Earphones went back to Burbank. The Shadow strolled from the room. As Henry Arnaud, carrying a briefcase, he reached the lobby and took a seat there. From this post, he could witness Weed's departure and take up the crafty lobbyist's trail.
As for Walbert and Quidler, their work was done for to?night. Hawkeye and Cliff could still watch them, however, in hope of chance developments. The future boded well for The Shadow. Only some wild freak of chance could hinder his present quest.
So reasoned The Shadow; and he reasoned wisely. For even while he waited in the lobby of the Hotel Halcyon, bad luck was on its way. Before this night had ended, The Shadow would have his share of trouble.
CHAPTER XII. TWO DICKS TALK.
THE SHADOW had deliberately delayed his departure from 808 to give Quidler time to leave the Hotel Halcyon. The Shadow was positive that Cliff Marsland was waiting outside to take up the dick's trail; and The Shadow had been right.
Quidler had taken a cab outside the hotel. Another taxi had followed him. The trail had led to a frequented street just north of Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Quidler had alighted to enter an old but popular hotel, the Nayland House.
Cliff had followed the dick into the thronged lobby. He had watched Quidler enter the taproom. The place had but one entrance; Quidler would have to come out through the lobby. So Cliff sat down and waited.
The Nayland taproom was crowded and noisy. Cliff had decided that Quidler could not have chosen it for an important meeting; and he was right. In fact, Quidler had simply decided to celebrate. Weed had slipped him a fat roll of cash; the dick had cause to be jubilant.
It was entirely by chance that Quidler happened to bump into an old acquaintance. Shouldering his way to the jammed bar, the beak?faced dick jostled a long?necked rowdy who was standing there. The fellow swung about with an angry snarl. Quidler recognized a sallow, rattish face.
“Hello, Jake,” chuckled the dick, with a friendly grin. “Bumped into you, didn't I, huh? How're you, old fellow. Last guy I expected to see here was Jake Thurler.”
“Hello, Quidler,” rejoined Jake, a leer forming on his leathery lips. “What're you doin' in town? Still in the gumshoe racket?”
“Sure. It's gravy. Washington's a good spot. What're you doing, though? Running booze down through the dry South?”
Jake shook his head.
“Out of that racket,” he informed. “Too hot for me. Too hot for any guy that's got brains. I'm working for Stew Luffy, the big shot that's runnin' a classy gamblin' joint across the Potomac. Steerin' suckers down there is my job. Plenty of saps loose; an' I'm the guy to spot 'em.”
“You're workin' to?night?”
“Sure. This is a good place to draw from.” Jake was speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Sometimes I fix the squawkers, too. Stew don't like howls about his joint. But say”—the ratty fellow raised his tone—“here's a guy you'd like to know, Quidler. He's in the gumshoe racket, too.”
JAKE leaned back so Quidler could look past him to see a glum?faced fellow who was wiping foam from a big black mustache. The man was wearing a Derby hat tilted over his forehead; but Quidler could see an angry look in his eyes when Jake nudged him roughly.
“Snap out of it, Walbert!” snorted Jake. “Wantcha to meet an old pal of mine. He's a Sherlock, too. Shake hands with Quidler over here.”
Walbert extended a flabby paw and received Quidler's hand grip. Then, the mustached man swung away and began to drink again, while Jake Thurler turned to chat with Quidler.
“Who is the guy, Jake?” queried Quidler, in an undertone. “Looks like a dumb cluck to me. Who's he working for?”
“Keep it under your hat.” confided Jake. “I'm the only bird he's mentioned it to. Ever hear of a bozo named Weed? Tyson Weed?”
“Walbert's working for Weed?”
“Sure. And it ought to be a good racket. Weed's got dough, they say.”
“Edge out, Jake. I want to talk to Walbert.”
Jake consented reluctantly. He whispered a warning as he moved away. Quidler gave him a wise look; then slid in beside Walbert. The mustached dick studied him rather sourly.
“Ease down to the end of the bar.” remarked Quidler. “I got something to tell you, Walbert. A lot to tell you.”
Walbert hesitated; then followed instructions. Something in Quidler's manner impressed him. As they reached the deserted spot, Quidler came right to the point.
“Listen, bozo.” He informed, “A guy that tries to trail me is wasting his time. I'm no palooka. Get me?”
“Who are you talking about, fellow?” demanded Walbert, with a growl. “You mean me?”
“I mean that when I'm working on a case, the bird that hires me don't need to check up on what I'm doing.”
“Yeah? Well, who's been hiring you lately?”
“A fellow named Tyson Weed.”
WALBERT'S jaw dropped. For a moment, the mustached dick stared so sharply that his very manner was a giveaway. Quidler chuckled hoarsely.
“Tyson Weed,” he repeated. “He's the guy that hired me. To keep a lookout on a congressman named Coyd.
You know all about it, Walbert. You're the guy I've seen out front of Coyd's, parked in a coupe.”
Quidler's eyes were flashing eagerly. He was not sure about Walbert having been the man in the coupe. But the blink of the eyes beneath the Derby hat made Quidler know that his guess was a good one.
“All right.” parried Walbert, realizing that he had slipped. “Suppose I was out front of Coyd's? What does that mean? Where were you?”
“Out back of Coyd's. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. I was never anywhere but out front. Say, Quidler; it looks like you're the second fiddler.
Keeping an eye on me, eh?”
Quidler grinned sourly. Walbert's return thrust had been a good one. He chapped the fellow roundly on the shoulder.
“Not bad, Walbert,” he approved. “Only you did some tagging once in a while. Hopping cabs to follow the ones I was in. Picking up my trail; then dropping it.”
“Hopping cabs?” quizzed Walbert. “Say—what do I want with them when I've got my own buggy? Let's get this straight, Quidler: do you really think I've been trailing you?”
“Somebody has. I told Weed so to?night and he said to forget it.”
“You were up at Weed's to?night?”
“Sure. I just came from there.”
Walbert brought his empty glass down with a thud.
“The louse!” he ejaculated. “So that's why he told me to vamoose. After he'd said get there early. Didn't want me to know he had another guy working on the same case.”
“Weed told me just when to get there,” admitted Quidler. “Say, fellow, maybe we're getting somewhere. I'm putting it straight; I never knew that anybody else was supposed to watch Coyd. Did you?”
“No. That's straight. Quidler.”
“So Weed took us both for saps.”
“Looks like it.”
Quidler chuckled. After all, it was Weed's business to do as he liked. A grin on his peaked face, the dick called for drinks. Walbert indulged in a broad smile. He saw the situation identically with Quidler.
“Looks like our stunt is to pal up,” decided Walbert. “Hand Weed the ha?ha. Working together, we can do a better job. How does it hit you, Quidler?”
“Not a bad idea. Well, you didn't know I was watching you; and I thought you were watching me. We were
