“Perhaps he is; but the odds are he isn't.”
“What about that sculptor guy that I saw going in there once?”
“He doesn't know anything. Just a goof that's making a bust of the old guy. What you've got to spot, Walbert, is some bird from Coyd's own State. Some yahoo that's come to Washington looking for a favor. That kind always likes to tell things that they remembered when some senator or congressman was just a small?time legislator in his home State.”
“All right, Mr. Weed; I'll keep my eyes peeled. Nobody spotted me outside of Coyd's to?day. I'll go back there to?morrow. Maybe I can pick up some dope on Coyd, from guys around town.”
“Get what you can, Walbert. Let me know if you spot anything. That's all for to?night.”
Conversation ended. The Shadow spoke to Burbank; not in the tone of Henry Arnaud, but in a low?voiced, commanding whisper.
“Call the desk,” was The Shadow's order. “Ask the clerk to look for a message.”
Burbank did as ordered; he received word that there was no message in box 808. As soon as Burbank hung up, the telephone rang. It was Cliff. He had seen the clerk look in the pigeonhole marked 808. He knew that Burbank wanted him; the signal had been prearranged.
“Hawkeye to trail Walbert, the man who visited Weed.” ordered The Shadow, quietly.
Burbank repeated the order to Cliff. Through the earphones, The Shadow could hear the sounds of Walbert's departure. There was ample time for Cliff to stroll out and tip off Hawkeye, giving the little agent the name that The Shadow had learned. Hawkeye was going on the trail of a man whose identity was now known.
TWENTY minutes passed. The Shadow had given the earphones back to Burbank; suddenly, the contact man took them off and raised them toward his chief. Listening, The Shadow heard new voices. One was Weed's again; the other was abrupt and harsh.
“Let's read it, Quidler,” came Weed's comment. “I hope you've got something this trip.”
“I have,” was the reply, in the clipped tone. “You said you wanted a real operative—not a dumb dick. Well, I'm the bozo you was after.”
“Say—this is something, Quidler! Coyd's daughter has gone on a trip to Virginia and Beatrice Rydel is along with her. How did you grab off that dope?”
“I'll tell you how. I stuck around the back of Coyd's house. There I met Mose, an old half?blind servant of Coyd's. I pumped him a good deal. He told me that Coyd has been rather sick lately, that Evelyn Coyd and Beatrice Rydel were going to Virginia on a vacation. Then there was this fellow Vincent who came from Releston—”
“All right, Quidler,” Weed cut in. “That's enough. Sit down and help yourself to a drink while I review the details.”
The Shadow spoke to Burbank. The contact man picked up the telephone and put in another call to the desk.
He wanted to be sure about the expected message. The clerk finally reported that he had made another look. It was not there.
TWO minutes later, Cliff called the room. Prompted by The Shadow, Burbank asked about any suspicious ?looking persons who had recently entered the lobby. Cliff stated that a tall, slouchy?looking fellow had gone up in an elevator. Cliff described him as a long?nosed, peak?faced individual who had looked like a salesman.
“Watch for him,” stated Burbank, methodically. “If he comes down shortly, you'll know that he is the man now visiting Weed. His name is Quidler. He's another dick like Talbert. Trail him.”
Sounds of departure came through the earphones. The Shadow removed the instruments; he picked up a briefcase which he found in the darkness. Leaving Burbank, he strolled out into the hall. Still as Arnaud, he walked in the direction of the elevators.
When The Shadow reached the lobby, Cliff Marsland was gone. The Shadow knew the answer. Quidler had descended in a previous car; Cliff had spotted him and was on the fellow's trail. With a slight smile on his fixed lips, The Shadow walked out to the street. He reached a darkened spot; there a transformation took place. Henry Arnaud became The Shadow.
A whispered laugh sounded amid darkness; prophetic as well as understanding. The Shadow had learned the game that Tyson Weed was playing. It was a double deal, involving two private detectives. Weed had signed up two dicks, independently; both had been assigned to get something on Congressman Layton Coyd.
The Shadow had matched the lobbyist's double deal. On Walbert's trail he had dispatched Hawkeye; he had sent Cliff after Quidler. Burbank was still covering Weed, thanks to the dictograph hook?up between 1012 and 808.
That accomplished, The Shadow was free to roam alone; to pass unseen through the secluded byways of Washington, seeking objectives of his own. Phases of the game were opening; The Shadow was seeking further indications of the moves that lay ahead.
CHAPTER VII. COYD'S SECRET.
FOUR days had passed. They were uneventful ones, stalemated at every point. Senator Ross Releston and Foster Crozan had expressed no opinions to Harry Vincent.
Tyson Weed had received no reports from his detectives. Hawkeye and Cliff had trailed the dicks, but to no avail. All had proven empty. Dunwood Rydel, however, was at home; a newspaper mentioned that he was confined to bed by a slight illness. All seemed quiet on the surface.
Meanwhile, Congressman Coyd was ill at ease; but he managed to keep his burden to himself. He was about to dismiss Tabbert when Jurrick entered to announce that his daughter had arrived unexpectedly from Virginia.
This gave Coyd his opportunity to dismiss both secretaries. A few minutes later he was alone with his daughter and his physician. Evelyn began to talk; her father listened with an indulgent smile.
“You are coming to Virginia,” affirmed Evelyn, emphatically. “This very afternoon, daddy. No excuses this time.”
“Is Beatrice Rydel still there?” inquired Coyd. “That might be the only excuse that I needed.”
“She is still at the lodge, daddy, but that makes no difference.”
“Very well, my dear, I shall come down to see you to?morrow.”
“To?day, daddy.”
“No. To?morrow.”
Evelyn persisted no longer. She knew when her father's mind was made up. Evelyn closed the door when she left the living room. As she walked through the upstairs hall, she saw some one stepping into a doorway. The girl stopped with a sharp exclamation. Sheepishly, Hugh Tabbert stepped into view.
“Sorry to have startled you, Miss Evelyn,” apologized the red?haired secretary. “I—I was just passing along here when—”
“A poor excuse,” interposed the girl. “You were listening to our conversation, Tabbert. I would report you, if it were not for my father's nervous condition.”
“Honestly, Miss Evelyn, my duty is to—”
“Your duty does not include listening outside of doorways. See that it does not happen again, Tabbert.”
On the stairs, Evelyn met Jurrick. The sleek?haired secretary had heard words uttered above; he gazed inquiringly as Evelyn approached. The girl spoke to him quietly.
“Tabbert is behaving oddly,” she explained. “It would be best for you to watch him, Don. I rebuked him; but I did not want to report the matters to father.”
“Certainly not, Miss Evelyn,” responded Jurrick, solemnly. “You may rest assured that I shall maintain your confidence.”
“Thank you, Don,” smiled the girl; then, with a twinkle in her eyes: “Very few people call me Miss Evelyn.
Most every one addresses me either as Miss Coyd or just as—”
“Evelyn?” inquired Jurrick.
The girl nodded.
“Remember it,” she remarked, as she turned to walk toward the front door.
Jurrick smiled. He watched the girl's departure, feeling pleased because Evelyn chose to meet him on less
