“That shows no personal animosity on his part. You merely chanced to be a contract holder.”
“I don't trust Crozan. He's out to win more than that Senate election. He blackened me once; he will try it again. He's jealous of my wealth.”
“Preposterous, Rydel. Crozan is a millionaire in his own right. True, he has ambitions; but they are honorable ones. Take my advice as a friend, Rydel; do not let your animosity carry you too far against a man of integrity such as Crozan. Your own malice will boomerang and injure you instead of him.”
THE two men arose and left the grill?room, en route to some business conference. The Shadow followed.
Through this brief observation he had gained a definite idea of Dunwood Rydel. He had heard enough to know of the man's prejudices; but he had recognized also that he had seen but the surface of Dunwood Rydel.
Later, when the occasion might demand it, The Shadow could learn more.
Another point gained by The Shadow: he knew that Rydel's servants had not informed him of the affray out at the house. Evidently they had decided that their report of a mysterious prowler could wait until their master returned.
In the easy fashion of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow left the Lotus Club. He entered a taxi and told the driver to take him by the shortest route to the Hotel Halcyon. As the cab rolled along, The Shadow glanced at his watch. His whispered laugh betokened satisfaction.
It was nearly eight o'clock, an important hour in The Shadow's plans for to?night. For The Shadow—as Arnaud—had learned to?day that Tyson Weed was due back in Washington, scheduled to arrive at eight this evening.
A soft laugh came from The Shadow's disguised lips. While waiting for Weed's return, he had looked in on one camp; that of Dunwood Rydel. At present, he was on his way to investigate the other headquarters.
Within the next few hours, The Shadow intended to learn some inside facts concerning Tyson Weed's business in Washington.
CHAPTER VI. THE DOUBLE DEAL.
WHEN The Shadow alighted at the Hotel Halcyon, he still affected the easy guise of Henry Arnaud. It was a part less leisurely than the languid role of Lamont Cranston; nevertheless, his actions as Arnaud gave no appearance of great haste.
Perhaps that was why The Shadow, glancing casually across the street, managed to spy a hunch?shouldered figure sidling from view beyond the railed front of an old, darkened house. The man whom The Shadow noted had not expected observation from so casual an arrival as this one who had stepped from the cab.
A thin smile showed on The Shadow's lips, as he entered the hotel. The man whom he had spied was one whom only the keenest eyes could detect. That huddled figure was “Hawkeye,” one of The Shadow's own agents, a trailer whom The Shadow used on numerous occasions.
Inside the hotel lobby, The Shadow observed a husky, well?built man seated in a corner chair. This chap looked heavier, more rough?and?ready than Harry Vincent; at the same time, his features were clean?cut, and he was quite at home in the gilt surroundings of the Hotel Halcyon. This was Cliff Marsland, another of The Shadow's agents.
Across the lobby, lounging by a cigar counter, was a thick?faced man with heavy, dark mustache. Swarthy of countenance, wise of manner, this individual was wearing a Derby hat tilted down over his sharp, almost glaring eyes.
Though not conspicuous, the mustached man came immediately within The Shadow's keen range of observation. While pausing at the news stand to make a purchase, The Shadow, mild in his guise of Arnaud, found opportunity to study the fellow at close range, without the man knowing it.
Walking toward the elevator, The Shadow noted Cliff Marsland watching the man in the Derby. It was not surprising that Cliff should be making such observation on his own initiative. The fellow with the mustache had the air of a private detective. Cliff, knowing the ways of such worthies, had not been lax in noting it.
REACHING 808, The Shadow entered a darkened room. He spoke in a whisper; a quiet voice answered from the corner. A man was stationed there in the darkness, earphones clamped to his head.
His stooped shoulders were barely visible in the light from the window. This was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man; he had been summoned on from New York to take up his post here during The Shadow's temporary absence.
A buzz sounded from beside the table where Burbank was seated. The contact man removed the earphones and picked up the telephone while The Shadow waited. Burbank held a brief, even?toned conversation; then hung up and reported to The Shadow in the darkness.
“Weed has arrived,” stated Burbank. “Marsland recognized him from Burke's description. Weed has gone up in the elevator. Marsland also reports a man loafing by the cigar stand who looks like a dick. The fellow took an interest in Weed's arrival.”
His report given, Burbank again donned the earphones. The Shadow turned on a light above another table. He opened an envelope that was lying there; from it he produced a coded report. This was from Harry Vincent; it told the details of Harry's recent trip to Coyd's.
Harry's report, however, made no mention of the mustached man in the coupe; for Harry had not spied that watcher outside of Coyd's. Such mention would have been illuminating had it been included in Harry's report.
For the man with the Derby hat whom The Shadow and Cliff had noticed in the lobby was the very fellow who had been acting as spy outside of Coyd's.
The telephone buzzed; again Burbank answered it. This time he held the earphones above his shoulder as he hung up the telephone receiver with his other hand. Methodically, he reported:
“Marsland again. Man by the cigar stand went up alone in an elevator. Indicator showed tenth?floor stop.
Looks like a visitor for Weed.”
The Shadow donned the earphones. Half a minute followed. Then he heard a sound of muffled knocking.
Dragging footsteps; a door opened, then closed. After that came voices.
Cliff was right; Weed was receiving a visitor. Those earphones which The Shadow wore were picking up all sounds from Suite 1012, thanks to a tiny microphone that The Shadow had planted on his visit a few nights ago.
A WHINY voice reached The Shadow. It was Weed, greeting the visitor. The tone fitted the description that Clyde Burke had given of the long?faced, sneaky?looking lobbyist. Weed's whine, though peevish, also carried a tinge of authority.
“Well, Walbert?” came the lobbyist's query. “What about it? Where's your report?”
“Right here,” was a gruff response, that fitted the man with the Derby. “Take a squint at it. There's lots for you to lamp. I was parked across the street from Coyd's most of the afternoon.”
Weed spent time in perusal; finally, he spoke, as peevishly as before.
“This doesn't help me, Walbert,” declared the lobbyist. “None of these details give me anything. Doctor Borneau has been to Coyd's before.”
“But not this other fellow,” observed Walbert. “I checked the number of his license. He was driving Senator Releston's bus.”
“Get his name. It might be useful. But if he's from Releston, he'd be hard to deal with. That's obvious, Walbert. No, you haven't brought me much.”
“What about Coyd's daughter being there? That's something, ain't it?”
“Listen, Walbert.” Weed's tone was querulous. “I didn't hire you just to watch Coyd's house. This is no ordinary gumshoe job. Any cheap dick could do what you've done. I want something that will give me an opening.
“You know what I'm up against. I've got to reach either Senator Releston or Congressman Coyd. Both of them have given me the grand bounce. All I can hope for is to get something on one of them. Releston's a tougher proposition than Coyd; that's why I'm concentrating on the congressman.”
“Maybe there's nothing you can get on Coyd. He's supposed to be mighty honest.”
