The Case of Congressman Coyd

“He did not say so, outright.”

“I take it he was afraid to do so. Afraid that one of us might have seen him here in Washington.”

“Have you seen him here, Crozan?”

“No. I seldom leave my rooms at the Barlingham; but Rydel does not know that fact. That is why he hedged—as I expected he would.”

REACHING the Barlingham, Harry parked the car and went up to Releston's apartment. The senator instructed him to keep in close touch with Congressman Coyd, in reference to the speech which Coyd intended to deliver. Harry found other duties; it was almost evening before he managed an opportunity to leave the senator's apartment.

Dusk had obscured the Hotel Halcyon. In Suite 808, a figure was seated in front of the writing table. It was The Shadow, in his guise as Arnaud; Burbank was off duty, asleep in the other room. The telephone buzzed; The Shadow answered it. He spoke in a quiet, methodical tone, a perfect imitation of Burbank's voice. Harry Vincent reported.

Five minutes later came a report from Clyde Burke; the reporter was keeping tabs on the police investigation of Weed's murder. Twenty minutes later, Cliff Marsland called in, reporting for himself and Hawkeye. They had picked up no facts concerning Walbert and Quidler, except that the dicks had checked out of their respective hotels.

It was obvious that the sleuths had decided to decamp after hearing of the raid at Stew's gambling joint; and the news of Weed's death had doubtless spurred them to an immediate departure.

The Shadow was no longer concerned with Walbert and Quidler. They were harmless; it had been Jake's idea, not theirs, to torture Cliff. The Shadow had assigned Cliff and Hawkeye to more important duty. Cliff was watching Dunwood Rydel's home; Hawkeye was covering the F Street garage, where Mullard frequently took the big limousine.

Tyson Weed's death was a mystery to the police. The Shadow was content that it should remain so. With Weed eliminated, the plans of crooks would proceed. That suited The Shadow; for he knew that their chief purpose was the gaining of wealth, not the taking of human life.

Men of crime would work as they had before; through Congressman Layton Coyd. The Shadow had gained an insight into their procedure; fitted facts showed him the answer that he had sought. When crooks chose to move, The Shadow would do likewise. Already he had guessed when their new stroke would come.

For in the facts that Harry Vincent had reported in detail were clues that The Shadow needed. He saw the approach of opportunity for men of evil to thrust in quest of wealth. One failure had not balked them; another chance was due.

A chance for greater wealth; a cleanup that would surpass the attempt to build up munitions stocks. That chance which crooks were prepared to seize would be a chance for The Shadow to counteract their superstroke.

CHAPTER XVI. TWO DAYS LATER.

TWO nights had passed. It was noon in Washington, the sidewalks an inferno from the heat of the sun. Mild weather had been followed by an unexpected heat wave—if such an occurrence could ever be called unexpected in Washington.

Coming from the Hotel Barlingham, Harry Vincent entered a drug store and put in a telephone call. The voice that answered him was Burbank's. Harry reported tersely.

“Coyd's this morning,” he stated. “Doctor's order final... Coyd to speak from his home... Radio electricians have completed installation... Coyd's speech denouncing utility profits approved by Releston... Returning to Coyd's with copy. Will remain there...”

His report ended, Harry entered the parked sedan and drove to Coyd's. Mose admitted him, and Jurrick met him on the stairs. The secretary shook his head solemnly; the indication was that Coyd had felt the heat severely.

When Harry arrived in the second−story living room, he found the congressman slumped in his chair.

Looking up, Coyd smiled weakly as he saw the copy of his speech in Harry's hand.

“Releston likes it?” he inquired.

“The senator is highly pleased,” responded Harry. “In fact, he feels that you have gone further than essential.

Those utilities that you mention—”

“I understand,” interrupted Coyd. “My speech almost condemns them. Why not? Their rates have been excessive, Vincent. To state that they will be placed under permanent regulation is a wise step.”

“Senator Releston knows that,” assured Harry. “But he told me to remind you that the committees intend to fix the rates definitely. Once regulation is made, the government's part will be done.”

“Do you know what that means, Vincent?” demanded Coyd, sitting upright, despite the protest of Tabbert, who was present. “Once the rates are settled, they will make economies that will enable them to build new profits.

“They will grasp!” Coyd extended his hands and clutched the air. “They will grasp, like octopuses—or octopi—drat it! Hand me that copy of my speech so I can see which is correct: octopuses or octopi.

“No—never mind! I'll read it correctly when I come to it. Anyway, those utilities will grasp. They always grasp, the lot of them. I shall defy them—”

Coyd slumped back, gasping. His eyes closed wearily. Harry spoke quietly.

“ACCORDING to Senator Releston,” declared Harry, “the danger does not lie in the future. Once the utilities are properly regulated, their profits cannot be too great. At least those of certain utilities, the ones which the committees have specifically named.

“The danger, sir, is in the present. Should a false statement be made by either you or Senator Releston, the prices of stocks would leap. Huge profits would be made by present holders; and there is every reason to suppose that a hidden group has invested heavily in those securities.”

“I know it,” said Coyd, with a weak chuckle. “I know it, Vincent, and that is why I have worded my speech accordingly. I want to make those stocks go down; I want my revenge upon the scalawags who tried to clean up on munitions.

“I was nearly the goat for that game. Even yet, I cannot understand how or why I made such strange statements. My worried brain must have tricked me to do the very thing that I would not normally have done.

“That is why I have gone to the other extreme. I have made my speech so strong, so full of adverse inference, that small stockholders will unload at the present price, which is a fair one, and leave the swindlers holding the bag, unable to sell except at a great loss. Why does Releston object?”

“He does not object,” replied Harry, tactfully. “At the same time, he showed reluctance in finally approving statements which tended to exaggeration. He told me to mention that fact, Mr. Coyd. However, he said that he would have disapproved any statements that might have aided speculation.”

“I have placed none in my speech,” remarked Coyd. “So the matter is settled, Vincent. Sit down, if you intend to remain here. Let me rest a while. I expect to rehearse my speech after Doctor Borneau arrives.”

HALF an hour passed while Harry lolled in a chair. Tabbert and Jurrick stole in and out at intervals. It was Tabbert, finally, who approached and spoke quietly to Coyd, napping in his chair by the window.

“A radio technician is here, Mr. Coyd,” said the red−haired secretary. “He wants to install some apparatus.

Some sort of device to increase the intensity of the sound.”

“Tell him to proceed, Tabbert.”

The secretary went out. He came back, lugging one end of a large box, the size of a typewriter desk. Jurrick was at the other end; with them was a stooped man in overalls, whose back was toward Harry. The box was shoved into a corner. The man in overalls squatted in front of it and began to make connections.

Both secretaries had gone out when the man arose to survey his job. Even then, Harry had not seen the fellow's face. He saw the man pull an order book from his hip pocket. Coyd, his eyes open, spoke to Harry.

“You sign it, Vincent,” ordered the congressman, wearily. “Neither of my secretaries are here.”

Harry met the man in overalls; he scrawled his name on a line which a finger indicated. The radio man tore off a sheet of paper from beneath and thrust it into Harry's hand with the quiet statement:

“The receipt slip. Read it carefully.”

The man in overalls had walked through the doorway before the meaning of his words struck Harry. Looking after him, The Shadow's agent saw only his back disappearing at the head of the stairs. That quiet tone, however, had impressed itself. Harry knew the identity of the man whose face he had failed to see. It was Burbank!

Glancing quickly at the receipt slip, Harry saw coded lines inscribed in bluish ink. He read them rapidly; the import of their message impressed itself upon him. Then the writing faded, word by word—a trick of messages that came in The Shadow's disappearing ink.

SOME thirty minutes after Burbank's departure, Doctor Borneau arrived. He examined his patient solemnly; then called for the prescription and gave Coyd a double dose. The weary congressman perked up a bit; he decided to rehearse his speech at once. This was a procedure which Coyd never varied.

Jurrick and Tabbert joined the audience. Harry took his place in the corner, leaning against the big box that Burbank had installed. He watched Coyd prepare; then, when the speaker had taken his stand in the center of the room, Harry quietly shifted the top of the big contrivance.

A click sounded; Harry was the only person who heard it. Coyd was loudly clearing his throat; after that preliminary, he adjusted his tortoise−shell spectacles and proceeded to read aloud from the copy that he gripped in his hands.

Coyd's manner was mild at first. His introductory words were addressed to the members of the National Progress Society. Gradually, Coyd worked into his theme, the future of the nation. He spoke wisely of utilities, their value to the public; his words showed good will and appreciation of those who had served the people.

Suddenly, his tone became bombastic. His papers in his left hand, Coyd gestured with his right. He denounced graspers, grafters and their ilk. Head tilted sidewise while he read from his typewritten notes, he continued his gestures, wagging his right forefinger as he named certain companies, one by one.

The “rogues roll call,” Coyd termed it. He denounced these special companies; he declared that they had deceived the public by deliberately refusing to make possible economies that would produce lower rates. He added that their game was known; that its doom was near.

Congressional measures, Coyd prophesied, would force the creation of a control board that would base rates upon those of sincere utilities that had already found ways of giving maximum service at minimum cost.

Harry had read Coyd's speech; it had struck him as chaffy; but when Coyd delivered it, The Shadow's agent became lost in admiration. With all his bombastic force, Coyd could be both eloquent and effective.

When the congressman slumped to his chair, exhausted, the room still seemed to hold the ring of his powerful speech. It was a quarter of a minute before Harry remembered a duty; with a quick pull of his hand, he shifted the top of the cabinet back to its original place.

COYD'S face was flushed. Somehow, despite his exhaustion, he had retained his high pitch. Doctor Borneau felt the patient's pulse and ordered an immediate rest. Tabbert and Jurrick came up to aid Coyd; the congressman pushed them aside. Rising from his chair, he walked to the door of the bedroom. Standing there, he turned and spoke to Harry.

“You heard it, Vincent,” chuckled the congressman. “Go back and tell Releston about it. Invite him here to−night, to hear it for himself.”

“Sorry, Mr. Coyd,” said Harry. “Senator Releston has a previous engagement. Of course, he will hear your speech over the air, at the dinner which he is attending in Baltimore. But—”

“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—”

“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—”

Hands 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—covered 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.

CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S END.

TWO guns cracked simultaneously. One was Mullard's revolver; the other, Harry Vincent's automatic.

Mullard was aiming hastily for The Shadow; Harry was shooting for the spot which he had been covering—the space inside the door.

Mullard's bullet whistled by The Shadow's whirling form. The cloaked avenger knew that the first shot would be wide; he was wheeling about to aim with deliberate purpose. His automatics covered Mullard simultaneously. Ordinarily, The Shadow would have mowed down the intruder before he could take new aim.

But Mullard was already sprawling. Harry's timely shot had clipped the in−rushing chauffeur. Mullard's revolver went bouncing across the floor to bash against Burbank's cabinet. Its owner writhed helpless, moaning in agony. Harry's shot had found his left shoulder.

As The Shadow wheeled to cover Mullard, a fiendish shout resounded. Foster Crozan had lost no precious moments. From his pocket the arch−fiend was snatching a .38; he bounded forward, aiming to shoot The Shadow in the back. Hard after him came another, drawing a revolver also. Montgomery Hadwil was seeking to aid his chief.

The Shadow's spin had not ended. It was a complete twist, off at an angle at the end of the room. Whirling with his first fade, The Shadow had planned to clip Mullard; to keep on in his revolution and deal with the foes whom he knew would make a break.

Shots at Mullard had been unnecessary. The Shadow was almost full about before Crozan could fire. The crook's gun spoke; a whistling bullet clipped the brim of The Shadow's hat. Then, as Crozan fell upon the cloaked fighter, an automatic spoke. Its burst came just as Crozan jabbed his revolver against The Shadow's body.

A finger faltered; The Shadow's automatic gave a second spurt as Crozan wavered. The master crook sprawled heavily upon his adversary, losing his gun as he fell.

Shifting, The Shadow swung Crozan's form as a shield, just as Hadwil, pumping shots from a .32, came plunging upon his dead chief and the living foe.

HALF sprawled by Crozan's death plunge, The Shadow saw Hadwil above him. The face that resembled Coyd's was flushed with fury as the hand beside it thrust the .32 between The Shadow's eyes.

Hadwil's previous shots had buried themselves in Crozan's sagged body; this bullet—so the transformed actor believed—would finish The Shadow.

The slug never issued from Hadwil's gun. The Shadow's arm had already swung inward, under Crozan's arm.

A muffled roar from The Shadow's automatic. Hadwil's lifted face showed agony. He tried to fire; The Shadow smashed the revolver with a stroke of the automatic.

The gun went skidding across the floor as Hadwil slumped backward. He was the man who had doomed Tyson Weed; at heart a murderer like Crozan, Hadwil had gone to a deserved death.

Twisting away from the sprawled bodies, The Shadow was ready with his automatics. His enemies had shielded him in the fray; if remaining foemen were prepared for battle, they, too, could have it. But as The Shadow cleared for further action, he saw that the cause was won.

Harry Vincent had sprung forward to down Crozan and Hadwil. Doctor Borneau had sprung in to stop Harry's surge. The physician was unarmed—Harry had learned that when frisking him for the key to the locked bedroom. Hence Harry had driven blows with his automatic, to clear the physician from the way.

Borneau had resisted the flaying strokes, long enough to hold back Harry. But at last, the physician had succumbed; he had dropped to the floor, holding up his hands in surrender. Turning to aid The Shadow, Harry saw his chief triumphant.

Another struggle was ending. Don Jurrick had started forward, later than the others, reaching to pull a gun from his pocket. Hugh Tabbert had taken care of that adversary.

Fiercely, the red−haired secretary had snatched the revolver from Jurrick. He had followed that by slugging the sleek underling with merciless punches. Jurrick was lying huddled by the big chair, Tabbert, fists clenched, towered above him.

The radio technician had picked up Mullard's gun and was holding it gingerly. That precaution had been unnecessary. No fight remained in Mullard. Harry's shot had clipped him properly. The rogue was still moaning on the floor.

Hearty pounds came from beyond the bedroom door. The Shadow hissed an order. Harry, still covering Borneau, moved back and produced the key with his left hand. The Shadow was backing toward the hall, both automatics ready. With no need to watch Borneau, Harry unlocked the bedroom door.

CONGRESSMAN COYD was on the threshold. Fully awake, he stared with startled eyes at the havoc which filled the living room. Harry spoke; Coyd nodded. Turning, he ordered Evelyn and Beatrice to remain where they were. Stalking out into the living room, Coyd took imperious charge of the scene.

Harry, gun in hand, backed Borneau to the chair beside which Jurrick lay.

Tabbert collected the revolvers that were on the floor; then Coyd ordered Borneau to attend to Mullard's wound. Disarmed, these minions were helpless.

Borneau, as he obeyed, glanced toward the doorway to the hall. That was the spot to which The Shadow had retreated. There was no sign of the cloaked form in the blackness; but the cowed physician suspected that The Shadow was still there.

Some one was hammering at the front door. The pounding ceased; footsteps clattered on the stairs. Mose had admitted a visitor. From the hall came Dunwood Rydel; the magnate had arrived at the finish of the shooting; and had been hammering for admittance ever since.

Consternation showed on Rydel's face as he gazed about, anxiously seeking his daughter. Harry explained briefly what had happened; adding that Beatrice was safe with Evelyn.

Coyd understood for the first time. He thrust out a firm hand; Rydel received it. Together, these men who had stood apart congratulated each other above the dead body of Foster Cruzan, the arch−plotter who had tried to work evil to them both.

New sounds from below; the doorbell was ringing the arrival of a new visitor. Seeing victory secure, Harry Vincent went out through the hall and down the stairs, to find Mose faltering to answer the call. Harry sent the servant away and opened the door himself. It was Senator Ross Releston.

“I left Baltimore early,” explained Releston. “We heard Congressman Coyd's speech through the radio in the automobile. I was in a friend's car, you know. I told them to bring me here at once.”

The senator paused; then gripped Harry's arm.

“I heard the weird laugh,” he added. “The others merely wondered about it—they thought that somehow a mystery program had worked in with the banquet broadcast. But I understood. I knew that something—”

HARRY nodded. Accompanying the senator to the stairs, he explained the vital points as they went upward.

Senator Releston gasped when he heard of Foster Crozan's traitorous dealings.

“Crozan was the murderer,” asserted Releston, decisively. “No doubt about it, Vincent. We have witnesses to his statements; to those of his hirelings. The three whom we now hold—Borneau, Jurrick and Mullard—will be forced to declare the full truth.”

“They have already done so,” returned Harry, as they ascended to the second floor. “Borneau told facts; up to the point where he named Dunwood Rydel as the villain, instead of Foster Crozan.”

“He will retract that lie,” assured Releston. “Crozan is dead; his threat will no longer influence Borneau. Now that the crisis has passed, Vincent, the game is plain. I should have realized that Crozan's virtues were a pretense. Secretly, his desire was for worldly pelf.

“I felt sure that speculators had been buying those utility securities, Vincent. That was why I dropped my original objection to Coyd's genuine speech. The prices will drop—as they should—and the losers will be those rogues who connived with Foster Crozan.”

“What of those associates, senator?”

“They will gain what they have deserved. Financial ruin. We shall press them no further; for they are not of Crozan's criminal type. Murder was his own choice, Vincent. We will learn—I am confident—that Crozan's entire fortune is tied up in those utility stocks. He, himself, must have been the chief speculator. He probably salvaged his original investments in munitions and threw millions into this bigger game.”

HARRY VINCENT could detect a note of finality in the gray−haired senator's tone. Justice had triumphed; The Shadow's work was done. There would be finishing details, Harry guessed; and in that assumption he was right. But The Shadow's remaining tasks were trifling.

Word to Cliff Marsland, to call the police; then depart from the apartment where he had been waiting in case Montgomery Hadwil had slipped loose and fled thither. The law would discover that hide−out, where Hadwil's cherished press clippings, his letters, articles of make−up and disguise would be disclosed as proof of his part in Crozan's game.

A message to Hawkeye, to forget the F Street garage, where he was no longer needed as a watcher. To Clyde Burke, also, telling the reporter to visit Crozan's rooms at the Hotel Barlingham.

Evidence would be uncovered there as well. Records of stock purchases; perhaps a duplicate of a planted cable from Europe, that had told of Hadwil's supposed elopement with a foreign actress.

After that, Burbank. Like The Shadow, the contact man would leave the Hotel Halcyon and make his departure from Washington. Other missions awaited The Shadow and his agents. Soon Harry Vincent would join them.

Glimmers of such thoughts flashed through Harry's mind as he and Releston reached the threshold of the living room, where Layton Coyd and Dunwood Rydel held mutual charge of cowering prisoners. Suddenly the senator stopped; his face was solemn as he harkened to a strange, uncanny sound from below.

It was a weird burst of departing laughter; from the depths of the first floor hall, near the side door that led from this old house. Chilling, solemn mirth; more a knell than a token of elation. Eerily it shivered to a shuddering climax. A host of echoes faded into nothingness.

The author of that mirth was gone. The parting laugh had sounded the final triumph of The Shadow.

THE END