“No,” returned Crozan. “Not unless it was during that short interval that I went home to obtain those documents on the mining investigation. I arrived back here just after the robbery at your apartment.”
“Yes. Of course, Weed was not about at that time. If he had been, I would have blamed him definitely for the theft of those duplicate papers. Do you know, Crozan, this murder makes me wonder about that matter.”
“You mean that Weed might have been slain because he had the papers.”
“Yes. It is quite a possible theory. I have not mentioned it to the police, however, as I did not want to stir up new comment.”
“Of course not. You told the press that the papers were of little consequence. Incidentally, the newspapers said that Weed's suite showed no signs of having been rifled.”
“The murderer might have known where he had the papers.”
“Yes. That is true—”
Crozan paused as Jurrick entered. The secretary had been downstairs. He was coming in to announce a visitor. Something in his expression indicated surprising news. Jurrick spoke to Coyd:
“Mr. Rydel is here, sir.”
“What!” exclaimed the congressman. “Dunwood Rydel? What does he want?”
“He did not say, sir.”
“Show him up.”
EXPECTANT silence still held the group when Dunwood Rydel entered. The dyspeptic magnate was as sour ?faced as usual. He nodded curtly when he saw Releston; glowered as he looked at Crozan. Then he advanced and spoke directly to Coyd.
“Sorry to annoy you with this visit,” declared Rydel, gruffly. “It is paternal duty, not friendship that brought me here. I came to ask about my daughter.”
“Ah, yes,” nodded Coyd. “Your daughter Beatrice is still in Virginia, with Evelyn. I saw both of them this morning, before I left.”
“I suppose that Beatrice was all broken up when she received that letter yesterday?”
“What letter? She did not speak of it to me.”
“I wrote her from New York, telling her about that fiance of hers. I saw a report that the bounder had eloped with some French actress in London. At least that was the rumor.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Coyd, chuckling as he rose to his feet. “I remember it now, Mr. Rydel. It was Evelyn who told me about the matter; not Beatrice. Your daughter, it appears, was indignant, rather than broken?hearted. But I did not know that she had learned the news through a letter from you.”
“Allow me, Mr. Rydel.” Coyd paused, chuckling, and extended his hand, which the magnate received half hesitating. “Allow me, sir, to extend my full congratulations. You have been freed from the menace of a most undesirable son?in?law.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coyd,” acknowledged Rydel, ending the handshake. He was smiling in spite of himself. “Of all the conceited dolts I ever encountered, that actor was the worst. Montgomery Hadwil! Bah! I would sooner have my daughter marry one of my chauffeurs!”
Turning about, Rydel looked at Releston. His smile faded as he addressed the senator.
“Well, sir,” said the magnate, “I have finished my brief business with Mr. Coyd. Since you are present, senator, I take this opportunity to inform you that I have just arrived back in Washington. Should you wish to see me at any time, I shall be at my home.”
“You have been in New York all this while, Mr. Rydel?”
Rydel swung about. The question had come from Foster Crozan. This interference in Rydel's affairs apparently enraged the magnate.
“I said,” he repeated, “that I arrived back in Washington this morning. Where I have been during the interim is my business. Not yours, Crozan.”
Abruptly, Rydel turned on his heel and strode stormily from the room. Coyd, head tilted to one side, watched the magnate's departure rather curiously; then signaled to Tabbert to descend and usher Rydel from the house.
Jurrick went over to the medicine chest and began to take out bottles. Doctor Borneau spoke to the secretary.
“Mr. Coyd has taken his prescription,” stated the physician. “Tabbert prepared it. He will need no more medicine until to?morrow.”
Coyd had seated himself heavily. He looked weary as he beckoned to Jurrick. Doctor Borneau showed an expression of sudden anxiety.
“Prepare those reports, Jurrick,” ordered Coyd. Then, to his visitors: “Gentlemen, I am weary. My mind is befogged again; probably through over?effort. Bah! Rydel coming in here like a wild beast! I tried to humor the man; to show him some consideration. He is impossible!”
DOCTOR BORNEAU motioned to Senator Releston. The gray?haired solon nodded and spoke to Crozan and Harry. The two followed him downstairs; they encountered Tabbert on the way and the secretary conducted them to the front door. They entered Releston's sedan; this time there was no coupe parked opposite.
“What do you think of Rydel?” Releston asked Crozan as Harry drove them back toward the Barlingham.
“Do you think he had some purpose in visiting Coyd? Do you believe that he saw my car outside? That he made a pretext for entering?”
“It would not surprise me,” answered Crozan. “That was why I challenged him. Did you notice how abruptly he treated me?”
“Of course, Crozan, your question was rather pointed.”
“I meant it to be. Here was my reason, senator. Rydel went to New York the morning after Coyd's statement to the press. That was significant. It meant, logically, that Rydel wanted to be on hand for the rise in the stock market.”
“Good reasoning, Crozan.”
“But the rise was spiked. Accordingly, Rydel had no further purpose in New York. Logically, he would have come back to Washington.”
“Quite logically.”
“So I intimated as much, senator, to see what his reaction would be. Rydel guessed what I was driving at; he had to parry my thrust. He took the tack of pretending that he had really stayed in New York.”
“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
