“Tonight, Maurice, I want you to be cordial to any Spanish-Americans whom you may chance to meet. There will be convention delegates at the Club Rivoli. Make friends with any who may be of use.”
The telephone rang as Rochelle completed his statement. Rochelle picked up the instrument. He listened to words that came through the receiver; then answered in his odd language.
“Key zay kire golo?” His tone was questioning. “Sovo… Fee… Kay zay rike. Kay deek rema… Fee. Alk fare kay ake robole gomo.”
Rochelle hung up the receiver. He turned to Twindell, who put a casual question, pointing to the telephone as he spoke.
“Whistler Ingliss?” inquired Twindell.
“Yes,” returned Rochelle. “Anita is out at the Club Rivoli. I told Whistler you would be there soon. Remember what I have told you, Twindell. Keep your eyes open at the Rivoli. So far, I have confined our work to definite tasks. Now, with the goal in sight, we may need special information; we may also be able to use other aids.”
ROCHELLE was tapping thoughtfully upon the table. His conversation with Whistler Ingliss had brought a sober expression to his face.
“A few nights ago,” remarked Rochelle, “Whistler was forced to dispose of a troublesome visitor. The man was a secret-service operative. He came to the Club Rivoli to question Whistler regarding Glade Tromboll.”
Maurice Twindell started in momentary alarm. He regained his composure and stared hard at Rochelle.
“Bugs Ritler was at the Club Rivoli,” resumed Rochelle, “with members of his crew. Whistler gave Bugs the signal. Bugs did the rest. Whistler called me afterward, to tell me how he had acted. I commended him upon his promptness.
“That is why I phoned you, Maurice, and told you, in Agro, to stay away from here until this evening. The fact that a secret-service man had gotten as far as the Club Rivoli made it advisable for us to be cautious.
“However, there has been no recurrence. Whistler is sure that Dolband — the secret-service man — was working on his own. If another investigator should take up the trail, Whistler may be forced to act again.
“So be wary, Maurice. Call me before you visit. Use Agro as usual; and avoid mention of names over the wire. Initials — in Agro — of those whom we know will suffice; for strangers, spell the names in Agro letters.”
Rochelle opened a drawer as he finished speaking. He pulled a stack of bills into view and tossed the money to Twindell. The young man’s face gleamed. There was a thousand dollars in the bundle.
“Keep track of any losses if you play roulette,” reminded Rochelle. “I shall make them good, as usual. If you win — keep the profits for yourself. But remember — do not play too heavily. It would not look well.”
Maurice Twindell nodded as he pocketed the money. An avaricious smile appeared upon the young man’s face. Rochelle noted it and repressed a smile of his own.
He knew Twindell’s weakness. He had bought this man as he had bought others. Rochelle indulged in a chuckle as the door of the anteroom closed behind the departing form of Maurice Twindell.
Outside of Rochelle’s mansion, Maurice Twindell strolled to the nearest avenue. There he hailed a taxicab. He ordered the driver to take him to the Club Rivoli, across the Potomac. The cab rolled along. Twindell, lighting a cigarette, stared from the window as the cab passed the Hotel Starlett.
ODDLY, a taxi parked close to that hotel had just picked up a passenger for the same destination that Twindell had chosen. The driver of the second vehicle, however, had not been hailed from the street.
His first inkling that he had a passenger came when a voice spoke quietly from the rear seat of the parked cab. A whispered monotone ordered the taximan to drive over the Potomac to the Club Rivoli.
The driver started his cab. He wondered, as he drove along, how that passenger had entered without his hearing. The cab driver had been quite alert, watching for possible passengers. Had he known the identity of the fare who occupied his cab, he might have gained the explanation.
The passenger was The Shadow. He, too, had chosen the Club Rivoli as his objective. The Shadow had divined the truth of Carl Dolband’s disappearance. It had not taken him long to gain that trail.
Since his arrival in Washington, The Shadow had received a report from Clyde Burke. It had told of mysterious happenings which Clyde had observed at the Club Rivoli. The Shadow had spotted hidden crime.
Coupled to this was the talk that The Shadow had overheard between Vic Marquette and Fulton Fourrier. Clyde’s report of a special visitor to see Whistler Ingliss; the departure of men who looked like thugs — these had been sufficient for The Shadow to assume that Carl Dolband had met with misfortune at the gay night club across the Potomac.
Moreover, the Club Rivoli was a logical spot. It was a meeting place that attracted many South Americans. This was not the first visit that The Shadow was making to the gambling hall run by Whistler Ingliss. He had traveled to the Club Rivoli each night since his arrival in Washington.
The Shadow’s cab made a rapid trip. The driver pulled up near the front door of the Club Rivoli. A hand came through the partition and tendered a bill. The driver took it and began to make change. When he looked for his passenger, he found the cab empty.
Perplexed, the driver scratched his head; then pocketed the bill that he had received and started the trip back to Washington.
As the cab swerved in the driveway, its headlights threw a beam toward a walk that led to the little used side entrance of the Club Rivoli. Long streaks of shaded blackness showed in the gleam. The driver did not notice them. Mere shadows did not interest him.
When the cab had passed, however, there was motion at the spot where the driver had viewed nothing but blackened streaks. There was a slight swish in the darkness. A being who moved with invisible stealth was making his way to the side entrance of the Club Rivoli.
A SPECTRAL form reached a locked doorway. A slight click marked The Shadow’s prying efforts with a pick. The door opened. The Shadow entered the little side passage that led by the office which Whistler Ingliss used.
Reaching the secluded door of the office, The Shadow performed another silent operation with the pick. The door opened inward, by inches. Peering eyes gazed into the lighted office. The room was empty. The door closed. The Shadow moved toward the main passage.
With ghostly strides, the mysterious visitant ascended the short flight of steps. He paused by a niche just before he reached the roulette room. Here, totally unseen, he watched, his tall, black-garbed form merged with the darkness of the niche.
The roulette room was well thronged. Yet The Shadow, with piercing gaze, singled out each person one by one.
He spied Whistler Ingliss, standing near a roulette table. Beyond, he saw Clyde Burke. The newspaperman was playing a cautious game of roulette.
Farther away, The Shadow observed a third man. It was Vic Marquette. The secret-service operative was wearing a tuxedo. He was playing the part of a chance visitor to the Club Rivoli. A soft laugh came in an almost inaudible whisper from The Shadow’s hidden lips.
Vic Marquette was playing a wise game. He was one operative who was not known in Washington. He had not made the blunder of announcing himself to Whistler Ingliss. Like Carl Dolband, Vic Marquette had picked the Club Rivoli as a spot to watch; but he was following a course that showed discretion.
New patrons were entering the club. The Shadow spotted them with steady gaze. One was a young man in faultless evening attire. It was Maurice Twindell. The Shadow’s eye followed the direction of Twindell’s gaze. He saw the young man stare toward Whistler Ingliss; he caught the gambler’s return glance. That was all.