“You know of The Shadow?”
The query came from Lord Bixley. Delka nodded.
“The Shadow has operated in London,” he stated. “It was he who solved the case of the notorious crook called The Harvester (Note: See Vol. XV No. 2 “The London Crimes.”); it was The Shadow who exposed the ways of Barton Modbury, the master of Chiswold Castle.
“The Shadow is a superthreat to all who deal in crime. Since he is in Paris, I can state from experience that Zemba’s days are numbered. This is no discredit to you, Robeq” — Delka turned to the detective, who bowed — “because I know that you agree with me. You have, yourself, declared that The Shadow is a potent factor. Your own statement is a tribute to your wisdom.”
“I take it then, Delka, that you agree with the prefect,” declared Lord Bixley. “We should rely upon Robeq. Furthermore, we may be doubly confident, because of this mysterious worker whom you term The Shadow.”
“Quite so.”
LORD BIXLEY looked around the group. He received mumbles of approval. The French foreign minister smiled. The matter was settled. Robeq took the floor.
“I shall proceed at once with measures of my own,” he declared. “At the same time, I shall keep in contact with the prefecture. Not in person, nor by notes; but through one man whom we can trust. Not yourself, Monsieur le Prefet, for you are the very person who might be watched. I shall choose this aid of yours, Sergeant Rusanne.”
Robeq scrawled something on a sheet of paper. He folded it and gave the note to Rusanne.
“My address,” he told the sergeant, “and with it, the name that I shall assume. Be careful when you contact me, sergeant; and I shall be careful likewise. And to you, Monsieur le Prefet, this reminder. Whatever may be mentioned concerning myself, from any source, be sure to give the word to Sergeant Rusanne.”
“I shall do more than that,” affirmed Clandine. “I shall detail Sergeant Rusanne to the sole duty of handling all that pertains to Etienne Robeq.”
“But you must be sure that Rusanne appears to be handling other duties.”
“A good point, Robeq. Then none will suspect.”
“Exactly. It must not be known that I am in contact with the prefecture.”
“You may rely upon Rusanne and myself to protect the secret.”
Etienne Robeq turned on his heel. He strode to the door. There he stopped and extended his left hand toward his audience, with thumb and fingers straightened, wide apart. He spoke two words:
“Five days.”
“Then, dropping his left arm to his side, Robeq stiffened, clicked his heels and delivered a salute with his right hand, in the fashion of a legionnaire. As the others gestured in return, the soldierlike detective stalked from the office and closed the door behind him.
Buzzes of approval broke out among the delegates, while men of different nationalities shook hands in common accord. The delegates had agreed. They would trust in Etienne Robeq. Out from cover, the celebrated detective had gone back again, promising the capture of Gaspard Zemba.
One man present wore a keen smile. That one was Eric Delka. He had clinched the game for Robeq; but he did not expect the detective to capture Zemba. Delka was counting upon another to do that work. His faith lay in The Shadow!
CHAPTER VIII
AGENTS OF THE SHADOW
EVENING had arrived in Paris. The lights of the metropolis formed a welcoming glow to the passengers who stepped from the Gare Saint-Lazare, arrived by the State Railways from Cherbourg.
Many of these were Americans, catching their first glimpse of Paris; but among the throng were too young men who showed familiarity with their surroundings. Lugging their heavy suitcases, they made directly for a waiting taxicab. One bought a newspaper while the other spoke to the driver regarding the Hotel Moderne.
Soon the cab was riding along a boulevard, where brilliant lights revealed the faces of the two Americans. One was a keen, clean-cut young chap, whose manner was brisk. The other, a trifle older, possessed a square jaw and a more stolid attitude. The first named was Harry Vincent; the second, Cliff Marsland. Both were agents of The Shadow.
It was Harry who had purchased the newspaper, while Cliff had spoken to the taxi driver. Glimpsing the headlines, Harry pointed out a paragraph to Cliff. Both were familiar with the French language. They read the news together.
“Last night,” remarked Harry, in a low tone. “It looks like this fight was a follow-up to those Zemba murders that we read about, while riding in on the express. This must have happened too late to get into the morning newspapers.”
“Near the Boul’ Mich’,” commented Cliff. “I know the district. You’re right, Harry. Zemba might have ducked through there.”
“With The Shadow trailing him.”
Cliff nodded. Harry laid the newspaper aside.
“This means strategy,” he mused. “Well, we can produce it. Leave it to me, Cliff, when we reach the hotel. After all, it’s simply a case of following instructions. We are to ask for Herbert Balliol. If he is there, we stay.”
“And if he has gone,” added Cliff, “we go to the Pension Grandine and check in.”
“To stay there until we do get a message from Mr. Balliol. Unless, of course, one is waiting at the Moderne.”
“How do you size it, Harry?”
CLIFF’S question was not an unusual one, under the circumstances. When occasion called, The Shadow’s agents were at liberty to speculate upon the purposes and methods of their chief. Harry began to sum an answer to Cliff’s query.
“The Shadow came here alone,” stated Harry, still in his low tone, which the driver could not hear, “because of war secrets stolen from Washington. He started for Paris, knowing that he must uncover a crook named Gaspard Zemba.”
“And he left instructions for us to follow,” observed Cliff. “There wasn’t time for us to catch the same boat.”
“Exactly,” agreed Harry. “Rutledge Mann had our instructions for us. Go to the Hotel Moderne. That would be all, if nothing had happened meanwhile.”
“But something has happened; and our added instructions should cover it.”
“As always. Chances are that The Shadow has checked out of the Moderne. If he has, we go to the Pension Grandine, unless some other word intervenes. The Shadow will take care of it.”
“The chief always does.”
A pause. Then Harry spoke a name.
“Herbert Balliol,” he said. “It has an English sound. A good name to use in Paris.”
“It’s the first time the chief has taken it,” remarked Cliff. “Maybe this chap Zemba is watching out for Americans.”
“Very likely. And it may mean even more, Cliff.”
“A different type of appearance?”
Harry nodded.
“There may be a real Herbert Balliol,” he declared. “One who is known in Paris and who would, therefore, be unsuspected. If that is the case, the chief will look like Balliol.”
“To the dot,” added Cliff. “He will be Balliol’s double.”
“And it may mean closer contact. We may prove to be old friends of Balliol.”
“And travel about with him—”
“As I size it, yes.”
Both agents spoke from previous experience; and the situation was one that they relished. Frequently, their paths lay apart from The Shadow’s. They always preferred the rarer occasions when they cooperated closely with their chief.
The taxi had reached the Hotel Moderne. As it stopped, Harry motioned Cliff to remain with the bags. Stepping to the curb, Harry strolled into the lobby. He looked like a chance visitor rather than a potential guest. Harry approached the desk.