The Shadow, his disguised lips straightened, was looking from the window on the left as the sedan pulled away from the brownstone house. Enthusiastically, Releston turned and thumped his hand upon The Shadow's back.
“Grand work, Cranston!” approved the senator. “You gain the credit. You were right, the poison was given—a big dose to the public, the interview that Coyd gave yesterday. But you found the antidote, old fellow. You found it and the cure will be complete.”
A slight smile formed on the lips of Lamont Cranston. Releston thought that The Shadow's expression was a response to his own enthusiasm. The senator was wrong; The Shadow had smiled because of something that he had seen, not heard.
The Shadow had noticed a coupé parked across the street as the sedan rolled by. He had spotted the man hunched behind the wheel; he had recognized the mustached face of Walbert. But The Shadow had seen even more. He had noticed a slight lift of the rumble seat; he had caught a momentary glimpse of a wizened face ducking out of view, within the back of the coupé.
Hawkeye, the artful trailer, had been clinging close to the mustached dick. The little spotter had chosen the cute system of riding everywhere within the confines of the rumble seat at the back of Walbert's coupé.
CHAPTER XI. WEED GAINS FACTS.
“WALBERT has arrived.”
Burbank's hand came up over his shoulder as his voice spoke these words. The Shadow received the earphones in the darkness. Quiet reigned in 808 as the chief and his agent waited in the blackness. Evening had replaced daylight.
Voices came through the earphones. Tyson Weed was querulously interrogating Walbert.
“So you saw Releston come and go.” remarked the lobbyist. “And you saw Coyd leave alone, in a hired hack.
You trailed him twenty miles down in Virginia; then you guessed he was going to see his daughter, so you came back. So what?”
“So what?” queried Walbert, gruffly.
“That's what I said,” retorted Weed. “What does any of this mean? Borneau, Vincent, Crozan—all the rest of them—what have you got that's new? Then this about Coyd?”
“I've given you all the facts about Coyd—”
“But not the kind I need. Go back on the job and keep your eyes open. Maybe you'll land a break if you persist long enough.”
“Want me to go down to Virginia and watch his nibs?”
“No. He's taking a vacation; incidentally, the newspapers mentioned that also. There's no good of keeping tabs on Coyd while he's taking the rest cure. Wait until he comes back to Washington.”
Sounds of Walbert's departure came. The earphones went back to Burbank. The Shadow moved toward the window; his keen eyes stared out above the lighted city.
WAITING at the window of 808, The Shadow was confident that Quidler should soon arrive in 1012. Both dicks had had appointments with Weed on that preceding night. It was likely that both would be here again.
Walbert had come and gone; Quidler, by rights was due. As The Shadow mused, Burbank spoke:
“Quidler has arrived.”
The Shadow took the earphones. He heard Quidler's clipped tones, which Burbank had promptly recognized.
Like Walbert, Quidler had brought a written report. The Shadow listened.
“Say!” The exclamation was Weed's. “You're sure about this, Quidler?”
“Sure about everything I've written.” informed Quidler, snappily. “It's more than a guess when I say a guy has been trailing me. I've wised to it a couple of times. What's more, I've seen that coupé parked in front of Coyd's too often—”
“Forget it,” interrupted Weed, impatiently. “That's not the part of the report I'm talking about. I'm interested in this business about Coyd himself. You're sure you saw him outside the house?”
“Sure. Two days ago I spotted him coming in just after I got there. Along around four o'clock. He got out of that limousine and went in through the side door of the house.”
“Leaving the limousine waiting for him?”
“Out back. Just like my report says. He'd been somewhere, Coyd had. Well, he came out again half an hour later, and the chauffeur drove him away.”
“You should have had a cab ready to trail him.”
“I know that, Mr. Weed. But I muffed it that time. It took me too long to get a cab; and I chased all over town trying to locate the limousine. And it was while I was chasing around that Coyd must have hopped back home.”
A pause. Weed was evidently consulting the report. The Shadow listened keenly at the earphones. This expedition of Coyd's was something that had happened while Cliff had not been watching Quidler.
“Coming to yesterday,” Quidler remarked suddenly. “It was pouring rain. I didn't think Coyd would slide out again. I kept going back and forth; and he must have left his house while I wasn't there. Because along after four, when I got there again, the limousine was waiting on the back street.
“Not conspicuous you know. It had pulled away from Coyd's house. But I knew it by the license plate; and I'd looked the number up, like my report says.”
“Tell me this,” demanded Weed, “you're positive that the limousine belongs to Dunwood Rydel?”
“You bet it does,” returned Quidler, “and that chauffeur is one of the monkeys who works for Rydel. Listen: it was about quarter of five when Coyd comes barging out of the side door, like he was in a hurry. Leastwise I think it was Coyd; it was too dark for me to make sure. Anyway, he took the limousine.
“I had a taxi waiting around the corner. I grabbed it and trailed the big bus to that old apartment I tell about, there in the report. The limousine waited there about ten minutes. I couldn't see nobody get out; but maybe Coyd did. It's likely he got back into it again, if he was out, because he probably had to get back to his house.”
“But you lost the trail?”
“Yeah. The taxi driver skidded going around a corner and wound up on the curb with a flat. I paid him and beat it, because I didn't want to be around if some cops showed up and started an argument.”
“You went to Rydel's later?”
“Sure. To see if the big limousine showed up there. It did. What's more, I found out that sometimes the chauffeur parks it at the old F Street garage; and the chauffeur's name is Mullard—”
“Wait a minute.”
WEED evidently took time out to make a final perusal of Quidler's report. When he spoke again, the lobbyist was sharp in tone.
“Look at this newspaper,” he ordered. “This account says that Coyd has gone away for a trip.”
“Sure he has,” chuckled Quidler “That fits my report, don't it? Look what I've got to say about this afternoon.
I went around to that apartment and did some gumshoe work. Kept looking through transoms until I spotted the place I wanted. There was Coyd, big as life, smoking a stogie and reading a newspaper. Had the light on—the shades drawn—”
“Hold on, Quidler. The newspapers have more to say about his trip. They state that he went to Virginia.”
“They're wrong. He's here in Washington. I saw him this afternoon.”
“But I'm sure that he was driving down through Virginia at noon. Twenty miles south of Washington.”
“Maybe he was. He could have doubled back. I've seen too many pictures of that guy's mug to be mistaken.”
“That doesn't follow, Quidler. Look at these photos.” Newspapers rustled; Weed was exhibiting the morning dailies, with their story of yesterday's interview. “See? They're all different.”
“They're all funny−looking. Like Coyd, himself. Maybe the galoot does look one way when he's swelled up and another when he's tired or sick. But that mush of his is a give−away. Nobody else has a mug just like it.