street
near Times Square, in a taxicab. The street was almost blocked by a crowd of men who were swarming
toward the door of a narrow-fronted building.
“More men seeking employment,” observed Legira. “Every morning— always such a throng.”
“Yes, senor,” returned Lopez. “It has been that way for all this last week.”
Legira's keen eyes spotted a man standing in the line. For an instant, the consul seemed elated; then he
repressed the words that were coming to his lips. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. The cab swept
by and turned the next corner. On the avenue, it stopped before an office building. Legira and his
secretary alighted.
The man from Santander walked leisurely through the lobby, chatting with Lopez as he went. He paid no
attention to a thickset man who stepped on the elevator with him, and who alighted at the fourth floor
when he and Lopez stepped off.
The stranger walked in the opposite direction. His presence meant nothing to Legira. As the consul and
his secretary passed the door of a deserted office, there was a slight click of a closing latch. Legira did
not seem to notice it.
They reached the end of the passage. Before them was an office which bore the coat of arms of
Santander emblazoned on the door. Lopez applied a key. He stood aside as Legira entered the consular
office.
This was a large, single room, with a clothes closet in the corner. Neither Legira nor Lopez observed a
thin green wire which ran from behind a desk along the baseboard of the wall and out beneath the door
Lopez had closed.
“They are watching again, senor,” declared Lopez, in a low voice.
“As always,” returned Legira. “Watching—the fools. Martin Powell on the elevator. One of Ballou's
men, hiding in an office.”
“But they are not in here, senor—”
“No?” Legira's question was accompanied by an arching of his dark eyebrows. “Perhaps not, Lopez.
But remember what I said last night. Walls do not always prevent persons from hearing.”
Legira walked to the door of the closet. He opened it and stepped within. He pressed a hook on the
wall. A panel slid aside to reveal a passageway. Legira released the hook. The barrier closed. The man
emerged from the closet.
“Perhaps, Lopez”—Legira's voice was cautious—“perhaps there will be a reason to use—”
He pointed toward the secret opening. Lopez looked puzzled. He knew of the existence of the sliding
panel, but did not understand its purpose; had never known it to be used.
“They are watching,” said Legira softly. “Perhaps they are listening also. Let them watch. Let them listen.
They will not learn.”
The consul smiled as he sat down before a large desk. The thoughts that were passing through his brain
were known to himself alone.
Here, as in his residence, Alvarez Legira could not move without his actions being discovered. He knew
the identity of certain watchers. Did he suspect the presence of others?
THE eyes of The Shadow had joined the vigil that surrounded this man from Santander. Through his
agents The Shadow was watching. More than that, The Shadow had ears which Alvarez Legira did not
