“Too bad,” interposed Coyd, gloomily. Then: “Bring his friend, Crozan, if you wish. He can see my delivery and tell the senator about it afterward.”
Suddenly wearied, Coyd went into the bedroom. Harry strolled out with Tabbert, while Doctor Borneau was making notes and Jurrick was replacing the medicine bottles in the cabinet. At the bottom of the stairs, Harry paused to light a cigarette; as he tarried, Borneau and Jurrick came down the steps.
Tabbert had gone. Harry started up the steps, remarking, in passing, that he had left his hat in the living room.
Reaching there alone, Harry went to the big box; he shifted the lid; it came up several inches. Reaching inside, Harry made adjustments: when he closed the lid and slid it, he heard locks click tight.
Harry had followed instructions received through Burbank. His work was done for the time: what the aftermath would be, Harry could not guess. He knew only that he had done The Shadow's bidding; that some strange climax would later be staged to close a baffling drama.
Something must be threatening, despite the fact that Coyd's speech was written, approved and rehearsed. The outcome was a mystery to Harry. What the finish would be, only The Shadow knew!
CHAPTER XVII. FIGURES IN THE DARK.
SEVEN o'clock. A torrential rain had broken the day's heat wave. It was dripping still; the lights of Washington were hazy through the steamy atmosphere. An hour yet remained before Congressman Coyd's speech would go out over the air, as the finale of the scheduled banquet.
Across from Dunwood Rydel's mansion, two men were seated in a parked coupé. Cliff at the wheel; Hawkeye beside him. Both were watching the rain−soaked driveway with the garage beyond. A light glimmered suddenly to attract their attention. It was under the porte−cochère. The front door opened and Dunwood Rydel stepped into view.
A limousine rolled from the garage. It was the big car that Hawkeye had seen that night on Q Street. The car skirted the mansion; Rydel boarded it and the big machine rolled from the drive. After it had passed, Cliff started in pursuit. The course led to the Lotus Club.
When Rydel alighted, he gave brief instructions to Mullard, who was the chauffeur at the wheel. The man nodded and drove away. Cliff followed him in the coupé; but Hawkeye was no longer aboard. The little spotter had dropped from Cliff's car to put in a call to The Shadow.
Mullard picked a twisting course through slippery streets. Cliff kept the trail; he followed the limousine northward along Seventh Street. Then Mullard changed his tactics; he began to zigzag over the same territory. Apparently he was deliberately trying to shake off any followers. Cliff let him take a turn; then waited.
Soon Mullard's car appeared, crossing the street a block ahead. The glare of a bright electric light was the give−away. Cliff followed and made the corner. As he turned, he saw the limousine parked by the curb, a block and a half ahead. Then the big machine started suddenly; it zipped for the nearest corner and shot out of view as Cliff was coming up.
The chase was ended; but Cliff was sure that he had found a goal. The building before which Mullard had stopped was an old, three−story house; Cliff knew it by the proximity of a street lamp that had partially revealed the standing limousine.
Like the house that Hawkeye had visited on Q Street, this building was a residence converted into an apartment.
It bore the name plate: “Northern Arms.”
CLIFF parked his coupé. He went into the lobby, pushed a bell beside a name and listened in hope of luck.
The door clicked; Cliff entered. Instead of going upstairs, he sneaked to the rear of the hall and waited.
A door opened above; a voice shouted; then the door slammed. Some annoyed apartment dweller had decided that the ring was a hoax.
While outside, Cliff had noted one point in a preliminary survey. Windows, first and second floors front, had been lighted. The slammed door had apparently come from the second story back; a likely guess, for Cliff had pressed a button marked 2B. The third floor, therefore, seemed like a good bet. Cliff sneaked up the stairs and reached it.
This building, like the one that Hawkeye had visited, was equipped with a rear fire escape. This was required by law in both cases; for none of these old houses were fireproof. Cliff took the rear apartment as the easiest mode of entry. He reached the fire escape and leaned over to a locked window.
Using a thin prying tool, Cliff tried The Shadow's system. His efforts were comparatively clumsy; for he required several minutes before he could catch the lock, and he chipped the woodwork into the bargain.
When he finally opened the window, Cliff slid into a small kitchen; from there, he reached a darkened hall, with a bedroom on the side.
Using a flashlight, Cliff spotted a suitcase. He opened it; the first objects that he saw were papers and letters.
Cliff examined them and chuckled; he opened an envelope and produced a handful of newspaper clippings.
These were all he needed.
Continuing through to a living room, Cliff calmly turned on the light and picked up a telephone. He dialed the Hotel Halcyon. He asked for 808. Burbank's voice responded. Cliff reported. That done, he stretched out in a comfortable chair and laid his revolver on the table beside him. Cliff was prepared to wait as long as necessary.
MEANWHILE, Dunwood Rydel had met two persons in the Lotus Club. One was Coyd's daughter; the other was another girl, a blonde whose attractiveness was quite as marked as Evelyn's. This was Beatrice Rydel.
The girls had come in from Virginia. Delayed by the storm, Beatrice had called her father; he had told her to meet him at the Lotus Club.
The trio went into the upstairs dining room. As they were ordering dinner, a man strolled in and took a table close by. It was The Shadow, guised as Henry Arnaud. Quietly, he ordered a prompt dinner, stating that his time was short.
“Father,” remarked Beatrice, “we are in a great hurry. Evelyn wants me to go with her to hear her father's speech. He is delivering it from his home, you know.”
“Humph,” growled Rydel. “So that's why he was so testy this morning. I had forgotten about that plagued speech of his.”
“Father!” reproved Beatrice. “You are forgetting Evelyn—”
“That's all right, Beatrice,” laughed the brunette. “Daddy has said many mean things about your father.”
“He has?” queried Rydel.
“Yes,” acknowledged Evelyn. “Many times.”
“Humph.” Rydel's tone was a chuckle. “Maybe the old codger is a good fellow after all. I like people to be frank. Come to think of it, he is frank.”
“Why don't you come with us?” queried Evelyn.
Rydel shook his head.
“Not for the speech,” he decided. “I have a conference with some friends, here at the club. Mullard is to take the limousine back and come for me in the coupé. I believe, though, that I can get away by nine−thirty. I shall have Mullard keep the limousine in town; then I can come along for Beatrice.”
“And meet daddy.” added Evelyn.
“Perhaps,” said Rydel. “Anyway, you girls can call Mullard and have him take you to Coyd's in the limousine. I sent him to the F Street garage. I told him to wait there in case you needed him.”
“We have my coupé, father,” reminded Beatrice. “We can drive to Evelyn's in it. Then I can call one of the chauffeurs and have him take it home from there, since you will be coming in the limousine.”
An attendant entered and spoke to the headwaiter, who indicated The Shadow. The attendant approached and delivered a message. The Shadow read the statement that Mr. Burbank was calling. He left the table, went to the lobby and answered the telephone. He received news of Cliff.
Telling the attendant to cancel his dinner order, The Shadow left the club. Hailing a taxi, he gave a destination. When the driver reached an empty house, he paused, puzzled; then the fare was thrust into his hand. The door of the cab opened; the passenger was gone.
The driver blinked. He had remembered a man with
a briefcase. Yet no such passenger had alighted; in fact the driver had no recollection of anything but a gloved hand, tendering him his fare and tip. Shrugging his shoulders, the cabby drove away along the puddly street. The Shadow, turning the nearest corner, saw him travel by.
NEARLY a block ahead, a limousine was halted by the curb. As The Shadow swished forward through the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a figure by the machine. An instant later, the big car shot away. Continuing, The Shadow reached the back of a huge brownstone house. He had arrived at Congressman Coyd's.
Moving through the passage beside the house, The Shadow reached the front. He seemed unconcerned by that brief sight that he had gained upon arrival. Outside, he discovered a parked sedan; it was Senator Releston's car. Harry Vincent was already at Coyd's.
Long minutes passed; a phantom shape had glided out of sight. Elsewhere, however, a watcher had found something to observe. Hawkeye, stationed outside the F Street garage, saw a limousine swing into the entrance, a dozen minutes after The Shadow had spotted the same car at Coyd's.
Inside the garage, Mullard alighted and hailed an attendant. The fellow came over; the chauffeur put a query:
“Did the boss call?”
The attendant shook his head.
“Listen, Stevie.” Mullard drew the fellow aside. “I got a hunch that old Rydel is checking up on me. I've been riding around in this bus of his and the gas bill's kind of heavy. See?”
Steve grinned and nodded.
“Got a date with a gal,” confided Mullard. “Want to slide out of here along about nine; and I won't be back for an hour. Maybe some snooper is watching. Give me a break, will you?”
“How?”
“You know that old entrance over on the other side?”
“Sure. A couple of old junkers are blocking it.
“Shove them out so I can use the door. Worth a couple of bucks for your trouble?”
“You bet.”
The attendant went away. Mallard remained by the limousine, away from Hawkeye's range of vision. Though he had not spied the spotter, Mullard still figured that a car had trailed him. If so, it might have come back to the front of the F Street garage, after being shaken in the chase. By using the forgotten side door, Mullard was making a sure thing of a get−away.
EIGHT o'clock was nearing; it was the scheduled time for Coyd's speech. The Shadow, watching from the passage beside the brownstone house, saw a taxicab jolt to a stop in front. A man alighted; he was the radio technician sent to make the hook−up. He had evidently come from the banquet, allowing ample time for the final arrangements.
Hardly had the cab moved away before an imported coupé stopped before the house. Two girls alighted; Evelyn Coyd and Beatrice Rydel had hurried through their dinner in order to be in time for the speech. They, too, were admitted to the house.
Softly, The Shadow laughed as he merged beneath the darkness of the walls. His suppressed mirth faded, lost amid the patter of raindrops on the eaves above. A phantom shape, obscured in blackness, his time for action had come.
Every occurrence of this early evening had fitted The Shadow's analysis. A superscheme was ready for its payoff. Men of evil purpose had grasped their opportunity. They had planned and labored, prepared to offset counterthrusts; but they had not reckoned with the master who was due.
The Shadow.
CHAPTER XVIII. DECISIONS CHANGE.
WHILE The Shadow still lingered outside the darkened brownstone house, a group of persons had assembled in Congressman Coyd's upstairs living room.
Foster Crozan was seated there, in a comfortable easy−chair. He was talking quietly with Evelyn Coyd, who was seated opposite; while Beatrice Rydel was chatting with Hugh Tabbert.
Doctor Pierre Borneau was also present. Smoking a cigarette, the physician was slowly pacing back and forth across the room. In the corner stood Harry Vincent, his elbow resting on the big box that Burbank had delivered. Harry was watching the radio technician complete the hook−up.
The radio man had ignored the big box. Harry had expected that. Burbank had faked its hook−up; the only real connection that the box possessed was a wire to an isolated floor plug. The technician, in fact, had wondered what the cabinet was doing here and had decided that it was some mechanical device which did not concern him.
His work completed, the technician was using the telephone to call the downtown banquet room. Harry Vincent used this opportunity to note the other persons in the room. Tabbert interested him most; Harry noted that the red−haired secretary was scarcely listening to Beatrice Rydel's chatter. Tabbert was looking at Evelyn Coyd, who, in turn, was deliberately ignoring him.
Harry could see the clenching of Tabbert's fists; he knew that the fellow was thinking of Don Jurrick, whom Tabbert considered as a rival. For it was obvious that the home−town boy was in love with the congressman's daughter.
“Where is Mr. Coyd?”
The question was asked by the radio technician, a weary−faced, businesslike individual. Tabbert suddenly realized that he was being addressed. He turned about and spoke.
“Mr. Coyd is downstairs in his study,” he stated. “He went down there with you, didn't he, Doctor Borneau?”
“When I awakened him,” replied the physician, “he asked if he might go downstairs. He seemed in good spirits, so I permitted him to do so. Mr. Coyd is quite alert this evening.”
“I heard Jurrick's typewriter going,” stated Tabbert, “so I suppose that Mr. Coyd is dictating some additional notes. Shall I go down and tell him that we are ready?”
“You'd better,” informed the radio man, moving to a square box where a switch was located. “The announcement is due inside of ten minutes.”
TABBERT started for the door. He stopped as he heard footsteps. Two persons were coming up the stairs; Tabbert recognized Coyd's voice and came back into the room. Half a minute later, Coyd entered the room with Jurrick at his elbow. The sleek secretary was speaking in a low, half−pleading tone.
“Enough, Jurrick,” said Coyd, sharply. “You are in my employ to take orders; not to criticize my decisions.
Go take a chair and say no more.”
A scowl showed on the congressman's dry features. Then Harry saw a blink of eyelids, a sudden twitch of lips as the shock−haired man spied Beatrice Rydel. For a moment, fingers clutched nervously at open air; then Evelyn Coyd sprang up from her chair.
“Daddy!” she exclaimed. “You don't mind our surprising you? I thought you would like to have Beatrice and myself here to−night.”
The girl had placed her hands on Coyd's shoulders. Mechanically, he kissed her on the forehead; then spoke, nervously, as Evelyn stepped away.
“No, no, daughter,” came Coyd's response. “I do not mind. It was rather startling, though, to know that you had arrived so unexpectedly.”
Though he spoke to Evelyn, his eyes were still toward Beatrice. The blond girl looked half puzzled; Harry saw her start to speak, then hesitate. Evelyn, too, was wondering; and Harry was not surprised. The Shadow's agent had noted many of Coyd's moods; the present one was different than any that he had previously observed.
Fingers moved through the shock of black hair. The action changed the man's mood. Coyd's face became firm; his voice sounded brusque. Doctor Borneau motioned to the girls; they sat down at the physician's order.
“Only a few minutes, Mr. Coyd.”
“Good.” Coyd's tone was firm. With this response to the radio technician, the speaker of the evening swung about and faced the group. “Good. But I still have time to say something that will interest all of you.”
A tense pause; then came the congressman's tone tinged with a sneer:
“I have altered the contents of my speech. I have done so because I am weary of interference in my affairs. In order to declare my independence, I shall deliver statements that will end all meddling on the part of others.
From such persons, for instance, as Senator Ross Releston.”
Coyd's tone was
sarcastic and biting. Harry saw a gleam in the congressman's eyes as they were focused first upon him; then on Foster Crozan. Harry watched Crozan rise from his chair, only to he waved down.
“To−night, I shall speak of utilities.” Coyd's voice was intoning the words. “But I shall not condemn them.
Nor will I state what Senator Releston has said—that rates will be fixed once and for all.
“Instead, I shall declare that these specific utilities will not be regulated at all.” A gesturing hand flourished a sheaf of papers that Jurrick had typed. “I shall assert that their affairs do not come under congressional jurisdiction; that the committees will have no report concerning them.”
CROZAN was on his feet. Violently, his fist was shaking in Coyd's face. Harry had never seen the senatorial candidate so indignant.
“Outrageous!” stormed Crozan. “Do you mean, Mr. Coyd, that you intend to state a deliberate untruth? To create a totally erroneous belief on the part of the public—”
“My original remarks were not entirely correct.”
“They recognized definite possibilities. There was a chance that the committees would go further than already decided. This new statement, however, is a bald lie. If Senator Releston were here—”
“He is not here, however,” came the sneering interruption. “As for you, Crozan, you are nothing but a private citizen. Your interference in my affairs is unwarranted.”
“I am acting for the public good. Do you realize, Coyd, what you will do? No denial—by Releston or any one—will be capable of stopping disaster. The truth can never overtake a lie. The munitions scandal will be nothing compared with this. To−morrow, stocks will soar sky high. Speculators will unload—”
“Let them. Their business is their own.”
“But afterward, Coyd! The dupes who will buy those securities at your instigation! Think of them! When Congress resumes session, when the committee reports are given, the fixing of utility rates will cause a drop to normal or below. Honest persons will be bereft of long−saved earnings—”
The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92 Page 12
