Robeq’s temper unloosed.
“The upstart!” he stormed. “Why should we tolerate such suggestions! We have until to-morrow morning. Leave me to my own measures. I shall have Zemba before then!”
Doubtful looks and headshakes. Robeq flung his gloves upon the minister’s desk. Stiffening, he looked about the group.
“You have lost confidence?” he blared. “You doubt the ability of Robeq? Tien! If that is so, I am no longer wanted. Adieu, messieurs!”
With that, the detective swept his gloves from the desk. Briskly, he donned them, turning toward the door. Brezanne made a comment.
“ONE moment, Monsieur Robeq,” insisted the minister. “You came here with a mission. It is your duty to complete it.”
“I am a detective,” snorted Robeq, wheeling. “Not a toady! I came to receive orders, yes. But they were to be from Monsieur Clandine” — he nodded toward the prefect — “and not from Gaspard Zemba.”
“You came to trap Zemba,” said Clandine. “You have failed at that game, Robeq.”
“I have not failed. There is still time—”
“But the risk is too great.” This was from Brezanne. “Because of your attempts, Zemba has shortened the allotted period. Here, Robeq. Before you depart, read the letter for yourself.”
The detective took the letter. His forehead furrowed; his lips fumed.
“These are not terms!” he stormed. “They are indignities! You are to publish in your announcement, the name of some place where I am to be. There, Zemba is to meet me. I am to have the money; he, the plans. Police are to be absent. Bah!”
“There is no risk,” remarked Brezanne. “Your meeting can be arranged in broad daylight. Zemba will have followers close about; but we shall also have agents within a reasonable distance. It will be a zone, so to speak, which you can leave if it looks too dangerous; and Zemba, likewise. Neither of you will be jeopardized—”
“Enough!” interrupted Robeq. “You speak as though I feared danger! Peste! I have no dread of Zemba!”
“Then why not act as emissary?”
“Because Zemba demands it. That is reason enough.”
“But the transfer must be made.”
“Let some one else be a party to it.”
“Zemba demands you be the one.”
Robeq stood motionless, his gloved right hand against his chin. Suddenly his scowl ended. He gave a sharp cry of enthusiasm.
“Zemba does not know me!” he exclaimed. “No one knows Robeq! Send some other emissary let him proclaim himself to be Robeq!”
“No one else would answer,” put in Monsieur Clandine. “Moreover, Robeq, you might be recognized. Zemba was present at last night’s fray. You, yourself, exchanged bullets with him.”
“You are right,” admitted Robeq, seating himself. He turned to Delka. “Zemba saw us during that fight. He must have known that I was Robeq, in spite of my fancy attire. Is it not so?”
Delka began to nod, then pondered.
“Not necessarily,” he replied. “You were foolhardy, Robeq. Too much so, in fact.”
“That is true. You kept your head better than I. When you dragged me to safety, you appeared to be the leader.”
“I acted more wisely, under the immediate circumstances.”
“And, therefore, Zemba may have decided that I was not Robeq!”
With his exclamation, Robeq turned to Clandine, expecting approval. The prefect shook his head.
“I still insist,” he declared, “that Zemba knows that Robeq was present. Sergeant Rusanne holds to the same opinion.”
“I do,” agreed Rusanne, slowly. “Yet there is merit in both arguments, Monsieur le prefet. Zemba saw two men. He knows that one was Robeq. He does not know the other.”
RUSANNE made the statement in a tactful fashion. It was plain that he did not want to incur the disfavor of either the prefect or Robeq. Both were smiling, half pleased. It was Delka who first displayed an unexpected inspiration from Rusanne’s diplomatic words.
“Here is an answer!” exclaimed Delka. “Zemba could have decided that I was Robeq! That makes me eligible for the mission. I am willing to take it.” He turned to Lord Bixley: “If you are willing that I should do so.”
It was Robeq who put in a sudden objection.
“Ah, non!” he exclaimed. “It is not right, Monsieur Delka, that you should undertake the risk. True, I should like to continue the quest for Zemba; and it will be spoiled if once I submit to his dictates. I should like very much to trick him—”
“Which you can,” interposed Delka, “if I meet him in your stead. That was your own suggestion, Robeq.”
“Yes. But I meant it for some one other than yourself. One to whom I owed no debt. You saved my life, last night, Monsieur Delka. I should not let you fare alone in my behalf.”
“Then come with me.”
Robeq glanced at Zemba’s letter. He shook his head.
“Impossible,” he declared. “Zemba specifies, that I must come alone. And yet” — he paused; his lips showed a smile — “and yet there is a way. I have it!”
Commanding the attention of every one, Robeq proposed a plan.
“We shall choose a place,” he asserted, “where one would expect to see a few loiterers. Zemba will suspect that detectives may be among them; he will, therefore, study them with care. They will pass his inspection, for none will be police officers.
“But I, Robeq, shall be there. So well disguised that Zemba will not suspect me. Nor will Zemba be looking for Robeq; for he will be awaiting my arrival. Monsieur Delka will come, as Robeq. Zemba will believe that Delka is his man. All the while, I, the real Robeq, will be present. When Delka is safe, away with the plans, I shall follow Zemba!”
LISTENERS buzzed with admiration. As the enthusiasm died, Brezanne questioned:
“What place will you choose for the meeting?”
“We shall decide that this evening,” returned Robeq. “Monsieur Delka and myself, at my hotel.”
“You must know before midnight.”
“Of course.” Robeq turned to Rusanne: “You will be at the prefecture?”
The sergeant nodded.
“I shall notify you there,” declared the detective. “You will have time to insert the announcement in the morning journals. But I plead with you, messieurs” — this to the group — “let us wait until the final moment. Luck may still be with us before midnight. We may yet trap Zemba without the delivery of the money. He will be much more cautious once he has gained his millions.”
While Robeq was speaking, Clandine remembered something. He produced a small satchel and placed it upon Brezanne’s desk. From the bag, the prefect drew out black, knife-slashed garments. Observers arose and clustered close with interest.
“These belonged to The Shadow,” announced the prefect, solemnly. “His hat — his cloak — even these thin, black gloves. Note how loosely the gloves are made, except for the fingers, which stretch to exceeding thinness.”
“So that the hands can manage a pistol,” added Sergeant Rusanne, “yet slip the gloves off and on with ease.”
“How did you gain these trophies?” queried Brezanne. The minister was examining the cloak. “Did The Shadow discard them in the fray?”
“Yes,” returned Robeq, promptly. “Delka and I found them afterward.”
“You saw The Shadow?”
“Not until after the Apaches had practically slashed his cloak away from his shoulders. We saw him as a tall, struggling fighter, in the midst of a fierce scuffle.”
“How did you know he was The Shadow?”
“He could have been no other. The Apaches, moreover, were raging — blurting the name: ‘L’Ombre! L’Ombre!’”