As they passed a corner, The Shadow, peering from the window, caught one brief glimpse of a man who had emerged from the darkness. It was the lone fighter from the corner. So swift was the passage, however, that The Shadow had no chance to see the man’s face.
Looking back, he saw the man huddled, staring; then the crouched fighter sprang across the street and through another alleyway, to escape the sudden arrival of a new squad of agents.
FIVE minutes later, The Shadow’s cab was rolling along a boulevard, headed eastward. The black cloak and hat were packed away in the opened briefcase, the automatics with them. Back in his guise of a quiet-voiced American, The Shadow gave another order to the driver. Relieved at his passenger’s change of tone, the driver nodded. He headed the cab toward a bridge across the Seine.
Later, the taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Moderne, a place frequented by American tourists. Quietly, The Shadow tendered the driver a fifty-franc note; then watched the cab pull away. A thin smile appeared upon The Shadow’s lips.
Neither crooks nor agents had glimpsed this cab. The driver would seek neither group. Tonight’s experience was something that the bewhiskered taximan would much prefer to forget.
Entering the Hotel Moderne, The Shadow stopped at the desk. A polite clerk addressed him as Monsieur Balliol. The Shadow remarked that he was checking out, in order to take the midnight sleeper for Brussels.
Soon afterward, The Shadow stood by the window of a fifth-floor room, his suitcases packed and ready for the porter. The lights were dimmed; The Shadow was looking out across the city. Far distant, the light of the Eiffel Tower formed a panoply against the darkened sky, stretching high above the glow of the streets.
The Shadow had no intention of leaving Paris. His present thoughts concerned ways and means of remaining in the French capital, to deal again with Gaspard Zemba. Only through the aid of a battling horde — with luck besides — had the notorious crook escaped The Shadow’s toils tonight.
The Shadow was also considering the entry of that other fighter, who had aided in the turn of the tide. He had mentally identified the man; for The Shadow knew much concerning present affairs in Paris. Tonight’s episode had been the culmination of previous investigations.
Deeds in the dark. They had come tonight; and more would follow. The darkness was The Shadow’s chosen habitat. The thought brought a smile to The Shadow’s lips. Then came a low-toned note of whispered mockery that faded into sinister stillness.
The Shadow had evolved his final plan. He had found a way to deal with Gaspard Zemba. One that could end the career of the supercrook when he and The Shadow held their next encounter.
CHAPTER VI
THE THIRD FACTOR
AT two o’clock the next afternoon, Eric Delka arrived at a building on the Quai d’Orsay. This structure, an Italianate building with sculptured facade, was the Ministere des Affaires Etrangeres, which Delka translated as the “Ministry of Foreign Affairs.” It was the place that Delka wanted; for he had an appointment in the French Foreign Office.
Entering, Delka made an inquiry for Lord Bixley. He was ushered to a large reception room. After a short wait, he was brought into an office occupied by half a dozen dignified men. Lord Bixley was among the group. He introduced Delka to a Frenchman who was seated behind a large desk. This was Monsieur Louis Brezanne, French Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Eyeing the others in the group, Delka noted that none were Frenchmen. He took one for an Italian; another for a Spaniard. He saw one man who looked like an American. While Delka was wondering about the mixed nationality of the throng, Monsieur Brezanne opened the conference.
“Messieurs,” began the foreign minister, “we have done wisely to consult together. All of you are in Paris for the same reason. Each of your respective governments had been victimized by this bold rascal, Gaspard Zemba.
“In the past, various war offices were disturbed by the activities of one Boris Danyar, who headed the spy syndicate in Helsingfors. Danyar and his agents stole valuable secrets from various countries and sold them in other lands. Unfortunately” — Brezanne smiled and tugged at his pointed mustache — “there are certain war offices that will buy military secrets from men of Danyar’s ilk.”
Slight smiles passed about the group, despite the seriousness of the conference. Every one caught Brezanne’s inference. Such forms of dealing with free-lance spies was by no means an uncommon practice. One, perhaps, in which some of these present had engaged.
“However,” resumed the French minister, “the suppression of Danyar was a result that pleased us all. The rogue was a nuisance. I, for one, was glad when his ring was broken. But instead of Danyar, we are suddenly confronted by a greater scoundrel. Gaspard Zemba!”
MONSIEUR BREZANNE paused and waved one hand to indicate the entire group.
“All of you!” he exclaimed. “Why are you here? Because of Zemba. From each of you, he has stolen some important secret, which he is willing to restore at a given price. All of you have received letters, stating the amount.
“From you, Lord Bixley, he demands one hundred thousand pounds, in return for your submarine plans. From you, Senor Alonzo, a similar sum, for stolen fortification diagrams. From you, Signor Chiozzi, he requests a double price, because he has sealed packets that describe Italy’s complete arrangements for army mobilization in the event of war.
“He wants similar amounts from the rest of you. The sum total of his demands is large. I note, Mr. Cleghorn, that you have been making a paper-and-pencil calculation. Have you added the entire amounts?”
A nod from the man whom Delka had picked as an American.
“Including the half a million that Zemba wants for the airplane plans which he stole from Washington,” said Cleghorn, “his total demand comes to four and a half million dollars. I have figured as closely as possible, in considering the rates of exchange. I have translated other nations’ currencies into dollars—”
“Then add another half million,” interposed the French minister, solemnly. “My government is in the same predicament as yours. Our plans for anti-aircraft defense have been taken.”
Astonished gasps came from the listeners. They had not known that the French war office had also suffered. Monsieur Brezanne spoke emphatically.
“That shows the cunning of Gaspard Zemba!” he exclaimed. “He has placed all of us in the same boat. He has specialized in the theft of sealed documents. He knows that he can gain the highest prices from those who understand their worth; namely, the very ones from whom he stole them.
“If we refuse to purchase back our secrets, he can behave as any ordinary spy. He can offer the stolen plans to other governments. He will easily find unscrupulous buyers. Of course, his gain will not be so great. That is why he prefers to treat with us.
“He holds the plans, here in Paris; moreover, he is guarding the traitors who abetted him. All except Willoughby Blythe, who was tardy in leaving his own country. Under ordinary circumstances, the proper course would be to hunt him down; but Zemba has blocked that move by the deed which I so recently mentioned; namely, by his theft of documents belonging to the French government.”
The foreign minister produced a letter from his desk.
“Here is Zemba’s ultimatum,” he stated. “The French government, like others, must pay his price. We must grant Zemba and his agents the privilege of leaving France. Should the police institute a city-wide search, sufficient enough to jeopardize Zemba’s present safety, he will decamp from Paris, carrying the documents with him.
“He gives us five days to decide upon an answer. If we have not molested him; if we will make the payment and guarantee his freedom, our valuables will be restored. If we do not answer before the end of the fifth day, Zemba will go his way. Our documents will be forever lost.”