WASHINGTON AND REMAIN THROUGHOUT THE COMING CRISIS.
To his friend Lamont Cranston, Senator Releston had given this plea. For Senator Releston knew that somehow Lamont Cranston could contact that mysterious fighter who had aided the government in the past.
He was sure that Cranston could bring The Shadow to Washington.
Even Releston had not identified the pretended personality of Lamont Cranston with the mysterious figure of The Shadow. Like others, the senator would believe that Cranston had left Washington for Florida.
Beneath the light, The Shadow's hand began inscribing messages. One was a summons to Harry Vincent; the others were coded orders to additional agents. The Shadow was bringing a small but competent corps of workers to Washington, there to aid him in the protective measures that Senator Releston required.
To−day, two suspects had been mentioned; Tyson Weed and Dunwood Rydel. For the present, The Shadow was prepared to concentrate on one, Tyson Weed. Should the lobbyist prove inconsequential, an investigation of the magnate would be in order. Tyson Weed was due to be covered by The Shadow.
CHAPTER IV. HARRY REPORTS.
THREE days after The Shadow's conference with Senator Releston and Foster Crozan, a sedan pulled up in front of an old brownstone house in the northwest section of Washington. The car belonged to Senator Releston; the young man who alighted from it was a brisk, clean−cut chap who had but recently come to town.
This was Harry Vincent, gaining his first view of the old mansion which Congressman Layton Coyd had chosen as a residence. Entrance was gained to the house by a pair of crumbling brownstone steps. Harry ascended them and rang the bell.
A weary, doubled−up servant admitted the visitor. The fellow blinked weakly at Harry, not recognizing him.
Then came a man's voice, brisk from the hall:
“If it's Mr. Vincent, Mose, step by and let him enter.”
Mose saw Harry nod; wearily, the ancient servitor allowed him to enter. In a spacious, gloomy hallway, Harry found himself face to face with a well−groomed young man, who extended his hand and delivered a pleasant smile. This chap's expression was friendly.
“My name's Jurrick,” he stated. “Don Jurrick. One of Mr. Coyd's secretaries. The congressman received Senator Releston's telephone call. He says that he can see you.”
Jurrick led the way toward a flight of stairs. They went upstairs and turned toward the front of the house.
They came into a huge room, across it a doorway that opened into a bedroom. This was Coyd's present quarters; the place was a medley of living room, reception hall and office.
SEATED by a desk was Layton Coyd, garbed in dressing gown, his legs wrapped in a blanket. Harry noted the weariness of the man's grayish face. He also observed what Clyde had noticed; the parchmentlike texture of Coyd's skin, with the crescent scar that marred chin and cheek.
But Harry was not impressed with the ruggedness of the congressman's profile. For Coyd's features were relaxed; they seemed weather−beaten rather than well−molded.
Beside Coyd was a tall, sallow−faced man with black hair and a pointed mustache. This individual had an air of self−assurance; his attire was immaculate, his poise seemed somewhat foreign. Jurrick introduced Harry to Coyd. The congressman shook hands without rising; then introduced Harry to the sallow−faced man, whom he named Doctor Borneau.
“Has Mr. Coyd been sick?” inquired Harry in an undertone.
“The congressman has suffered from heat strokes and nervousness,” replied Jurrick. “Doctor Borneau happened to be in Washington and arranged to act as consultant. He's been on the case several months. He happens to remain in Washington as he is preparing a series of speeches on Oriental diseases.”
Before Harry could add a comment to the conversation, another young man joined the group. He had shocky, red hair and a freckled face; he shook hands with Harry awkwardly.
“Hugh Tabbert, my fellow secretary,” stated Jurrick. “Tabbert comes from the congressman's home State, while I'm an extra hand here in Washington. Tabbert knows all the home−town politicians by their front names. That's where he had the edge on me.”
Jurrick's tone was jocular and friendly; but Tabbert seemed to resent it. Harry took that as an admission of inferiority on Tabbert's part; for Jurrick had obviously meant the remark as nothing more than a mild jest.
“Tabbert!” Coyd snapped the order from his chair. “Come here. Doctor Borneau wants to question you about my medicine.”
TABBERT approached the pair; Borneau, holding the congressman's pulse, questioned him mildly, in a foreign accent.
“You have been exact with the doses?” inquired the physician.
“Just as close to the dot as I can make them, sir.” returned Tabbert.
“That is good.” Borneau nodded. “Yes. Very good. We shall keep them on. Maybe perhaps one little change—”
He paused and drew a pad from his pocket. He made notations and handed them to Tabbert; then glanced at his watch and nodded.
“I'm tired, doctor,” complained Coyd, his tone showing irritability. “What good is medicine—treatment—if everything continues to annoy me? My mind seems bewildered—whirling—”
“Too much of the overwork,” interposed Doctor Borneau, with a smile. “Ma foi, m'sieu'! Of what good can be the medicine if you do not give the cooperation?”
“I suppose you're right, doctor,” grumbled Coyd. “By the way, Tabbert”—Coyd addressed the dull−faced secretary, who was stirring a glass of liquid—“what have you heard from Lucian? When does he intend to have that bust finished?”
“In a few days, sir,” responded Tabbert. “He will bring it here, sir, for your approval.”
“Be sure he does so.” Coyd glowered angrily. “Bah! Such delay! I was afraid he had broken another cast and would want me to go through another of those plagued sittings. Such things annoy me!” Coyd's voice had become harsh, his fists were upraised and twitching. “Confound it! Everything annoys me! This place is becoming a madhouse—”
Coyd was coming to his feet, gesturing wildly as he flung aside the blanket that encircled his legs. Doctor Borneau sprang forward and gripped the congressman's arm. At a gesture from the physician, Tabbert set down the glass and lent his aid. Under their combined pressure, Coyd subsided. He huddled in his chair, muttering as he thrust his fingers through his shocky, black hair.
Harry Vincent had watched the quick changes that had come over the congressman; then looked toward Jurrick. Something in his glance made the friendly secretary realize that an explanation was necessary; for Jurrick gave one in an undertone.
“Mr. Coyd seldom has such outbursts,” was Jurrick's whisper. “Certain matters arouse his anger; the matter of the bust is one of them. The native sons want a bronze bust of Mr. Coyd for the state capital. They have been pestering him for its delivery.”
“And the bust is nearly ready?”
“Yes. A sculptor named Lucian is molding it from a plaster cast. That is what is causing the delay. A few months ago, Lucian took a mask impression direct from Mr. Coyd's face. It was accidentally broken, and he had to take a new one. That irritated Mr. Coyd, and justifiably—for those sittings were a nuisance. But the bust is almost done at last—”
Jurrick broke off and turned toward the door. He bowed and advanced to meet an attractive girl who was entering from the hall. Harry heard the secretary address her as Miss Coyd; he knew that this must be the congressman's daughter.
COYD opened his eyes wearily, then smiled pleasantly as his daughter approached. An attractive brunette, trimly attired, the girl had arrived as a welcome visitor. She leaned forward and kissed her father's forehead; then sat down in a chair which Tabbert clumsily placed beside the congressman's big chair.
“Hello, Evelyn,” said Coyd, slowly. “You seem very cheerful to−day, dear. Are you all ready for your vacation in Virginia?”
“The lodge is opened, daddy.” returned the girl, brightly. “The servants are just w
aiting for us to come there.”
“For us?”
“Certainly. You are going with me, daddy.”
Coyd shook his head. The girl turned appealingly to Doctor Borneau. The physician spoke to Coyd.
“A trip to Virginia would do you good, sir,” declared the doctor. “It is part of my prescription. At the same time, Miss Coyd, I believe that it would be for the best if your father should rest before the journey.”
“That's right,” rumbled Coyd, becoming more active. “Run on down to Virginia, Evelyn. Stay there at the lodge. I shall join you later.”
“Very well.” The girl paused after giving agreement. Then: “Would you mind, daddy, if I took a friend to Virginia with me?”
“A friend? Who?”
“Beatrice Rydel.”
COYD came upward in his chair. He glared angrily at his daughter and began to pound his fist upon a table that was beside him.
“Dunwood Rydel's own daughter!” stormed Coyd. “Why should you be friendly with her, of all persons? Her father and I are enemies, Evelyn—”
“But Beatrice and I are friends.”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, that is no reason to invite her to visit you.”
“Please, daddy, don't stir yourself into another temper. Beatrice won't annoy you if she visits with me.”
“Maybe not.” Coyd settled back in his chair. “After all, the girl is nothing but an empty−headed chatterbox; and I've put up with many of that sort in the State legislature. Very well, Evelyn; take her to Virginia with you.”
That matter settled, Coyd glanced across the room and spied Harry Vincent. He had practically forgotten the stranger's presence. Coyd decided that it was time to discuss business.
“I welcome your visit, Mr. Vincent.” he declared. “Senator Releston tells me that you are to serve as his own representative. An excellent plan, for it will enable me to keep better contact with the senator. I agree on the point that he and I should cooperate.
“There is nothing, however, for us to discuss to−day. My mind is burdened with troublesome details; after they are cleared, I shall send for you, Mr. Vincent. Good day, sir, and my regards to Senator Releston.”
It was an abrupt dismissal, yet not intended as a rude one. Harry understood that Coyd's thoughts were hectic at present.
GOING down the brownstone step, Harry engaged in a flurry of thoughts. He had learned trivialities in this first visit to Coyd's; yet in that mass of chaff there might be some point of value.
Coyd's indisposition, Doctor Borneau's presence, the congressman's irritability over the matter of the delayed bust—these were facts worth noting. Most important, however, was the information that Beatrice Rydel was to be Evelyn Coyd's guest at the country residence which Congressman Coyd had take in Virginia.
This would be of interest to The Shadow, thought Harry, as he entered his sedan and drove away. Convinced in that impression, he was too occupied to notice present points that he should have observed.
One was a face that appeared at an upstairs window—Coyd's bedroom—and watched The Shadow's agent drive away. That countenance was Hugh Tabbert's; and the face was much more alert than Harry would have believed possible.
The other factor that escaped Harry's observation was a parked coupé across the street. From behind the steering wheel of that vehicle, a thick−faced man with a heavy, black mustache had been watching the front of Congressman Coyd's home.
With glaring eyes, this mustached observer watched Harry drive away; then grunted with satisfaction as he settled back in his seat and resumed his observation of Coyd's residence. With stubby fingers, the spy noted down the license number of Harry's car.
Events were brewing about the mansion wherein Layton Coyd resided. Cross purposes were at work; and the very atmosphere presaged the coming of the crisis that Senator Releston had anticipated. Senator Releston had been wise in his request for The Shadow's aid.
CHAPTER V. TWO CAMPS.
DUSK had followed afternoon. Lights were agleam in a stately mansion that stood back from the traffic of a Washington avenue. This was the Washington colonial residence of Dunwood Rydel, the millionaire magnate who felt that his interests commanded his stay in Washington.
Behind the huge colonial mansion, the garage formed a wide, squat building. It had once been a stable; now it housed the half dozen cars that formed Rydel's fleet of automotive vehicles. Back of the garage was a high, thick hedge; it was from this barrier that a sidling figure entered the grounds, unseen against the blackness of the hedge itself.
Heedless of the patrolling servants who kept watch for prowlers, this prowler glided along the side wall of the garage and reached a small door at the front corner. A gloved hand turned the knob; a shrouded figure entered a darkened passage. The visitant found another door and opened it inch by inch.
The sound of voices came from the big storage room of the garage, where four cars were parked in a row.
The Shadow had seen the lights through the rear windows. He had stopped at the garage to listen in on any conversation that might prove of interest. The voices that he heard were those of two chauffeurs in Rydel's employ. One was standing ready to enter a large imported coupé.
“I guess the master's ready and waiting, Chet.” declared the chauffeur by the car. “I'd better not keep him waiting. He's got an appointment this evening.”
“Where's he going, Bill?” queried the idle chauffeur. “Down to the Lotus Club?”
“Yeah, for dinner. That's why he's starting early. He always goes there when Miss Beatrice is away. Say—is Mullard driving clear down to that place in Virginia?”
“No, He just took Miss Beatrice into town to meet her girl friend. Won't be back for a while, though; he's probably getting those new tires for the limousine.”
Bill clambered aboard the coupé and backed it from the open door of the garage. Evidently Rydel had been waiting Bill's appearance.
The Shadow swung suddenly about as Chet came toward the little door where he was stationed. The chauffeur was whistling; the trill announced his approach. The Shadow moved out through the little front door and blended with blackness against the wall. The move was a wise one, for Chet stepped into view a moment later. The chauffeur paused to light a cigarette.
Forced to delay his departure, The Shadow waited. He had no further purpose here; as soon as Chet was gone, he intended to glide along. But before the chauffeur could step away, a flashlight glimmered. One of Rydel's inspecting servants arrived to talk to the chauffeur.
“Hello, Whitey,” greeted Chet. “Giving the grounds a look−over like the boss wants?”
“Yeah,” growled Whitey. “Fine job for a butler, ain't it? Like Toby, being a valet, and doing his bit on the other side of the house. Scouring the shrubbery.”
“Hubert and Tobias,” chuckled Chet. “Great monikers for a couple of guys like you fellows. Well, I'll still call you Whitey and Toby—”
“Here's Toby now,” interrupted Whitey, swinging toward the gravel drive. “Hey, Toby—”
WHITEY'S greeting ended as a harsh exclamation came from Toby. The approaching watchman had pressed the button of his flashlight. Purely by accident, the glare had focused on the wall of the garage; there it had revealed the blackened outline of The Shadow. Toby had seen the living shape.
Hard upon Toby's discovery came action. Before the servant had opportunity to catalog the physical appearance of this black intruder, The Shadow's swift form surged forward. Toby swung hard with a lead−weighted club that he was carrying. A gloved hand plucked his descending wrist.
With a sharp cry, Toby spun upward; his body was heaved into a somersault. His fingers lost their clutch upon the club; his flashlight went spinning through the air. Toby flattened on the gravel and rolled over into a helpless sprawl.
Two reserves were springing into action; Whitey, with a club and flashlight; Chet, yanking a revolver that he carried while about the garage. As Whitey's torch cleaved the darkness, a black form
hurtled in to meet him.
Gloved hands found their grip as The Shadow joined in swift grapple.
Flashlight and club went flying. With a grunt, Whitey sagged beneath choking fingers that clamped his throat. Then The Shadow flung the husky guardian to the gravel; coming up to hands and knees, Whitey paused, half dazed beside the groggy form of Toby.
Chet had snatched the flashlight from the drive. Away from the garage, he circled the gleam, frantically trying to spot the intruding fighter. A sudden exclamation of success came from the chauffeur as a figure sprang suddenly into the light. Chet swung the revolver, seeking quick aim.
A gloved fist swished through the glare. Buffered knuckles clipped Chet's chin. The chauffeur reeled backward; then thudded to earth. Torch and revolver slipped from the chauffeur's loosened grasp while The Shadow swished past the garage and gained the hedge beyond. Silent, mirthless, he was gone when the half−groggy servants came clambering dizzily to their feet.
AT the Lotus Club, Dunwood Rydel was seated at a corner table in the grill−room, confining his diet to a bowl of milk and toast while he growled to a companion opposite. Big, portly and glowering, Rydel seemed in ill sorts. His friend, a quiet, mild−mannered man, was shaking his head in disapproval.
A stranger entered the grillroom and seated himself at a table opposite. His features were the hawklike guise of Henry Arnaud. Departing from Rydel's terrain, The Shadow had headed for this club that he had heard the chauffeurs mention. His manner of entry had been simple. He had used a letter of introduction signed by Lamont Cranston, whose name was known in all exclusive clubs.
“You're a lawyer, Wimbledon,” The Shadow heard Rydel say. “You ought to agree with me. I tell you, there's not been fair discrimination.”
“You are wrong, Rydel,” returned the mild−mannered man. “True, you have suffered through certain investigations. The findings, however, justified.”
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