hack.
You trailed him twenty miles down in Virginia; then you guessed he was going to see his daughter, so you came back. So what?”
“So what?” queried Walbert, gruffly.
“That's what I said,” retorted Weed. “What does any of this mean? Borneau, Vincent, Crozan—all the rest of them—what have you got that's new? Then this about Coyd?”
“I've given you all the facts about Coyd—”
“But not the kind I need. Go back on the job and keep your eyes open. Maybe you'll land a break if you persist long enough.”
“Want me to go down to Virginia and watch his nibs?”
“No. He's taking a vacation; incidentally, the newspapers mentioned that also. There's no good of keeping tabs on Coyd while he's taking the rest cure. Wait until he comes back to Washington.”
Sounds of Walbert's departure came. The earphones went back to Burbank. The Shadow moved toward the window; his keen eyes stared out above the lighted city.
WAITING at the window of 808, The Shadow was confident that Quidler should soon arrive in 1012. Both dicks had had appointments with Weed on that preceding night. It was likely that both would be here again.
Walbert had come and gone; Quidler, by rights was due. As The Shadow mused, Burbank spoke:
“Quidler has arrived.”
The Shadow took the earphones. He heard Quidler's clipped tones, which Burbank had promptly recognized.
Like Walbert, Quidler had brought a written report. The Shadow listened.
“Say!” The exclamation was Weed's. “You're sure about this, Quidler?”
“Sure about everything I've written.” informed Quidler, snappily. “It's more than a guess when I say a guy has been trailing me. I've wised to it a couple of times. What's more, I've seen that coupe parked in front of Coyd's too often—”
“Forget it,” interrupted Weed, impatiently. “That's not the part of the report I'm talking about. I'm interested in this business about Coyd himself. You're sure you saw him outside the house?”
“Sure. Two days ago I spotted him coming in just after I got there. Along around four o'clock. He got out of that limousine and went in through the side door of the house.”
“Leaving the limousine waiting for him?”
“Out back. Just like my report says. He'd been somewhere, Coyd had. Well, he came out again half an hour later, and the chauffeur drove him away.”
“You should have had a cab ready to trail him.”
“I know that, Mr. Weed. But I muffed it that time. It took me too long to get a cab; and I chased all over town trying to locate the limousine. And it was while I was chasing around that Coyd must have hopped back home.”
A pause. Weed was evidently consulting the report. The Shadow listened keenly at the earphones. This expedition of Coyd's was something that had happened while Cliff had not been watching Quidler.
“Coming to yesterday,” Quidler remarked suddenly. “It was pouring rain. I didn't think Coyd would slide out again. I kept going back and forth; and he must have left his house while I wasn't there. Because along after four, when I got there again, the limousine was waiting on the back street.
“Not conspicuous you know. It had pulled away from Coyd's house. But I knew it by the license plate; and I'd looked the number up, like my report says.”
“Tell me this,” demanded Weed, “you're positive that the limousine belongs to Dunwood Rydel?”
“You bet it does,” returned Quidler, “and that chauffeur is one of the monkeys who works for Rydel. Listen: it was about quarter of five when Coyd comes barging out of the side door, like he was in a hurry. Leastwise I think it was Coyd; it was too dark for me to make sure. Anyway, he took the limousine.
“I had a taxi waiting around the corner. I grabbed it and trailed the big bus to that old apartment I tell about, there in the report. The limousine waited there about ten minutes. I couldn't see nobody get out; but maybe Coyd did. It's likely he got back into it again, if he was out, because he probably had to get back to his house.”
“But you lost the trail?”
“Yeah. The taxi driver skidded going around a corner and wound up on the curb with a flat. I paid him and beat it, because I didn't want to be around if some cops showed up and started an argument.”
“You went to Rydel's later?”
“Sure. To see if the big limousine showed up there. It did. What's more, I found out that sometimes the chauffeur parks it at the old F Street garage; and the chauffeur's name is Mullard—”
“Wait a minute.”
WEED evidently took time out to make a final perusal of Quidler's report. When he spoke again, the lobbyist was sharp in tone.
“Look at this newspaper,” he ordered. “This account says that Coyd has gone away for a trip.”
“Sure he has,” chuckled Quidler “That fits my report, don't it? Look what I've got to say about this afternoon.
I went around to that apartment and did some gumshoe work. Kept looking through transoms until I spotted the place I wanted. There was Coyd, big as life, smoking a stogie and reading a newspaper. Had the light on—the shades drawn—”
“Hold on, Quidler. The newspapers have more to say about his trip. They state that he went to Virginia.”
“They're wrong. He's here in Washington. I saw him this afternoon.”
“But I'm sure that he was driving down through Virginia at noon. Twenty miles south of Washington.”
“Maybe he was. He could have doubled back. I've seen too many pictures of that guy's mug to be mistaken.”
“That doesn't follow, Quidler. Look at these photos.” Newspapers rustled; Weed was exhibiting the morning dailies, with their story of yesterday's interview. “See? They're all different.”
“They're all funny?looking. Like Coyd, himself. Maybe the galoot does look one way when he's swelled up and another when he's tired or sick. But that mush of his is a give?away. Nobody else has a mug just like it.
That scar of his, those eyebrows, that shaggy hair. Don't tell me, Mr. Weed. I know.”
“Humph.”
Another pause after Weed's utterance. Then came an ejaculation from Quidler:
“My report! You're burning it!”
“I am,” rejoined Weed, with an ugly chortle. “It's dynamite, Quidler. I want to get rid of it.”
“You mean—you don't think—”
“I'm thinking plenty. I don't want to carry this paper; I don't want any one else to see it.”
“I get you.” Quidler chuckled.
“Never mind, Quidler. You've done well. We can pass up a discussion of the details.”
“You mean you've got enough on Coyd to make him talk turkey. Well, I hope you remembered the address of that apartment. That's where you'll find the old bozo.”
“I've remembered it. That is where I'm going, Quidler.”
“To talk with Coyd?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I've put two and two together, Quidler. Maybe it will make four; maybe two and two will be twenty?two. Anyway, you've done your part. Slide along; and stay away from that apartment.”
“You're going there right away?”
“Not for a while. I'm waiting in case of a long?distance call from New York. But there's no rush. The bird will still be in the nest when I look for him.”
SOUNDS indicated Quidler's departure. A chuckled laugh followed; it was Weed's expression of a deep understanding. The lobbyist was comparing Walbert's report with Quidler's, much to his satisfaction. The Shadow knew that Weed had gained even more results than before.
