Clyde Burke felt elated as he donned a tuxedo for his visit to the swanky bright spot across the Virginia border. He had hopes that tonight he might uncover some bit of information that would furnish The Shadow with a clew when he arrived.
Little did Clyde Burke realize that he was proving every bit as negligent as before. That was because he could not foresee tonight’s events. Had he been able to do so, Clyde would not have trusted to the written report that he had sent the Shadow.
Instead, he would have put in an emergency call to The Shadow in New York. For Clyde Burke, without knowing it, was starting for a spot where lurking crime awaited!
CHAPTER III
THE CLUB RIVOLI
IT was nine o’clock when Clyde Burke reached the Club Rivoli. Located several miles from Washington, the bright spot appeared to be a large but obscure road house. The expensive cars parked at the side showed, however, that the Club Rivoli must have some unusual attraction.
Clyde had come in one of the cheap taxis so prevalent in Washington. He paid the driver, then entered the front door of the Club Rivoli. A modestly furnished lounge showed on one side; on the other a small, deserted dining room.
Clyde kept on through the hall. He came to a door farther on and rang a bell. A little wicket opened. Clyde held up his card for the man behind to see.
Bolts grated; the door opened. Clyde Burke passed through a small room. The chatter of people; the clicking of chips — both greeted his ears as he entered a long and well-thronged room.
The place was a gambling hall. The patrons were dressed in evening clothes. Women as well as men were gathered about two roulette tables where croupiers were spinning the wheels and raking in stacks of chips.
The near end of the room was lined with slot machines which took coins of half-dollar size. Several players were squandering their cash in these devices. Along the other walls were little curtained booths to which busy waiters were carrying trays laden with food and drinks.
There was a single opening at the right. This, Clyde knew, led to rooms where poker players gambled for high stakes. The office of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor, was located in that direction. Clyde, however, was chiefly interested in what was going on in the main gambling room.
The Shadow’s agent was quick to note that most of the players were foreigners, with Spanish Americans predominating. This was something that he had observed on previous visits.
Clyde knew that the Club Rivoli catered chiefly to legations and visitors from other lands. A Pan-American convention was beginning in Washington; it was only natural that many of the visitors had learned of the Club Rivoli.
Clyde made a particular study of the Americans who were present. Taking a vantage point between the tables, he studied his fellow countrymen one by one while he made a pretense of watching the roulette play.
WHILE Clyde was thus engaged, he became conscious of a soft, melodious whistling close beside him. The sound took on a symphonic trill. Clyde turned quickly to see a man in evening clothes standing a few feet away. He met the other’s gaze and recognized the suave face of Whistler Ingliss, the proprietor of the Club Rivoli.
The recognition proved mutual. Ingliss smiled as he ceased his light trilling. He advanced and extended a hand which Clyde accepted. Ingliss, a tall, good-looking man in his middle forties, possessed a friendly personality that had accounted much for the success of his gambling club.
“Burke,” remarked Ingliss. “That’s the name, isn’t it? I gave you a card the last time you were here.”
“Right,” agreed Clyde. “Thought I’d drop in and watch the roulette roll. Like most newspapermen” — he was smiling wistfully — “I don’t have much to gamble.”
“Quite all right,” assured Ingliss. “My friends are welcome here to watch as well as to play. We want everyone to feel completely at home at the Club Rivoli.”
Conversation ended for the moment. Ingliss, watching with Clyde, began to trill a meditative tune. There was a charm about the soft music that came from the gambler’s lips. It was this habit of melody making that had given him the sobriquet of “Whistler.”
In fact, the tune was provocative of a soothing lull. Clyde Burke began to feel as he had felt on his other visits to the Club Rivoli: that the place was a mere pleasure resort which had no connection with any other enterprise. He turned to speak again to Whistler Ingliss. At that moment, there was an interruption. An attendant approached the proprietor and handed him a small envelope.
“What’s this?” inquired Whistler.
“Card inside, sir,” explained the attendant. “A gentleman came to see you — by the side entrance. He sent this in to you.”
Clyde watched warily while Whistler opened the envelope. He saw a sudden frown upon the gambler’s brow as Whistler removed and read the card. Clyde glanced away as Whistler raised his head.
From the corner of his eye, The Shadow’s agent caught Whistler’s quick look. Ingliss, apparently, wanted to know if his momentary discomposure had been noticed.
Seeing no indication on Clyde’s part, Whistler calmly turned to the attendant. He began to tear the card and envelope into small bits which he dropped in his pocket. He told the attendant:
“Ask the gentleman into the office. I’ll drop in there to talk with him.”
The attendant left. Resuming his trill, Whistler Ingliss strolled from table to table. He had adopted a perfect poker face. He showed no signs of hurry. Glancing toward Clyde Burke, Whistler noticed that the reporter was looking at the other table. Strolling away, Whistler headed for the archway and passed slowly into the hall beyond.
THE gambler descended a short flight of steps. Here a passage went off to the right. Two doors — one in each passage — indicated Whistler’s office. The gambler opened the one from the central passage. He entered a neatly furnished room. Seated beyond a desk was a languid-looking man; he rose to display his lankiness as Whistler Ingliss entered. The gambler closed the door.
“Sit down, Dolband,” suggested Ingliss, in a cordial tone. As the visitor obeyed, Ingliss took his own chair and brought out a box of cigars. “Have a real Havana and tell me what’s the trouble. This is kind of unusual — a secret-service operative dropping in on me.”
Dolband took a cigar. Whistler Ingliss eyed him as he bit the end. The gambler had met Carl Dolband in the past. He knew the secret-service operative to be a cagey individual. The flicker of Dolband’s match showed a white, intuitive face.
“Want to look at the cash in my till?” quizzed Whistler, in a crafty tone. “I’ve got plenty of mazuma — but I’ll bet you won’t find a queer bill in it—”
“I’m not bothering counterfeiters,” interposed Dolband. “There’s something else I want to talk about, Ingliss.”
The gambler assumed a perplexed attitude. Carl Dolband, leaning back in his chair, spent a full minute in studying Whistler’s face. Then, satisfied, he began to speak in a confidential tone.
“How’s business?” was his question. “Good receipts? Lots of people coming in and out?”
“Take a look,” returned Whistler, with a smile, as he pulled a ledger from a desk drawer. “If it’s income tax you’re checking on, this will satisfy you. I keep the books on the level.”
“Don’t worry about that,” rejoined Dolband, as he studied the entries in the ledger. “Here — this satisfies me. Put the book away. The money is coming in all right — that’s all I wanted to know.”