Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 091 - Zemba

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ZEMBA

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. ON THE GOLDEN ARROW

? CHAPTER II. DEATH DEALS DOUBLE

? CHAPTER III. DEATH REACHES PARIS

? CHAPTER IV. A TRAIL IS FOUND

? CHAPTER V. DEEDS IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER VI. THE THIRD FACTOR

? CHAPTER VII. THE DELEGATES AGREE

? CHAPTER VIII. AGENTS OF THE SHADOW

? CHAPTER IX. LURKERS BELOW

? CHAPTER X. THE CHOSEN THREE

? CHAPTER XI. AT THE CAFE POISSON

? CHAPTER XII. HARRY MAKES A CAPTURE

? CHAPTER XIII. THE THREE MEET

? CHAPTER XIV. THE DOUBLE CAPTURE

? CHAPTER XV. ZEMBA SENDS A WARNING

? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW WITHOUT

? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW'S MOVE

? CHAPTER XVIII. THE LAW'S MOVE

? CHAPTER XIX. WITHIN THE PALACE

? CHAPTER XX. INVADERS MEET

? CHAPTER XXI. TWISTS TURN THE GAME

? CHAPTER XXII. THE LAST RECKONING

CHAPTER I. ON THE GOLDEN ARROW

ELEVEN o'clock in the morning. The Golden Arrow was ready for departure. Standing at the eastern

side of Victoria Station, the famous train was waiting for the final moment to begin its swift run from

London to the Channel port of Dover.

The main departure platform had cleared. Passengers had gone aboard, a cosmopolitan throng, all bound

for destinations on the European continent. From its brilliantly painted locomotive, "Howard of

Effingham," back along the line of cars, the Golden Arrow seemed straining for the word to go.

Two men came dashing through a gateway. They hurried past the rear car, a baggage wagon loaded with

large boxes, held in place by chains. They passed two other vans, hastened beyond the first-class

coaches and scrambled aboard a Pullman car in the exact center of the train. A uniformed guard stepped

on behind them.

Up ahead, the engine driver opened the regulator. With fierce, rapid chugs, the locomotive started its pull

from Victoria. These last-moment passengers had held the Golden Arrow for a period of some thirty

seconds.

Panting as they sank into the cushioned armchairs of the luxurious Pullman, the two men faced each other

across the table that stood between them.

One, a gray-haired man with a high-bridged nose, stared anxiously as he peered through pince-nez

spectacles. The other, youthful, but solemn-faced, was looking from the window as the train puffed out of

the station. The gray-haired man spoke.

"I wish your opinion, Thomason. Tell me: did we delay the departure sufficiently to excite suspicion?"

"No, your lordship," replied the solemn-faced man. "See? There is the Brighton Belle, drawing ahead of

us. It leaves the other side of the terminus at almost the same moment as the Golden Arrow."

The gray-haired man nodded.

"Excellent," he decided. "Of course, the Brighton Belle should pass us, for it has the acceleration of

electric power. It always gains during the brief race from the terminus."

Some one had stopped beside the table. Both men turned about to see a sharp-faced arrival who had

stepped up beside them. The newcomer bowed.

"Good morning, Lord Bixley," he said, in a low tone. "I am Inspector Delka, C.I.D. I saw you come

aboard."

Lord Bixley thrust forward his hand. Then with a nod, he introduced his solemn-faced companion.

"My secretary, Thomason," explained his lordship. "Suppose you seat yourself across the aisle,

Thomason, while I converse with Inspector Delka."

Thomason moved to the other side of the car. Delka took the armchair opposite Lord Bixley.

"I brought two men with me from Scotland Yard," asserted Delka, quietly. "I held the train pending your

arrival; but I was pleased that the delay was short. Otherwise Willoughby Blythe might have suspected

something."

"Blythe is aboard?" queried Lord Bixley, eagerly. "You have discovered him?"

"I believe so," returned Delka. "There is a man who answers his description, traveling in the compartment

of a forward car. A second-class carriage. My men are watching him."

"The door of the compartment is open?"

"Yes. The man can be seen from the corridor. There is only one other passenger in the compartment. The

door, however, may soon be closed. Therefore, I should like your secretary to walk by and glimpse

Blythe long enough to identify him."

LORD BIXLEY nodded. He beckoned to Thomason and Delka gave the secretary the proper

directions. Thomason went forward. The train was crossing the Grosvenor Bridge, over the Thames

River; it was slowing down for the release of a tank engine which had served as pusher. The

quick-stepping Brighton Belle had passed from sight.

"I held the Brighton Belle also," remarked Delka, with a smile. "I knew that you would arrive soon after

eleven. So I thought it best that the passengers should see the other train and thus believe that both had

left on schedule."

Lord Bixley's eyes showed approval through the spectacles.

"And now, your lordship," added Delka, "since we are on our journey, I should be pleased to learn the

reason why the admiralty seeks the arrest of another passenger, Willoughby Blythe."

Lord Bixley chuckled.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "I had forgotten that there had been no time for explanations when I made

that hurried telephone call to Scotland Yard. Very well, inspector. I shall give you a summary of the

circumstances."

Lord Bixley produced some papers from his pocket. He laid them upon the table, then looked about

carefully, to see that all other passengers were seated at a distance. He spoke in a tone that was little

louder than a whisper.

"Willoughby Blythe had access to certain documents," he stated. "Among them was a set of sealed

specifications that included every detail of our new type of submarines. That sealed envelope was stolen

ten days ago."

"Yet you did not learn of the theft?"

"No. Because another envelope was substituted. One that bore counterfeit seals. Blythe was the thief; for

he was the only man who could have effected the substitution."

"I understand."

The Golden Arrow was driving downward through Penge Tunnel, passing under the Crystal Palace.

Electric lights had replaced the daylight. The car seemed gloomy because of the contrast. Lord Bixley

and Delka looked up to see Thomason, back from his excursion to the second-class carriage.

"Was it Blythe?" queried Bixley.

"Yes, your lordship," replied Thomason. "He closed the door of the compartment just after I glimpsed

him."

"Did he see you?"

"No, your lordship."

Delka put a query.

"Are my men posted?"

"Yes," replied Thomason. "One in each adjoining compartment. They are keeping watch upon the

corridor."

DELKA turned to Lord Bixley, who resumed.

"To-day," he said, "we received this bold letter from Paris. It is signed by an audacious rogue who styles

himself Gaspard Zemba. He declares that he holds the sealed documents and will return them to the

British admiralty upon payment of one hundred thousand pounds."

"Gaspard Zemba," mused Delka. "The smoothest rogue in all France. The famous hidden criminal

bobbed up again. Hm-m-m. He seems to have stolen a march on those international spies who made

their headquarters in Helsingfors, Finland. Boris Danyar and his agents."

"Danyar was balked long ago," nodded Lord Bixley. "He and his agents were scattered, thanks to you

and your colleagues at Scotland Yard."

"We handled only the British angle," said Delka, modestly. "The French surete and other continental

authorities were quite as instrumental in breaking up Boris Danyar's game. But let us return to the

important subject of Gaspard Zemba. How does Willoughby Blythe enter the case?"

"As Zemba's agent," replied Lord Bixley. "I was away from London, not expecting to return until

to-morrow. Hence Zemba's letter, arriving this morning, would not ordinarily have been opened. Blythe

saw the letter when it arrived."

"I see!" exclaimed Delka. "It was the tip from Zemba. Time for Blythe to leave England."

"Precisely. Blythe had an optional vacation that was his due. With the greatest of cheek, the fellow

decided to leave for Paris on this very train. He was gone when I arrived at my office, at half past ten.

The first letter that I chanced to open was the one from Zemba."

"And, of course, you connected it with Blythe."

"Immediately. That is why I called Scotland Yard. Since we have located Blythe, you can apprehend him

whenever you wish."

The train had swept out from the tunnel; it was approaching Beckenham while Delka stared from the

Pullman window and pondered. At length, the Scotland Yard man voiced a plan.

"Blythe must intend to join Zemba," decided Delka. "Since the documents have already been sent to

France, Blythe is carrying nothing of value. His arrest will not restore the stolen plans; nor will his

freedom work against us.

"Much might be gained by not arresting Blythe. It would be excellent to follow him to Paris, for that

would produce a direct trail to Zemba. On the contrary, it would introduce complications."

"With the French police?" inquired Lord Bixley.

"Yes," answered Delka, with a brisk nod. "They would wish to introduce their own methods. By the time

that we had disposed of the red tape, Blythe would have gained suspicion. Our final move would

probably be no more than the arrest of Blythe in Paris.

"We can accomplish quite as much by apprehending him before he leaves England. At the same time, we

should take into consequence the man's own mental reactions. Is Blythe a nervous sort?"

"Quite," replied Lord Bixley. "He has cheek; but he is high-strung. I fancy that this journey will make him

more and more restless until the train reaches Dover."

"Good!" Delka thumped the table. "Then we shall arrest him there. He cannot leave the Golden Arrow,

for it makes no stop during the seventy-seven miles. Picture the man's dumfoundment when we stop him

at the door of his compartment."

"He will be overwhelmed," asserted Lord Bixley. "Much more so than if he had been apprehended in

London. You have struck a timely thought, inspector. By all means, delay the arrest until the final

moment. I know the chap's false bravado. When we confront him, he will weaken."

DELKA leaned back in his armchair. He smiled as he glanced from the window. The Golden Arrow had

breasted the summit at Knockholt, slightly more than eighteen miles from London. Unwearied by its

climb, Howard of Effingham was ready for the terrific dash to Dover.

Soon the mighty locomotive would be devouring the distance at better than a mile-a-minute rate. A

perfect stretch of trackage lay ahead, straight across the Weald of Kent. The coming portion of the

Southern Railway was built for high speed.

"Suppose we order luncheon," suggested Lord Bixley, catching Delka's mood. "Your men are watching

Willoughby Blythe. He can find no opportunity to escape us."

"None at all," agreed Delka. "Your lordship, I can promise you that Blythe will stay aboard this train

when we reach Dover."

There was a prophetic air to Delka's tone; but the words were more significant than intended. Fate had

decreed a surprising finish for the journey of Willoughby Blythe, key man to the notorious Gaspard

Zemba.

At the moment of his decision, Eric Delka held the opportunity he wanted. Confident, the Scotland Yard

man was holding his important move until time when it would come too late.

CHAPTER II. DEATH DEALS DOUBLE

THE Golden Arrow had reached Folkestone. As it whirled rapidly across the high viaduct above the

town, Eric Delka caught his first glimpse of the sea. Seven miles through the warren would bring the train

to Dover.

Delka was glancing at his watch when he left the Pullman and walked forward to the second-class

carriages. It was twenty-five minutes past twelve.

Eighty-five minutes out of London. Another ten minutes to go. Delka smiled with confidence. He had left

Lord Bixley and Thomason expressing their impatience for the finish of the journey; but Delka did not

share the mood. He was quite willing to wait for the scheduled time of Blythe's capture.

The train was following the cliff region above the English Channel when Delka found his two aids in the

corridor outside of Willoughby Blythe's compartment. They had come from their own compartments.

Delka drew them toward the end of the corridor.

A dapper, mustached man edged by, coming from another car. Delka saw him enter Blythe's

compartment. The dapper man was the one other passenger who had been in the compartment at the

beginning of the journey. He looked like a Frenchman.

"Has Blythe come out at all?" queried Delka.

Negative headshakes. Verbal reply had become suddenly impossible, for the train had roared into

blackness at that moment. The Golden Arrow was surging through Shakespeare's Cliff, to reach the

beach along the English Channel.

The roar of the locomotive was terrific, blotting out all other sounds for this car was close behind the

powerful engine. Delka and his men stood silent in the feeble glow of the corridor lights.

Then the roar ended. The brilliance of daylight replaced artificial illumination. As the train slackened

speed along the line of the beach, Delka gave his final instructions. One man was placed at each end of

the corridor. Delka, himself, would cover the station platform.

The train veered sharply to the right, to swing into the Dover Marine Station. Delka saw the dapper

Frenchman come from the compartment and stroll past one of the Scotland Yard men.

Delka nodded his approval. There was a chance that Willoughby Blythe might make a struggle. It would

be best to trap him alone in the compartment.

THE train rolled to a stop. Delka, with a railway guard beside him, was the first person to reach the

platform. The C.I.D. man immediately posted himself at the most important spot.

Blythe could find two ways to leave the train; one, by the corridor, which Delka's aids were guarding; the

other, by the outer door of the compartment direct to the station platform itself. That was the exit which

Delka covered.

The Golden Arrow was disgorging passengers. The train had arrived at twenty-five minutes of one,

precisely on schedule. Already, a shunting engine had gripped the baggage vans at the rear of the train

and was tugging them away, to work them around to the quay. There, the Steamship Canterbury was

waiting, with smoke issuing from its single funnel.

Passengers and porters were thronging toward the steamship, to embark immediately for Calais. Twenty

minutes was the time allotted for such transfer. Yet, as the platform cleared of people, there was still no

sign of Willoughby Blythe.

Delka had been watching the compartment door in a hawklike fashion. He had seen Blythe on the train in

London; and would have known the man immediately, for the fellow's face was long-nosed and

weak-chinned - a pasty countenance that could easily be remembered. Nevertheless, Delka watched in

vain for such a visage to appear at the compartment door.

Two stragglers joined Delka on the platform: Lord Bixley and the secretary, Thomason. Delka ordered

Thomason to go into the car and contact the C.I.D. men in the corridor.

Thomason went in, to return two minutes later. He brought the positive report that no one had come from

Blythe's compartment, by way of the corridor.

"The chap must know that we are watching him," observed Lord Bixley, to Delka. "Why not enter and

apprehend him? The other passengers have reached the steamship. If Blythe offers resistance, it will

endanger no one."

Delka considered. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten minutes of one. He looked toward the

Canterbury, where cranes were swinging the boxes from the baggage wagons down into the steamship's

hold. All other passengers had reached the vessel.

Delka decided to act. He spoke to a railway guard who was standing by, and ordered the man to open

the outer door of Blythe's compartment.

The guard obeyed. At the same time, Delka tugged a revolver from his pocket and mounted the step

beside the compartment. He expected that Blythe would flee when accosted; but if the fugitive dashed

through the corridor he would be immediately trapped by the two C.I.D. men. Delka wanted Blythe to

attempt flight.

The door swung open and Delka thrust himself forward. As he did, a huddled figure came tumbling

directly against him. Delka spun about, ready with his revolver as a man's form sprawled in a crazy dive,

across the step, then headlong to the platform. As Delka bounded down beside the rolling form, it turned

over. Delka saw the face of Willoughby Blythe.

The fugitive was dead. Blood upon his shirt front told the story. He had been shot through the heart

within the compartment, before the train had reached Dover!

BLYTHE'S body was almost at Lord Bixley's feet. Astounded, the peer turned to Delka. A clatter from

the compartment told that the C.I.D. men had heard the noise at the outer door and had dashed into the

compartment, from the corridor. Their faces appeared at the doorway. They were in time to hear Lord

Bixley's exclamation.

"A suicide!"

Delka was bending over the dead man's body. No weapon had fallen clear. He motioned to the C.I.D.

men. They dived among the cushions of the compartment, to bob out with the report that no revolver had

dropped within the car.

"The Frenchman!" ejaculated Delka. "He is the murderer! He fired the shot while the train was roaring

through the cliff tunnel. He has gone aboard the Channel boat!"

A blast sounded from the whistle of the Canterbury. It came as an echo to Delka's statement. The

Scotland Yard man barked an order to his men; they were to take charge of Blythe's body. With a wave

of his arm, Delka started on a run toward the steamship. Lord Bixley and Thomason followed.

It was a hard dash to the quay; but Delka made it just as the gangplank was about to go aboard. Waving

his arm, Delka halted the move, and scrambled, breathless, up to the deck. Lord Bixley came stumbling

aboard a moment later.

The gangplank clattered; the boat was moving toward the quay before either man could look about. They

saw Thomason, far behind. The secretary had missed the boat, for he had tripped while running along the

station platform.

"No necessity for Thomason," puffed Lord Bixley. "We can carry on without him. What about this

Frenchman, inspector? Do you think that you can discover him, here, aboard the vessel?"

"I intend to," replied Delka, grimly. "Our first step, your lordship, will be to visit the captain."

TEN minutes later, Delka and Lord Bixley were seated in the captain's cabin, going over a list of

passengers. Their quest was a slender one, for this list included only those who had reserved private

cabins aboard the Canterbury, and there were but a few dozen of such accommodations. A steward was

eyeing Delka as the C.I.D. man thumbed the list. The man spoke as Delka's finger stopped.

"That man, sir," informed the steward. "The one who reserved Cabin 12. He is a Frenchman, with a little

mustache."

"Rene Levaux," read Delka. "Let us make a search for him."

They went to the cabin, to find it empty. Another steward had seen the man leave the cabin. His

description matched the first so perfectly that Delka knew Levaux must be the man. Having checked

upon the fellow's name, the C.I.D. man posted the stewards at the cabin and started in search of his

quarry.

The chalk cliffs of the English coast were already fading far behind. The Channel crossing would require

only an hour and a quarter; and twenty-five minutes of that period had already elapsed. The boat had

many passengers, yet Delka felt sure that he would have time to locate Levaux.

He found the Frenchman after twenty minutes more. Levaux was in the smoking saloon; and he had

evidently finished several drinks from the ship's bar. Cleverly, the murderer had made himself

inconspicuous by behaving in an almost conspicuous fashion. Glass in hand, he was moving about,

chatting with other passengers and keeping somewhat out of sight during the process.

The Channel passage was proving a rough one. Jolting through heavy waves, the Canterbury was riding

in a fashion that forced passengers to seek the security of chairs. Delka saw Levaux stagger with a roll of

the ship. A heavy-built man stopped the Frenchman and helped him to a chair by a table.

Delka saw the rescuer's face. The man was wearing a heavy auburn beard that glistened in the sunlight.

Delka saw a gold-toothed smile when Levaux spoke to his chance companion.

The Frenchman had evidently invited the stranger to have a drink, for they called a waiter and gave an

order. Soon the man returned with two tall glasses. Delka decided that Levaux was in good company.

Choosing a corner table, he kept out of sight; but all the while, he watched the space between Levaux

and the door.

ANOTHER drink was ordered, a dozen minutes later. Delka decided that Levaux and the bearded man

were becoming convivial. Time drifted; the roughness of the passage lessened. The Canterbury was

nearing the long breakwaters of Calais harbor. The ship began to swing stern first, to make its entry.

Levaux came tipsily into view. Delka watched him go toward the door; then arose and followed. The

bearded man was still at the table, glancing from the window toward the French coast line, as he lighted a

cigar.

Delka took up Levaux's trail. It led to Cabin 12. The stewards let the man enter. Lord Bixley joined

Delka and made inquiry:

"What now?"

"A quiet arrest," replied Delka. "This is an English ship. We are within our rights. But this time, it is

advisable to wait, in order to avoid complications."

"Quite true," agreed Lord Bixley. "There is no one in the cabin, other than the man we want."

Delka had edged close to the cabin door, his hand on the revolver in his pocket. French customs officers

were on the quay beside the ship and the Scotland Yard man did not intend to attract their notice.

Passengers were leaving the Canterbury, heading for a train that stood alongside. This was the Fleche

d'Or, the French equivalent for the Golden Arrow.

Prepared for a thundering non-stop dash to Paris, the Fleche d'Or was headed by a herculean

locomotive, pride of the Chemin de Fer du Nord, or Northern Railway. The great engine formed a

contrast to the British locomotive that had hauled the Golden Arrow. It was larger than the Howard of

Effingham; and it lacked the colorful paint of the British locomotive.

The cars, too, were different. The Pullman at the front of the train were brown and cream in color, with

golden arrows painted on their sides. Behind these cars were three others of a bluish hue. They were

through sleepers for the Mediterranean Express, the celebrated Blue Train that travels from Paris to the

Riviera.

As at Dover, the Calais transfer called for twenty minutes; but rapid progress with the baggage loading

told that the time would be cut. The Canterbury had been delayed in passage. Delka, however, felt no

tenseness because Levaux was loitering in the cabin.

The Fleche d'Or, departing at two-thirty, carried Pullman passengers only. Other passengers were

standing on the quay, to take a train that would leave twenty minutes after the Fleche d'Or. Levaux, riding

second-class, had no need to hurry.

GLANCING toward the train on the quay, Delka saw the bearded man who had talked with Levaux.

He was entering one of the Pullman cars of the Fleche d'Or. Another glance showed Delka that nearly all

persons had gone ashore from the Canterbury. Delka saw no need for further waiting. Gripping the knob

of the cabin door, he turned it slowly; then kicked the barrier inward and entered.

He found Rene Levaux half sprawled upon a couch, staring upward. The Frenchman made no move

when Delka entered with a drawn revolver. He appeared to be in a drunken stupor. Delka approached

and clamped a heavy hand upon the man's shoulder.

The corner of the cabin was gloomy. It was not until Delka leaned close that he saw the whiteness of the

Frenchman's eyes. Those optics were bulging in a vacant gaze. They had assumed a glassiness that Delka

had seen in other eyes. The C.I.D. man shoved Levaux's shoulder. The body resisted with an odd

heaviness.

Delka knew the answer. As the thought flashed through his brain, he heard the shrill shriek of the French

locomotive. The Fleche d'Or was pulling from the quay.

With a leap, Delka sprang from the cabin and reached the deck. He could hear the locomotive's chug.

He arrived at the rail of the steamer in time to see the last cars of the train as they rounded the curves that

led away from the quay.

Delka's fists were tightened. He was too late to catch the train. It was already off on its

one-hundred-and-eighty-five mile run to Paris.

The startled boat stewards had hurried into the cabin. Lord Bixley was standing with them when Delka

returned. All were staring at the sprawled form of Rene Levaux, the man who had murdered Willoughby

Blythe.

"Dead!" Lord Bixley was aghast as he spoke to Delka. "Levaux—dead - like Blythe -"

"Poisoned!" interposed Eric Delka. "Again we are dealing with murder, Lord Bixley!"

"But who -"

"Levaux was drinking with a bearded stranger," inserted Delka. "I thought that their meeting was a

chance one. Now I realize that it was not. The bearded man had opportunity to introduce some deadly

poison into Levaux's glass."

"You are sure?"

DELKA nodded as he surveyed the dead man. He placed his thumb upon one of Levaux's upper eyelids

and raised it to study the rigid orb beneath.

"Yes," he assured. "I have seen a case like this before. The bearded man was the murderer."

"And he has gone?"

"Aboard the first train for Paris. Due there at five-forty; seventeen-forty by continental time."

"Then we must count upon the French authorities to apprehend this second murderer."

"Such is our only course, Lord Bixley."

Delka stepped to the deck. Lord Bixley joined him. Leaving the stewards in charge of Levaux's body,

the two men started for the gangplank. Twice thwarted in their hopes of catching a living prisoner, they

were seeking a new quest.

Death had dealt double. Willoughby Blythe had died aboard the Golden Arrow. His murderer, Rene

Levaux, had found a similar fate in his cabin on the Steamship Canterbury. Another murderer was at

large, a man unknown to Eric Delka; but one whose bulky frame and conspicuous beard would make

him easily recognizable.

As with Willoughby Blythe; as with Rene Levaux, this new quarry was located in a place that he could

not leave. The French express, the Fleche d'Or, would discharge no passengers before it reached its

destination.

Delka was bound upon the only course; to place this new case in the hands of the French police. They

would have time to arrange the perfect capture of a bearded murderer. Their chance would come when

the train from Calais arrived at the Gare du Nord, its terminus in Paris.

CHAPTER III. DEATH REACHES PARIS

IT was shortly before five o'clock when a uniformed officer entered the office of Monsieur Clandine, the

Paris prefect of police. Monsieur Clandine, a keen-eyed man with a wax-tipped mustache and a pointed

beard, looked up in expectation of an announcement.

"Monsieur Delka has arrived," announced the officer. "Shall I usher him here, Monsieur le Prefet?"

"At once!"

Delka entered to receive the prefect's handclasp. Monsieur Clandine motioned his visitor to a chair; then

tapped a stack of papers that were upon the desk.

"I am pleased at your arrival," stated Clandine. "It was wise for you to come by plane from Calais."

"We traveled faster than the Golden Arrow," returned Delka, with a smile. "I mean your train—the

Fleche d'Or—as you call it on this side of the Channel. It is not due in Paris for more than forty minutes."

"Quite a while to wait," observed Clandine, calmly. "We have completed our preparations long ago. All

was ready within half an hour after we received the telegraph report from Calais."

"And the fast plane brought me here in time to witness the capture," chuckled Delka. "Well, monsieur, I

feel quite sure that I shall be able to identify the man with the red beard."

"That will not be necessary. We know him already."

Delka stared.

"And what is more"—the prefect smiled—"we have all the necessary information concerning his victim,

Rene Levaux."

"Who is the bearded man?" queried Delka.

"One of whom you have heard," replied Clandine. "He is Boris Danyar, the notorious head of the spy

clique in Helsingfors."

This news left Delka gaping. Pleased, Clandine delivered further facts.

"And Rene Levaux," he informed, "was the chief lieutenant of Gaspard Zemba, the mystery man of

Paris."

Sudden understanding dawned upon Delka. While the prefect sat smiling, the C.I.D. man verbally pieced

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