the Hotel Halcyon. Cliff Marsland followed The Shadow to the ground; he saw no sign of his chief after he alighted. Grinning, despite his weariness, Cliff strolled away. He was going to join Hawkeye, in their own quarters.
The Shadow, reaching a deserted doorway below the hotel, had undergone a transformation. When he stepped into view, he was again Henry Arnaud, carrying a briefcase. Entering the Hotel Halcyon, The Shadow traveled up to Room 808.
Burbank was ready with reports amid the darkness. The contact man had heard from Hawkeye, in detail. That report given, Burbank had one of his own. It concerned Tyson Weed.
“Nine minutes after Hawkeye reported,” informed the contact man, “Weed arrived in 1012. He put in a long ?distance call to New York. Informed some one there that he had fixed everything.
“Three minutes afterward, Weed turned on the radio. He kept it loud for about five minutes; then turned it down. It is still tuned in on Station WIT, which has not yet finished its half?hour orchestra program.”
The Shadow took the earphones. The only sound that he could hear from 1012 was that of the radio orchestra.
It was tuned very faintly; yet the melody contained a variety of instruments, indicating that at full strength, the sound must have been deafening.
With a significant whisper to Burbank, The Shadow again donned his cloak and hat. He raised the window and swung out into the darkness of the night. Swinging precariously along the wall, The Shadow followed that angled route that he had used on his first visit to the Hotel Halcyon.
He reached Weed's balcony; there, he forced open the window and carefully lifted the lowered shade. A moment later, The Shadow eased into the room. A spectral figure, he stood amid the mellow light from a table lamp, gazing toward the floor.
FOUR feet from the softly tuned radio lay Tyson Weed. The lobbyist was staring face upward; his body, fully clad, was sprawled in grotesque pose. Weed's vest was opened; blood stained his shirt front. The lobbyist was dead; shot through the heart.
The Shadow entered the opened door of the bedroom. Through darkness, he made his way to a door that opened into the hall. That barrier was unlocked; it swung lazily inward as The Shadow pulled it. The door had been pried open with a jimmy.
Returning to the living room, The Shadow reconstructed the scene. Calculating the time element, he knew that a call must have been made from that old apartment that Weed had visited. Some one had come here while the chauffeur was on his way to the hideout that Hawkeye had later visited.
The unknown intruder had arrived before Weed. He had hurriedly cracked the door from hall to bedroom.
Burbank had not heard it; a proof that the connecting door between the bedroom and living room had been closed. Nor had Weed noticed it; for the bedroom entrance was farther down the passage than the door which Weed would logically use; namely, the entrance from hall to living room.
Weed had made his telephone call. When he had finished talking to New York, he must have turned to find an intruder who had silently entered the living room from the bedroom. Weed had made no outcry; he must have simply stared at sight of a leveled gun. The intruder, covering Weed, had turned on the radio.
Burbank had heard the ear?splitting cadence of the loud orchestra. Hence he had failed to hear the shot that must have come while the radio was blaring loudly. Weed had fallen; one bullet had killed him. The murderer himself had toned down the radio, then departed.
A cool, calculated crime; yet every detail was plain to The Shadow, thanks to Hawkeye's report and Burbank's vigil at the earphones. Hawkeye had reported two men at the apartment on Q Street; Coyd and a chauffeur. Neither of these could have come to the Hotel Halcyon in time to deliver death.
Some one else had performed lone murder. The killer had disposed of Weed because the lobbyist had learned too much. There had been thievery at Releston's; The Shadow had encountered hand?to?hand fighting at Rydel's; there had been gunplay at Stew Luffy's place this very night.
WEED'S death, however, marked the first stroke of outright murder. The Shadow, himself hidden, had challenged hidden crime; luck, alone, had blocked his narrowing quest. Here, in defiance of The Shadow, lay the corpse of a murdered victim.
Crime's fangs were fully bared. Those behind it had shown their willingness to stop at nothing. New efforts by The Shadow would be urgent. Calm in the face of this confirmed knowledge, the master of blackness moved out to the little balcony. Locking the window as he had done before, he swung back down the trail to 808.
Burbank was seated with dead earphones. Coiled wire fell to the floor; with it the microphone, for The Shadow had brought the instrument from Weed's room. No longer needed, that tiny device would be a bad clue to leave in a place where murder would soon be discovered by the law.
Doffing the useless earphones, Burbank heard a sound amid the darkness. It was a whispered laugh, suppressed but sinister; a restrained mirth that came with grimness. Burbank had heard that tone before; he knew its meaning. The Shadow's laugh boded ill for those fiends who dealt in heinous crime.
CHAPTER XV. BEFORE THE STORM.
THREE days had passed. Bright afternoon pervaded Washington. The sunlight was pleasant in Layton Coyd's upstairs living room. Seated in the comfortable warmth, the congressman showed healthy cheerfulness as he chatted with two visitors: Senator Ross Releston and Foster Crozan.
Doctor Pierre Borneau was smiling as he noted the improved health of his patient. Harry Vincent, here with Releston and Crozan, was also impressed by the change which had come over Coyd. Jurrick and Tabbert, moving in and out of the room, seemed to have forgotten their old grudges.
“Three days of complete relaxation,” commented Coyd, driving his hands against his swelled chest. “A tonic, gentlemen, that I recommend to any one whose nerves have been bad. Of course, I must still give some credit to Doctor Borneau's medicine. I took my kit of bottles with me; my daughter saw to it that I missed no doses.
But it was sunshine, freedom from worry, that brought about my full recovery.”
“You have our congratulations, Mr. Coyd,” assured Releston. “Let us hope that you will not plunge into overwork. That is one thing to be avoided.”
“I can't promise you that,” remarked Coyd. “I have work to do and I intend to do it. If I tire, I shall take another rest. But I promise you this, senator. I shall give no interviews to the press.”
“You have decided definitely to make no public statements regarding committee procedures?”
“Not exactly, senator. Two days from now, I intend to speak before the National Progress Society, at their semiannual banquet. My speech will be broadcasted over a national network. However, I shall give you a full copy of it beforehand and—”
“Do not be too optimistic, Mr. Coyd,” put in Doctor Borneau. “Remember, sir, what I told you. Starting once again at the hard work may mean a strain. It is for me to say if you can go to the banquet.”
“Of course, doctor,” nodded Coyd. “Of course, if I am not well, I shall not attend the banquet. In that case, I shall broadcast from here. Those at the banquet will hear my speech over the loud?speaker. That can all be arranged, doctor.”
“You have a good physician, Mr. Coyd,” stated Releston. “Doctor Borneau and I met at dinner last Wednesday night.”
“Where, senator?”
“At the French Embassy. We were together all evening, in fact until long after midnight. Incidentally, doctor, I have not forgotten all those facts that you mentioned regarding nervous ailments. I was greatly impressed by the tremendous scope of your knowledge and experience.”
“Thank you, senator,” observed Borneau, with a bow; then, twisting the points of his mustache, he added: “I must return the compliment, m'sieu'; your knowledge of the government exceeds that knowledge which I have of medicine and—”
“Wednesday night!” interposed Coyd. “That was the night that some one murdered that fellow Weed. I am sorry that he met with such sudden death; but I must also express gratification that there is one less lobbyist in Washington. He pestered you, senator, just as he did me.”
“I HAVE not seen Weed for several weeks,” recalled Releston. “The last time was before you arrived, Crozan. Let me see—Weed was never about since you have been stopping at the Barlingham.”
