Rochelle’s instructions were the response. Whistler checked them in brief phrases:
“Fee… Alk reef kay reen alk dake… Alk alk teeba kay reen kay beeta… Alk dake golo…”
Freely translated, Rochelle had declared:
“Yes. I shall bring him when I come. We shall hear him, when he will talk. I am coming now.”
Whistler Ingliss arose. He made a gesture to Clyde Burke. The words that he uttered in English were a partial explanation of the instructions which he had corroborated in Agro.
“You’re going with me,” Whistler informed Clyde. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sit tight. You’ll have a chance to do some talking where we’re going. And listen, bozo — I’m a guy that’s ready with the rod. See?”
Clyde saw. He knew that his only course was to do exactly as Whistler commanded. By such action, he would be safe — at least until he and Whistler had arrived at their destination.
Whistler approached Clyde and nudged him with the revolver. The Shadow’s agent willingly complied with Whistler’s order that they leave.
“We’re going out the side door,” stated Whistler. “No squawk out of you — see? Walk along like you were a friend of mine. Come on, now — this way—”
Whistler edged Clyde toward the door to the side passage. That door was closing. It locked. Whistler did not see the motion of the door nor did he hear the lock turn. The Shadow had withdrawn.
Producing a key, Whistler unlocked the little-used door with his left hand. With Clyde Burke at his side, the gambler pointed the way to the exit from the Club Rivoli.
He marched Clyde to a coupe. Taking the wheel, Whistler drove from the driveway, growling a warning threat that made Clyde rest motionless.
After the coupe had departed, a dim figure appeared in the glow that came from a side window of the Club Rivoli. A tall, spectral figure stood silent; then from hidden lips came a soft, weird laugh that was forbidding in tone.
The Shadow had seen all. Yet he had not moved to aid his captured agent! Instead, he had withdrawn from the scene! Clyde Burke had gone away a prisoner!
WHAT strange motive had withheld this king of action? The Shadow’s failure to aid Harry Vincent and Vic Marquette was explainable: they had been capable of caring for themselves. But Clyde Burke had been entirely helpless.
Some answer lay behind this riddle. Yet it was strange that The Shadow should remain passive at the moment when pursuit of Whistler Ingliss would have led him to the secret gathering of minions of crime.
The answer was The Shadow’s laugh. Eerie and unfathomable as it sounded in sibilant tones, that mockery carried an ominous portent.
The Shadow had withdrawn. His gliding steps were slow as they took him into darkness toward a parked cab near the front of the Club Rivoli. The whispered laugh had failed.
Darvin Rochelle — Alvarez Menzone — Whistler Ingliss — the lesser exponents of crime — all would be free to meet. The Shadow, in his dilatory appearance, could have gained but little inkling of what lay at stake.
Apparently, The Shadow had withdrawn. Why? Only The Shadow knew. The faint echoes of his laugh had been vague. Were they significant of hidden plans — or were they acceptance of defeat?
That question could be answered by The Shadow alone!
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MEETING
DARVIN ROCHELLE was standing on the first floor of his palatial mansion. Three of his servants were close by. Rochelle was speaking to them in English.
“You are ready?”
Nods were the response. Each man showed a gleaming revolver. Rochelle smiled.
“Be on guard. Our meeting must not be disturbed. Two more are to come: Senor Menzone and Miss Debronne. Ring once when Menzone arrives; then send him up. Twice for Miss Debronne.”
Chimes were tolling the hour of midnight when Darvin Rochelle turned toward the marble staircase. Rochelle limped to the steps; moved upward, then resumed his halting pace as he passed through the darkened anteroom.
The buzz of voices sounded as Rochelle entered his office and closed the door behind him. Seated about the room were trusted minions: Maurice Twindell, Whistler Ingliss, and the gang leader, Bugs Ritler. Two of Ritler’s mobsmen were present as guards. They occupied a corner of the room toward the anteroom. Between them, trussed on the floor, were three prisoners: Vic Marquette, Harry Vincent, and Clyde Burke.
The gags had been removed. Yet none of the three captives attempted to voice an outcry. The presence of the mobsters, the handles of big revolvers jutting from their hips, were sufficient to command silence.
Darvin Rochelle was smiling as he sat behind his huge desk. All the gloss had gone from his sometime silky countenance. Darvin Rochelle was a fiend unmasked, gloating as he began to outline the way to final triumph.
“Two members of our band,” declared Rochelle, “have not yet arrived. I shall reserve the details of our coming operations until they join us. A few preliminary remarks, however, may be appropriate.
“Tonight, we shall deal in wholesale assassination. Within this envelope” — he was holding up a sealed packet — “I have complete plans for the slaughter of nine prominent South Americans.
“Each death will be simple of execution. I have prepared all details and will appoint the proper workers. Moreover” — Rochelle’s smile was broadening — “I have arranged for the planting of false clews that will place the perpetration of crime upon men who are actually innocent.
“After our instructions have been given, we shall proceed with another task. We have visitors tonight” — Rochelle was indicating the prisoners with a sweep of his hands — “who have responded to our urge to attend this meeting. Perhaps they may have statements of their own to make. Perhaps not. It does not matter. We shall dispose of our guests in fitting fashion whether they choose to talk or to remain silent.
“One is a secret-service operative.” Rochelle pointed to Marquette. “We have dealt with his ilk before. Another is a newspaper correspondent who showed overanxiety in his quest for news.” Rochelle indicated Clyde Burke; then pointed to Harry Vincent. “Here we have a secretary who betrayed his trust. He tried to delve into his employer’s secrets.
“Fortunately, his employer was my competent lieutenant, Alvarez Menzone. To Menzone, my friends, belongs the credit for the final step which brought us to this time for action. He gained the last papers that I needed. Tonight, we embark upon the slaughter that will throw a continent into chaos — that will make you, the companions of Darvin Rochelle, important factors in the building of a mighty empire!”
Rochelle pointed emphatically to the massive globe, upon which the conical outline of South America showed most prominently. While the fiend who plotted war, was chuckling in unrepressed triumph, a buzzer sounded on the desk.
“Ah!” exclaimed Rochelle. “Menzone is here. He will be with us shortly. I left word for him to come directly to this meeting. You, Twindell, deserve credit for forming contact with Alvarez Menzone.
“The newest among us, Menzone has proven his competence. He will share in the deeds that I have planned for this night. We can count upon him—”
Rochelle paused. There was a rap from the other side of the door to the anteroom. Rochelle issued a friendly summons to enter. The door swung inward.
FOR a brief instant all within Rochelle’s office stared blankly. Then came harsh gasps. The darkness of the anteroom was moving. Like a creature from some hidden vault of space, a form was emerging from blackness. While hushed fiends still gazed, the outline became clear.
A being clad totally in black. A form enshrouded by the folds of an inky-hued cloak; features concealed beneath the brim of a broad slouch hat. Such was the weird shape that Rochelle and his minions saw.