“That is their look−out, Crozan. My interests are my own. Independence is a virtue that I value, Crozan.”
“Independence!” Crozan's tone was irony. “You are showing no independence, Coyd! At last you are flaunting your true colors—the skull and crossbones of piracy. I believed in you, Coyd. I thought—like Releston—that your statement regarding munitions had been an unaccountable error.
“Both Releston and I were deceived on that occasion. Deceived by your glibness and your whining. It is plain, now, that you were working for the very graspers whom you pretended to denounce. A hidden syndicate, operated by one man whose lust for wealth knows no bounds.
“You were forced to back down that time, Coyd. However, you have found another opportunity to serve your evil master. This time the speculation lies in those rotten utilities that you said you would denounce. You will get your pay from that big money grabber who is behind the whole scheme.
“I shall name him, Coyd. I was right from the start. I should have known it to−day. That crook came here in person, to see if you were still in line. Tonight, he has sent his daughter as a reminder of your crooked duty.
“You are working for Dunwood Rydel! He stands to win fifty million dollars through your vile efforts! You will receive your portion. That is, you would receive it, were I not here to stop this outrage. Your speech, Coyd, will not go over the air!”
Both of Crozan's fists were against Coyd's jaw. Suddenly, a defending arm shot forward; the drive of Coyd's fist sent Crozan sprawling back into his chair. Spluttering, Crozan came to his feet again.
“Stop him, Tabbert! And you, Jurrick!”
BOTH secretaries hesitated as they heard Coyd's command. Then Tabbert saw Evelyn; Coyd's daughter was stopping Beatrice Rydel, who was coming toward Crozan, shouting her indignation at his statements concerning her father.
Tabbert waited no longer; with a contemptuous glance at Jurrick, the red−haired secretary pounced upon Crozan and pinned the square−jawed protester in his chair.
Crozan fought back. He had the strength of an athlete and was a match for Tabbert. But Jurrick, forced to follow Tabbert's action, had come into the fray. Together, the secretaries ended Crozan's resistance.
Overpowered, Crozan glared at Coyd; then heard the congressman's sarcastic words.
“Sit quiet, Crozan. One move from you will lead to your ejection. One word from you will mean the end of your political career. You have no authority; it is not for you to interfere with my activities.”
Crozan quieted; his face was bitter. Beatrice had subsided under Evelyn's coaxing. Doctor Borneau had stepped forward to protest against his patient's fury. Harry saw Coyd's shaggy head shake. Borneau stepped back.
“Nearly ready, Mr. Coyd.”
It was the radio man at the switch. The fellow had taken no part in the altercation; his worry concerned the broadcasting of Coyd's speech. Nimbly, Coyd's hands unfolded the new notes; Harry saw sneering lips above the congressman's pugnacious jaw. A sudden hush filled the room. Crozan, head bowed, was silent.
Then came words from a loudspeaker. It was an announcer at the banquet hall, stating that the guests would hear from Congressman Layton Coyd, the speaker of the evening. The announcement ended; the radio man swung the switch and nodded. Coyd stepped to a microphone that was standing on the table. The air was ready for his speech.
AT that instant, a whispered sound crept through the room. Low, sinister, almost spectral, it came as a baffling tone of suppressed mirth. A symbol of the unexpected, it died as suddenly as it had begun; but not too soon. Involuntarily, every person in the room had guessed the spot from which the whispered mockery had come. All swung toward the doorway to the hall.
The door had opened. Standing within the portal was a being cloaked in black. Firelike eyes were glowing from below a hat brim; beneath those sparkling optics bulked a brace of automatics, clenched in thin−gloved hands. One .45 was aimed directly for the figure of Congressman Layton Coyd, covering Doctor Borneau also, for the physician was close by the table.
The other weapon was pointed to the chair where Jurrick and Tabbert still guarded Crozan. Neither of the secretaries could make a move. Wagging slowly, the automatic moved from one to the other, while Crozan sat gasping, in between.
Evelyn and Beatrice stared from the wall by the door to the bedroom. The radio technician slumped; his shaking hands came upward. Though no gun aimed in his direction, this bystander was chilled with fright.
A decision had been made; its upshot, a total change in the speech originally prepared by Congressman Layton Coyd. Damaging words were ready for the air; to be uttered by those fuming lips that now twitched upon Coyd's blanched face. Those new words, however, were destined never to be uttered.
The Shadow had countermanded crime. He had reversed the decision. He was here to see that justice would prevail!
CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS.
OF all the persons in that hushed room, only one responded with swift action. Not The Shadow; his part required no motion other than the tantalizing manipulation of the automatics. Like steady pendulums, the guns were moving to and fro. One .45 wagged its muzzle between the figures of Coyd and Borneau; the other gun shifted back and forth along the trio at the chair, where Foster Crozan was still flanked by Tabbert and Jurrick.
The man who strode about was Harry Vincent. Stepping to the table, The Shadow's agent clutched the microphone with his left hand while he drew an automatic from his pocket with his right.
Setting the mike on a chair in front of the big corner cabinet, Harry promptly opened the box by pressing a hidden spring. A disk record began a slow revolution; Harry applied a phonographic needle; then stooped and dropped the front of the box. That done, he stood alert, his own gun ready.
From the cabinet came the loud tone of a throat−clearing cough. A pause; then a friendly voice began to speak. Listeners stared as they recognized the words of Congressman Layton Coyd. The speaker was going over the air; but not in person. This was a recorded program, a word−for−word reproduction of the original speech that Coyd had rehearsed that afternoon.
Harry had followed Burbank's instructions to the letter. Harry's own report had given The Shadow ample time to arrange this set−up. In this very room, Harry had managed to record Coyd's words during the afternoon rehearsal. Afterward, he had found opportunity to make the required mechanical changes in the recording device.
Coyd's voice was eloquent as it continued. Harry had caught the congressman's attention that afternoon; Coyd's gestures and his oratory had been delivered directly toward the vital corner. The tones from the record drove home their message. Brief, but pointed and emphatic, Coyd's denunciation of manipulated utilities rang out for all the world to hear.
No listener made a move. The lazy motion of The Shadow's automatics continued unrelenting. At last the speech was done. Still, those in the room sat silent. From hidden lips came a chilling tone, an eerie laugh of whispered triumph. As The Shadow's quivered mirth subsided, Harry Vincent stepped over and pulled the switch. The room was no longer a broadcasting chamber.
THE SHADOW'S gloved hands ceased their motion. Harry had become an added threat with his single gun; those whom The Shadow had covered were too cowed to make a move in face of the three weapons held ready by the cloaked master and his agent. Rigid listeners expected some pronouncement. It came.
“Open the door to the bedroom.”
The Shadow's words were a command. Evelyn Coyd, near the door, could see the gleam of those dominating eyes. Nodding, the girl stepped over and tried the knob. The door was locked.
“Give her the key.”
These stern words were addressed toward the table. A twitching showed on the face of Coyd as the man's hand started for his pocket. Then came a glare of defiance—an expression entirely different from any that Coyd had ever shown.
“No!” cried the man by the table. “No. I do not have the key. You cannot enter there—”
H
ands clutched the lapels of the smoking jacket as the shock−headed man raised his head and delivered his dramatic utterance. The Shadow's eyes were upon Doctor Borneau; Harry, springing forward, jabbed his automatic against the physician's ribs and plucked the key from Borneau's pocket.
Coyd's unfamiliar tone had ended abruptly. It was Evelyn who gave the next cry. She was staring at that transformed face. Her eyes were noting the glisten of the shocky hair above. Wildly, the girl blurted the truth.
“You are not my father!” she shrieked. “You are an impostor! I should have known it when I first arrived here! You were different—”
Beatrice Rydel had joined her friend. She, too, was staring at that wild−eyed man whose face resembled Layton Coyd's. Evelyn knew only that the visage, the pose, could not be her father's; but Beatrice had suddenly recognized who the man must be.
“Montgomery!” she exclaimed. “Montgomery Hadwil! You—your face is changed—your hair dyed—”
THE false Coyd swung back against the table; his faked lips gave a venomous snarl. Recognition complete, he resorted to frenzy. His dramatic egotism came to the fore, in spite of a sharp warning from Doctor Borneau.
“What of it?” demanded Hadwil, viciously. “What if I did choose to deceive the world? Bah! How else could I have gained the wealth I wanted? Your father refused—”
“Enough, rogue!” interrupted Crozan, coming to his feet. “You can make your confession later. We know you for an adventurer, seeking a marriage that would bring you wealth. Dunwood Rydel refused it; he told you his daughter would receive no dower. He knew that money came first with you.”
Hadwil was spluttering; the glare of Crozan's eyes made him end his fuming. Still accusing, Crozan drove home another statement.
“Rydel offered you money,” he scoffed. “He gave you an opportunity. One that allowed you to continue your profession as an actor. It meant an alteration of your features; but what of that? It was no more than a minor operation, designed to bring you wealth. Come, man, confess. I can promise that you will be dealt with leniently.”
“Very well.” Hadwil had calmed. “I did as Rydel told me. I went daily to the Hall of Representatives; I watched Layton Coyd and learned all his mannerisms and gestures. I rehearsed them to perfection.
“I went to a small private hospital outside of Washington. There the operation was performed. After that, I lived in an apartment on Q Street. Rydel placed a car at my disposal. A limousine with a chauffeur named Mullard.
“He brought me here one day to make a trial of my new identity. The next day I came again and issued the statement on munitions. To−night, I made another visit; I came here to deliver a speech as Rydel wanted it.”
“We have your confession,” remarked Crozan. He was in the center of the room, confident that he was backed by The Shadow's guns. “Next, we should hear from you, Doctor Borneau. Hadwil is guilty merely of an imposture. Perhaps, doctor, your deeds were more serious.”
“Slightly,” asserted Borneau, with a grimace. “I, too, was hired by Rydel. Some time ago, a sculptor named Lucian took a cast—a mask—of Congressman Coyd. Some one—Rydel or his chauffeur—entered Lucian's studio and stole the cast, leaving a batch of broken plaster on the floor.
“A second mask was taken—for that statue on the mantelpiece—but I had the first. I used it as a mold for a facial operation which I performed on Hadwil. You understand, of course, that I was deceived at first. I thought that Rydel was friendly to Coyd; that the purpose was to have Hadwil serve as Coyd's substitute when the latter was indisposed—”
“That is irrelevant, doctor,” interposed Crozan, sternly. “Let us know what you actually did to Congressman Coyd.”
“I gave him two prescriptions,” admitted the physician. “Neither was really harmful; but one stimulated him and afterward, when its effects wore off, he felt melancholy. That accounted for his troubled mental condition. He needed more stimulus, either through medicine or outdoor exercise.”
“And the other prescription?”
“Contained an opiate. So Coyd would sleep on the days that Rydel wished to substitute Hadwil in his stead. I learned the real game, too late—”
“What about your past, Doctor Borneau? How did you come to be in Washington?”
“I was concerned in some trouble at Saigon, Mr. Crozan. Fortunately, charges against me were dropped.
Never made, in fact, since I promised to leave Indo−China. Even the French Embassy did not know about the matter. It was a personal concern.”
“What about these men?”
Crozan was indicating Coyd's secretaries. Borneau shook his head.
“Neither was implicated,” the man replied.
TABBERT'S face was pale; for a moment, he was about to blurt out something, then desisted as he saw Evelyn stare accusingly in his direction. Before the girl could speak, Harry caught a signal from The Shadow.
He handed the key to Evelyn. The girl hurried and unlocked the door.
Harry gently urged Beatrice Rydel to follow her. The blonde obeyed mechanically; she seemed dulled by the confession that she had heard involving her father.
As Evelyn opened the door, she uttered a cry. Beyond, stretched on the bed, was Congressman Coyd, clad in his dressing gown. Evelyn showed fright at first, thinking that her father was dead.
Then her tone was one of gladness, as she discovered that he was breathing, deep in slumber. Beatrice joined Evelyn in an effort to awake the sleeping congressman.
“That is fortunate,” decided Crozan, staring through the open door. “After all, Rydel could not have afforded to murder Coyd. That would have meant you taking his place permanently, Hadwil. Yet Rydel would have been capable of murder—”
Crozan paused suddenly. Harry, near the door of the bedroom, saw a motion from The Shadow. Calmly, Harry closed the door. As Crozan turned about, The Shadow's agent twisted the key and pocketed it. Evelyn and Beatrice were locked inside the room.
“Murder!” boomed Crozan, turning to The Shadow, who stood as a silent judge. “Dunwood Rydel committed murder! He had reason to do so; for there was one man in Washington clever enough to have penetrated his scheme. I refer to Tyson Weed. He was murdered by Dunwood Rydel!”
A SARDONIC laugh came from The Shadow's lips. It was a burst of chilling mockery, a gibe that carried stern accusation. No longer repressed, those eerie tones rose to fierce crescendo. Ending abruptly, they left echoes crying from the walls, like chilled responses from a myriad of quivering, unseen tongues. Foster Crozan trembled; his confidence was gone.
“Your game is ended,” pronounced The Shadow. “Your efforts, Crozan, to pin suspicion on Rydel were overdone. If he were the schemer that you wish to make him, he would have avoided the very steps that you have named.
“Rydel's contempt for Hadwil was known. It was returned by Hadwil. Collusion between the two was unlikely. Had Rydel chosen to use Hadwil, he would not have employed his own car for transportation of the impostor.
“Nor would he have permitted his daughter to make friends with Evelyn Coyd. No schemer would have called upon a girl like Beatrice to aid him in his fell plans. Nor would Rydel have come here as he did this morning, making himself conspicuous just prior to the climax.
“Moreover, when you challenged him, Crozan, Rydel—had he been a villain—would have had a perfect alibi for his recent whereabouts. He would not have evaded your question.
“You, Crozan, with all your bravado; you are the man of crime. You placed aids at every spot; you bribed Borneau, Hadwil, even Mullard. To make all safe, you chose an agent in this very house.”
The Shadow paused. His eyes were upon the two secretaries. Tabbert cried out spontaneously:
“Jurrick! He was working with Borneau! I wondered why he used to shift those medicine bottles. Why he always informed me that Mr. Coyd was in the downstairs study; that I was to go there and not come up here. I never saw Mr. Coyd actually go in there. Jurrick must have met Hadwil at the side door—covere
d his departure when the man left—”
Tabbert stopped, quivering. Jurrick was shrinking away; backed against the wall, he showed his guilt by manner and expression.
Again. The Shadow spoke.
“Tyson Weed visited Montgomery Hadwil,” he pronounced. “The lobbyist guessed the impersonation; his detectives had reported Layton Coyd in two places at the same time. Weed offered terms to Hadwil. You saw their danger, Crozan.
“Only you were available at the time of Weed's murder. Mullard was taking Hadwil to a new hide−out.
Borneau was at the embassy with Senator Releston. Jurrick was here with Tabbert. It was your task, Crozan, the elimination of Weed. You could not entrust it to some underling as you had that theft at Releston's.
“You wanted those papers as a prelude to the game; to make it look as though Rydel were guilty. To−night, with your schemes balked, you prompted your tools—Hadwil and Borneau—to make confessions. They did so, knowing that they would be convicted of minor crimes alone. In their confessions—to gain your favor further—they named Rydel as the master crook. Rydel, instead of you—”
Crozan had cowered; yet his face was venomous. The Shadow's automatics were moving from man to man, covering the master crook and his trio of helpers. A murderer was trapped, his accomplices trembled, helpless. They, too, dreaded The Shadow's wrath, now that justice faced them.
THEN came the unexpected. Harry Vincent was the one to see the danger; for The Shadow, concentrated upon Crozan, had deliberately left Harry on guard. Standing by the door to the bedroom, Harry could see past The Shadow, who had advanced into the living room. He could observe that far doorway to the hall, the only spot that offered possible complications.
Gun in hand, Harry uttered a sudden shout of warning as he saw a figure leap into view. The Shadow heard it, twisting inward, he performed a fading motion just as an evil rescuer came springing past the threshold.
It was Mullard. The chauffeur had slipped Hawkeye. He had come here with Rydel's limousine, to pick up Hadwil. Alarmed by the delay, Mullard had entered Coyd's home. From the stairs, he had heard The Shadow's tones. Revolver leveled, this underling of crime was driving in to aid his evil master, Foster Crozan.
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