“What’s the idea?” asked Whistler, with a puzzled laugh.
“I just wanted to be sure,” stated Dolband, “that your joint was bringing in the gravy. I see that it is. So far as your gambling racket is concerned, that’s a matter for the State authorities. So far as I’m concerned, I wanted to make sure that your place was doing so well that you’d like to keep it going. The reason I say that is because I want your cooperation on a little matter.”
“You mean—” Whistler paused with well-feigned indignation.
“A shakedown?” Dolband laughed as he completed the words that appeared to be on Whistler’s tongue. “Not a bit of it. I don’t work that way, Ingliss. I’m after other game — and I want to know what you know about it. Straight. Do you get me?”
“Spill it, Dolband,” urged Ingliss. “Say — if there’s anything I can do to help you on a job—”
“You can,” interrupted Dolband. “That’s why I’m going to give you the exact lay. Listen, Ingliss: I’m on the trail of a fellow who disappeared last night — a man named Glade Tromboll. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Whistler shook his head. “I’d know the name if I’d heard it, Dolband. Who is Tromboll?”
“A government employee,” returned Dolband cautiously. “One who happened to have some important papers on him. South American correspondence, Ingliss. There’s a lot of South Americans come in here, aren’t there?”
“Plenty of them.”
“Not only that. Glade Tromboll, the man who is missing, was last seen just before he came to the Club Rivoli.”
“Last night?”
“Last night.”
“I don’t think he could have come here, Dolband.” Whistler again shook his head as he spoke. “No one gets in here without a card. If this fellow Tromboll cleared town, he must have done it before he headed for the Club Rivoli. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone brought him in. I give that privilege with guest cards.”
“Listen, Ingliss.” Dolband’s tone was severe. “I’ve got every reason to suppose that Glade Tromboll was here last night. It’s up to you to prove to the contrary. I want a close check-up — and you’ve got to get it for me.”
“If I fail?”
“It may be bad for you. I’m trying to be friendly, Ingliss, but I’ve got to report what I find. If you can convince me that Tromboll wasn’t here, I won’t mention your place when I report. If he was here, find out what became of him. That will keep you in right.
“But a halfway answer won’t help you or me. I’ve traced Glade Tromboll to this club. I’m going to trace him beyond. What can you do to help me — especially when you know that you may be in a fix if you can’t aid the cause?”
“Hm-m-m.” Whistler became speculative. “Have you got a description of this fellow Tromboll?”
Dolband tossed a photograph upon the desk. Whistler examined it and shrugged his shoulders.
“Don’t remember ever seeing this fellow,” he remarked. “If he was out here last night, though, I’ll find it out. Things will ease off in the roulette room. Then I can talk to the attendants, one by one.”
“Do you want me to be here?”
“Better not. Listen, Dolband, I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ve got a good thing here; I don’t want it spoiled. You’re sure, though” — Whistler paused anxiously — “that you haven’t mentioned the Club Rivoli to anyone—”
“To no one,” interposed Dolband. “I’m working on my own, Ingliss.”
“That’s good. Where can I reach you?”
“Hotel Starlett.”
“All right. Wait here about five minutes — until I’m back in the roulette room. Then stroll out by the side door you came in. By midnight, I’ll be able to tell you all I can. If this mug” — Whistler had picked up the photograph and was pointing at it — “was here last night, I’ll know it!”
Whistler turned and walked from the office. He closed the door behind him. He strolled toward the steps that led up to the roulette room. He was trilling a familiar tune as he walked along.
Whistler stopped moving just after he gained the roulette room. His whistle, however, trilled a trifle more loudly. The tune changed.
CLYDE BURKE, eyeing the doorway where Whistler stood, saw a motion at one of the curtained booths not more than ten feet from the spot that Whistler had chosen. Two men in tuxedos stepped out. Clyde could see the hardness of their faces. He knew the pair for ruffians.
Indifferently, the two men strolled past Whistler. The gambler did not appear to notice them. The two men went through the doorway that led to the cardrooms and to the office. Another pair — in appearance they matched the first duo — came from a second booth.
Whistler Ingliss was strolling to the roulette tables. He passed within a few feet of Clyde Burke. Whistler’s tune had lessened; it still carried an intriguing obbligato. The men who had gone through the doorway did not return.
Minutes passed. Clyde Burke, feeling conspicuous, approached a roulette table. He took his stand close to the spot where Whistler Ingliss, now silent, was watching the play. Clyde produced a small roll of bills and joined the game. His luck was alternating.
Whistler Ingliss had strolled away. The men had not returned from the direction in which they had gone, although fully a half hour had passed. Clyde decided that they must have left the Club Rivoli by the side entrance.
Clyde left by the front. He called a taxi that was outside. Riding back to Washington, The Shadow’s agent stared from the window. Almost unseeing, he viewed the glow about the dome of the capitol building; with no impression he gazed toward the Washington Monument, which towered fingerlike amid its encircling illumination.
Beating through Clyde’s brain was the lilt of that final melody that had come from the lips of Whistler Ingliss. Somehow, Clyde Burke attached significance to that tune which had throbbed simultaneously with the appearance and departure of four sturdy ruffians.
Clyde Burke vainly sought the answer. He had gained an inkling of the truth. The whistled tune had been a signal, of that Clyde felt certain; but the purpose had escaped him. He did not know that Whistler Ingliss, with his trilling lilt, had signed a death warrant for Carl Dolband of the secret service!
CHAPTER IV
THE SHADOW HEARS
ON the following evening, a tall, keen-faced man arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Starlett. A bell boy took his bags. The arrival registered as Henry Arnaud and asked for a room that fronted on the side toward The Mall. He was given Room 817.
When he reached his room, Henry Arnaud tipped the bell boy. He placed his suitcase upon the bed. A thin smile appeared upon lips that were firm beneath a hawklike nose. As soon as the bell boy was gone, Henry Arnaud turned out the light.
The room had French windows that opened on a balcony. Arnaud approached them in the darkness and drew the two sections inward. A dim glow came from the city; the rolling of traffic sounded from the street below. Moving stealthily through the semidarkness of the room, Arnaud reached the spot where he had placed the suitcase.
There was motion in the gloom. Black cloth swung like a shroud above a head. Something swished as a black-cloaked figure approached the balcony. A tall, silhouetted form appeared within the rail; its shape was no more than a vague outline of a broad-brimmed hat above a spreading cloak.
The Shadow had come to Washington. From the balcony on the eighth floor of the Hotel Starlett, he was staring across the open spaces toward the tremendous obelisk which forms the most conspicuous landmark in the national capital — the Washington Monument.