senator.”
“He is a schemer, Crozan. We must not underrate him. He has money; he maintains sumptuous quarters at the Hotel Halcyon.”
“Quite true, senator. But do not underrate Rydel. He has millions; and much of his wealth is at stake.”
Releston nodded as he considered this suggestion. The senator's face was troubled; Crozan looked serious.
Cranston, however, seemed to have lost interest. He shook hands in blase fashion and strolled out through the lounge, where he obtained his suitcase from Lanson and made a departure.
“What did you think of Cranston, Crozan?” inquired Releston, after the visitor had gone.
“A weary fellow.” responded Crozan. “Frankly, senator, I feel that you hold an exaggerated impression of his capacities. All I can hope is that Vincent will represent the picture you have painted of him.”
“Cranston does seem to have slipped,” acknowledged Releston, in a troubled tone. “But I feel confident that Vincent will be as alert as usual. After all, he is the man for whom we must depend on contact with Coyd.”
WHILE Releston and his guest were discoursing thus, the subject of their conversation was riding in a taxicab, through secluded cross streets. His suitcase was open in his lap. An electric light was throwing its glare upon a metal mirror.
The cover of the case was toward the driver; he could not see the face of Lamont Cranston as it bent down into the suitcase. Long fingers were at work upon that face; they were molding it, changing its contours, applying dabs of puttylike make?up.
The transformation ended. A hawkish visage remained; but it was not the physiognomy of Lamont Cranston.
A soft laugh whispered from above the mirror; the light went out as the lid of the suitcase dropped shut.
Five minutes later, the cab stopped in front of the pretentious Hotel Halcyon. The transformed passenger alighted, paid the driver and handed his bag to the doorman. Entering the hotel, he registered; but not under the name of Lamont Cranston. Instead, he signed as Henry Arnaud.
Casually, the new guest inquired for Tyson Weed, only to learn that Weed was away. Being a resident of the hotel, however, Weed would be back within a few days. His suite number, for Mr. Arnaud's information, was 1012. The suite to which the clerk assigned Henry Arnaud chanced to be 808.
After establishing himself in his new quarters, Henry Arnaud turned out the lights in the little parlor of his two?room suite. He opened his suitcase; this time no light blinked. That bulb belonged only in the special make?up tray. Arnaud had opened the tray along with the lid.
Cloth swished in the darkness. The folds of a cloak settled over shoulders. A slouch hat pressed upon a head; hands drew on black gloves. A soft laugh sounded as a figure approached the window. Another transformation had taken place. Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow.
A spectral figure, this cloaked shape swung across the sill. A gloved hand adjusted a square box that The Shadow had taken from the suitcase, clamping the container safely beneath the cloak. Strong fingers—their grip would have amazed Foster Crozan—were firm as they clutched a projecting cornice.
Beetlelike, yet indiscernible against the brick side wall of the high hotel, The Shadow poised above space.
With a calm precision—a worthy tribute to the deliberate calculation of which he had boasted when guised as Cranston—The Shadow swung his body to the right and coolly caught a neighboring cornice with one freed hand.
Another swing enabled The Shadow to thrust his hand farther upward and grip the iron posts of a projecting balcony, one of a dozen ornamental contrivances that graced the broad wall of the Hotel Halcyon.
ONE minute later, The Shadow swung across the rail. His gloved hands pressed the pane of a blackened window, to discover that the sash was locked. A prying strip of steel clicked its message; The Shadow loosened the catch without leaving any telltale marks. He dropped into the room within. A tiny flashlight flickered.
The Shadow had entered Suite 1012. He spent a dozen minutes in the rooms reserved for Tyson Weed; then emerged and locked the window behind him. High above the tiny lights of the street, The Shadow swung back along the cornices. He clung with one hand while he hooked a length of threadlike wire above the final cornice. Finally he swung back into the window of 808.
Gloved fingers clicked a table lamp. Then, into the light, came the folded piece of paper that Senator Releston had given to Lamont Cranston. Unfolded, the paper read: WHILE VINCENT WILL PROVE USEFUL, OTHER AID IS MORE URGENT. IF POSSIBLE, ARRANGE FOR THE SHADOW TO COME TO
WASHINGTON AND REMAIN THROUGHOUT THE COMING CRISIS.
To his friend Lamont Cranston, Senator Releston had given this plea. For Senator Releston knew that somehow Lamont Cranston could contact that mysterious fighter who had aided the government in the past.
He was sure that Cranston could bring The Shadow to Washington.
Even Releston had not identified the pretended personality of Lamont Cranston with the mysterious figure of The Shadow. Like others, the senator would believe that Cranston had left Washington for Florida.
Beneath the light, The Shadow's hand began inscribing messages. One was a summons to Harry Vincent; the others were coded orders to additional agents. The Shadow was bringing a small but competent corps of workers to Washington, there to aid him in the protective measures that Senator Releston required.
To?day, two suspects had been mentioned; Tyson Weed and Dunwood Rydel. For the present, The Shadow was prepared to concentrate on one, Tyson Weed. Should the lobbyist prove inconsequential, an investigation of the magnate would be in order. Tyson Weed was due to be covered by The Shadow.
CHAPTER IV. HARRY REPORTS.
THREE days after The Shadow's conference with Senator Releston and Foster Crozan, a sedan pulled up in front of an old brownstone house in the northwest section of Washington. The car belonged to Senator Releston; the young man who alighted from it was a brisk, clean?cut chap who had but recently come to town.
This was Harry Vincent, gaining his first view of the old mansion which Congressman Layton Coyd had chosen as a residence. Entrance was gained to the house by a pair of crumbling brownstone steps. Harry ascended them and rang the bell.
A weary, doubled?up servant admitted the visitor. The fellow blinked weakly at Harry, not recognizing him.
Then came a man's voice, brisk from the hall:
“If it's Mr. Vincent, Mose, step by and let him enter.”
Mose saw Harry nod; wearily, the ancient servitor allowed him to enter. In a spacious, gloomy hallway, Harry found himself face to face with a well?groomed young man, who extended his hand and delivered a pleasant smile. This chap's expression was friendly.
“My name's Jurrick,” he stated. “Don Jurrick. One of Mr. Coyd's secretaries. The congressman received Senator Releston's telephone call. He says that he can see you.”
Jurrick led the way toward a flight of stairs. They went upstairs and turned toward the front of the house.
They came into a huge room, across it a doorway that opened into a bedroom. This was Coyd's present quarters; the place was a medley of living room, reception hall and office.
SEATED by a desk was Layton Coyd, garbed in dressing gown, his legs wrapped in a blanket. Harry noted the weariness of the man's grayish face. He also observed what Clyde had noticed; the parchmentlike texture of Coyd's skin, with the crescent scar that marred chin and cheek.
But Harry was not impressed with the ruggedness of the congressman's profile. For Coyd's features were relaxed; they seemed weather?beaten rather than well?molded.
Beside Coyd was a tall, sallow?faced man with black hair and a pointed mustache. This individual had an air of self?assurance; his attire was immaculate, his poise seemed somewhat foreign. Jurrick introduced Harry to Coyd. The congressman shook hands without rising; then introduced Harry to the sallow?faced man, whom he named Doctor Borneau.
