clyde did not understand the strange jargon. Whistler Ingliss was reporting to Darvin Rochelle. The gambler was telling his chief that they — the mobsmen — had gone; that they had left at twenty minutes after ten; that they would come to Rochelle and would bring along the men whom they had been sent to get.
This meant that Bugs Ritler and his new squad of mobsters were probably at Athena Court, picking up Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette, the prisoners who had been trapped through the cunning of Alvarez Menzone.
Whistler Ingliss hung up the receiver. The gambler opened a desk drawer and removed a revolver which he pocketed. He was preparing to leave the Club Rivoli. He had not mentioned the hour of midnight over the telephone; but he had an appointment at that time. With the others of Darvin Rochelle’s evil horde, he was due for the important conference.
Whistler was trilling a soft tune. Never perturbed, the gambler was as methodical and unconcerned as he would have been if starting to an ordinary social affair. A proof, however, of Whistler’s keenness was already on the way. The soft lilt that he was trilling was but a covering for a suspicion which he had gained.
Dropping hands into pocket, Whistler stood in meditative fashion. Suddenly he wheeled. In quick fashion, he bounded to the door of his office; at the same time, he whisked his gun from his pocket. A second later, he had yanked the door inward and was standing with revolver pressed against Clyde Burke’s ribs.
Clyde’s hands went up. Gripping Clyde’s shoulder, Whistler yanked The Shadow’s agent into the room and closed the door. He forced Clyde to the opposite side of the desk.
“So you’re a wise guy, eh?” demanded Whistler. “Snooping into my business. What’s the idea?”
Clyde was at loss for a reply.
“I know your game,” rasped Whistler. “You’re no government dick, but you’ve been around this place too often to be on the level. I figured that the Feds weren’t the only blokes on the job. Speak up. What do you know?”
“Nothing,” retorted Clyde.
“Nothing, eh?” questioned. Whistler. “We’ll find out about that.”
He glowered fiercely. Clyde Burke felt that his life was in the balance. Whistler seemed ready to loose the fire of his revolver. Yet the danger which Clyde sensed was purely imaginary.
The side door of the office had opened, silently, by inches. Peering into the room were a pair of blazing eyes; beneath them, the muzzle of a leveled automatic. Beyond that was blackness.
The Shadow had arrived. A hidden witness of this scene, he was covering Whistler Ingliss. Had the gambler sought to press finger to trigger, doom would have been his lot. The Shadow’s automatic was ready to bark before Whistler could fire.
THE gambler’s glare faded. Whistler laughed. He sat down at the desk. He lifted the telephone receiver. He put in a call. He heard Darvin Rochelle on the wire. In Agro, Whistler explained that he had taken a prisoner.