“Yes,” replied Tholbin, “it is already on its way.”
“There is one thing which I must tell you,” added Senov. “I have been informed that you are going to New York upon the steamship Gasconne. Upon that ship will be certain men to aid you, should you need them. They have never seen you. They will know you only by a sign—”
Tholbin interrupted by pressing the tips of his fingers and thumbs together. With digits wide apart, he formed an open-work figure.
“Ah!” exclaimed Senov, with approval. “You have already learned the sign of the crown. Good. You know how to recognize those men?”
“Each will wear a small stickpin with a crown,” answered Tholbin. “I have all the information here.”
He showed the end of an envelope from his inner pocket. Senov’s thick, brutal face displayed a firm smile.
“That is all good,” he declared. “You have received information as well as instructions. I know that all is well. I shall leave you, now. My duty is here in Paris. There may be trouble for me. I do not worry. Trouble for me means no trouble for you—”
Senov broke off his discourse, realizing that perhaps he was saying more than he should. He bowed and walked to the door. Tholbin followed him.
“It would be best for you to go ahead,” suggested Senov. “Perhaps, if I have been followed here — not likely, of course — but it is wise to be wise—”
David Tholbin shrugged his shoulders and went down a flight of steps to the lobby of the hotel. To him, these visits of Senov seemed a great hoax, engineered by the eccentric brain of the lawyer, Parker Noyes.
Tholbin had received various orders from Noyes; but the only foreign agent he had encountered was Senov. He knew nothing of the man’s history, and he did not care. He was leaving with the Waddells for Cherbourg, tonight. That, too, had been the doing of Parker Noyes.
All that concerned Tholbin was the fact that a large, heavily locked trunk had been delivered to his keeping, and that it was now on its way aboard ship.
IN the lobby, Tholbin paused long enough to settle a bill at the desk. The Frenchman in charge spoke English, and Tholbin, remembering that it would be wise to guard his actions, mentioned casually that he would be back within an hour.
Turning, a few minutes later, Tholbin saw Senov walking by and, almost unconsciously, nodded in the Russian’s direction. Senov ignored the sign and kept on his way.
Tholbin strolled from the hotel and walked in the opposite direction when he reached the street.
Scarcely had the two departed, before a third man stepped from an obscure corner of the lobby, and strode after the others. He stopped on the sidewalk and quickly noted that the paths had parted.
This man, a firm-faced, well-built American, was Clifford Marsland, agent of The Shadow. It had been his task to watch David Tholbin in New York. That work had brought him abroad, after Tholbin’s connection with Frederick Froman and Parker Noyes had become known to The Shadow’s operatives.
Until now, Cliff had noted but one suspicious action on the part of Tholbin. That had been the man’s first meeting with Senov. Cliff had only glimpsed the Russian then; now, he was sure that it was the same man.
Tholbin’s chance remark to the clerk had been deceiving to Cliff. The nod toward Senov, on the contrary, had been a give-away. Confronted by two tasks, Cliff chose the one that offered new possibilities. He took up the trail of Michael Senov.
The Russian hailed a taxicab a few blocks from the hotel. Cliff, passing by, heard him questioning the driver. Senov’s French was difficult for the taximan to understand. Cliff recognized the words that he was trying to say.
Senov was asking if the driver was acquainted with a certain district in the Montmartre. At last the man understood. Senov clambered into the cab. Cliff spied another cab and entered it. He gave the destination which Senov had chosen.
Cliff sensed that he was headed for adventure. A veteran of the World War, he was familiar with Paris and spoke French fluently. He had no idea what Senov’s connection might be with Tholbin, but he was determined to gain the information tonight.
He urged the driver to hasten, hoping that he would arrive at the spot named almost as soon as Senov.
As the cab turned from the more traveled streets, Cliff felt sure that the Russian — whose name he did not know — must be bound for some obscure hideout.
When the cab came to a stop, Cliff, peering forth, saw another solitary vehicle two hundred feet ahead.
He decided that it must be the cab that he was following.
Speaking in a low voice to the driver, Cliff told the man to wait. He thrust a handful of French coins into the driver’s hand, and promised more upon his return.
SLOWLY approaching the cab ahead, Cliff saw the heavy-set form of Senov on the curb. The Russian’s vehicle departed, and Cliff took up the trail on foot.
He threaded his way through devious alleys, and finally saw his man enter the gate that adjoined an old, dilapidated underground cafe.
A sign gave Cliff the name of the establishment. In dim letters on a battered sign he read the words: L’AIGLE D’ARGENT
Cliff repeated the name in English as he returned to the place where his cabman was waiting.
“The Silver Eagle,” he murmured to himself. “Never heard of it before. Wonder if it’s an Apache hangout.”
Reaching the cab, he drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and inscribed a brief note with his fountain pen. The words that he wrote were in a special code that he used in all negotiations with The Shadow.
Cliff folded the note hurriedly, and placed it in an envelope. He used another pen to write the address.
This was because he had utilized a special ink for the actual message. All of The Shadow’s correspondence was done with an invisible fluid that disappeared after the recipient had read it.
“Take this to the Hotel de Burgundy,” ordered Cliff, giving the driver the note, along with another handful of coins.
The driver nodded and noted the inscription. The envelope was addressed to Mr. Henry Arnaud, care of the Hotel de Burgundy.
Cliff smiled in satisfaction as the cab pulled away. He did not know whether other of The Shadow’s agents were in Paris; but any who might be here would call for that note, and thus learn where Cliff had gone.
Strolling back to L’Aigle d’Argent, Cliff quietly opened the gate in back of it. He looked about him to make sure that no one was watching. Cliff’s gaze was keen, but it failed to discern two men who were standing beneath a low bay window on the opposite side of the street.
Positive that the man who had entered here must be an important figure in some unknown plot, Cliff was determined to confront him face to face.
Cliff’s spirit was an adventurous one. Gun play, to him, was a more effective form of action than mere craftiness. For this reason, he served The Shadow only in special situations.
Cliff knew that he had been sent to Paris because of his knowledge of the European capital. Foolish action might bring trouble. Nevertheless, The Shadow’s agents were free to follow their own dictates in times of emergency.
Cliff’s first action was to try a door in the side of the house. To his surprise, it opened. He entered and found a flight of rickety stairs lighted by a single gas jet. Cliff ascended and noted three doors. Light shone under one.
With automatic in hand, Cliff slowly turned the knob of the door and entered the room. A man was sitting at an old table, his back to the door. The window shade was drawn. The man turned instinctively, a moment after Cliff had entered.
IT was Michael Senov, caught entirely unawares. The Russian sat dumfounded. At a gesture from Cliff, he slowly raised his arms, uttering low, questioning words in Russian.