“You are not my father!” she shrieked. “You are an impostor! I should have known it when I first arrived here! You were different—”
Beatrice Rydel had joined her friend. She, too, was staring at that wild−eyed man whose face resembled Layton Coyd's. Evelyn knew only that the visage, the pose, could not be her father's; but Beatrice had suddenly recognized who the man must be.
“Montgomery!” she exclaimed. “Montgomery Hadwil! You—your face is changed—your hair dyed—”
THE false Coyd swung back against the table; his faked lips gave a venomous snarl. Recognition complete, he resorted to frenzy. His dramatic egotism came to the fore, in spite of a sharp warning from Doctor Borneau.
“What of it?” demanded Hadwil, viciously. “What if I did choose to deceive the world? Bah! How else could I have gained the wealth I wanted? Your father refused—”
“Enough, rogue!” interrupted Crozan, coming to his feet. “You can make your confession later. We know you for an adventurer, seeking a marriage that would bring you wealth. Dunwood Rydel refused it; he told you his daughter would receive no dower. He knew that money came first with you.”
Hadwil was spluttering; the glare of Crozan's eyes made him end his fuming. Still accusing, Crozan drove home another statement.
“Rydel offered you money,” he scoffed. “He gave you an opportunity. One that allowed you to continue your profession as an actor. It meant an alteration of your features; but what of that? It was no more than a minor operation, designed to bring you wealth. Come, man, confess. I can promise that you will be dealt with leniently.”
“Very well.” Hadwil had calmed. “I did as Rydel told me. I went daily to the Hall of Representatives; I watched Layton Coyd and learned all his mannerisms and gestures. I rehearsed them to perfection.
“I went to a small private hospital outside of Washington. There the operation was performed. After that, I lived in an apartment on Q Street. Rydel placed a car at my disposal. A limousine with a chauffeur named Mullard.
“He brought me here one day to make a trial of my new identity. The next day I came again and issued the statement on munitions. To−night, I made another visit; I came here to deliver a speech as Rydel wanted it.”
“We have your confession,” remarked Crozan. He was in the center of the room, confident that he was backed by The Shadow's guns. “Next, we should hear from you, Doctor Borneau. Hadwil is guilty merely of an imposture. Perhaps, doctor, your deeds were more serious.”
“Slightly,” asserted Borneau, with a grimace. “I, too, was hired by Rydel. Some time ago, a sculptor named Lucian took a cast—a mask—of Congressman Coyd. Some one—Rydel or his chauffeur—entered Lucian's studio and stole the cast, leaving a batch of broken plaster on the floor.
“A second mask was taken—for that statue on the mantelpiece—but I had the first. I used it as a mold for a facial operation which I performed on Hadwil. You understand, of course, that I was deceived at first. I thought that Rydel was friendly to Coyd; that the purpose was to have Hadwil serve as Coyd's substitute when the latter was indisposed—”
“That is irrelevant, doctor,” interposed Crozan, sternly. “Let us know what you actually did to Congressman Coyd.”
“I gave him two prescriptions,” admitted the physician. “Neither was really harmful; but one stimulated him and afterward, when its effects wore off, he felt melancholy. That accounted for his troubled mental condition. He needed more stimulus, either through medicine or outdoor exercise.”
“And the other prescription?”
“Contained an opiate. So Coyd would sleep on the days that Rydel wished to substitute Hadwil in his stead. I learned the real game, too late—”
“What about your past, Doctor Borneau? How did you come to be in Washington?”
“I was concerned in some trouble at Saigon, Mr. Crozan. Fortunately, charges against me were dropped.
Never made, in fact, since I promised to leave Indo−China. Even the French Embassy did not know about the matter. It was a personal concern.”
“What about these men?”
Crozan was indicating Coyd's secretaries. Borneau shook his head.
“Neither was implicated,” the man replied.
TABBERT'S face was pale; for a moment, he was about to blurt out something, then desisted as he saw Evelyn stare accusingly in his direction. Before the girl could speak, Harry caught a signal from The Shadow.
He handed the key to Evelyn. The girl hurried and unlocked the door.
Harry gently urged Beatrice Rydel to follow her. The blonde obeyed mechanically; she seemed dulled by the confession that she had heard involving her father.
As Evelyn opened the door, she uttered a cry. Beyond, stretched on the bed, was Congressman Coyd, clad in his dressing gown. Evelyn showed fright at first, thinking that her father was dead.
Then her tone was one of gladness, as she discovered that he was breathing, deep in slumber. Beatrice joined Evelyn in an effort to awake the sleeping congressman.
“That is fortunate,” decided Crozan, staring through the open door. “After all, Rydel could not have afforded to murder Coyd. That would have meant you taking his place permanently, Hadwil. Yet Rydel would have been capable of murder—”
Crozan paused suddenly. Harry, near the door of the bedroom, saw a motion from The Shadow. Calmly, Harry closed the door. As Crozan turned about, The Shadow's agent twisted the key and pocketed it. Evelyn and Beatrice were locked inside the room.
“Murder!” boomed Crozan, turning to The Shadow, who stood as a silent judge. “Dunwood Rydel committed murder! He had reason to do so; for there was one man in Washington clever enough to have penetrated his scheme. I refer to Tyson Weed. He was murdered by Dunwood Rydel!”
A SARDONIC laugh came from The Shadow's lips. It was a burst of chilling mockery, a gibe that carried stern accusation. No longer repressed, those eerie tones rose to fierce crescendo. Ending abruptly, they left echoes crying from the walls, like chilled responses from a myriad of quivering, unseen tongues. Foster Crozan trembled; his confidence was gone.
“Your game is ended,” pronounced The Shadow. “Your efforts, Crozan, to pin suspicion on Rydel were overdone. If he were the schemer that you wish to make him, he would have avoided the very steps that you have named.
“Rydel's contempt for Hadwil was known. It was returned by Hadwil. Collusion between the two was unlikely. Had Rydel chosen to use Hadwil, he would not have employed his own car for transportation of the impostor.
“Nor would he have permitted his daughter to make friends with Evelyn Coyd. No schemer would have called upon a girl like Beatrice to aid him in his fell plans. Nor would Rydel have come here as he did this morning, making himself conspicuous just prior to the climax.
“Moreover, when you challenged him, Crozan, Rydel—had he been a villain—would have had a perfect alibi for his recent whereabouts. He would not have evaded your question.
“You, Crozan, with all your bravado; you are the man of crime. You placed aids at every spot; you bribed Borneau, Hadwil, even Mullard. To make all safe, you chose an agent in this very house.”
The Shadow paused. His eyes were upon the two secretaries. Tabbert cried out spontaneously:
“Jurrick! He was working with Borneau! I wondered why he used to shift those medicine bottles. Why he always informed me that Mr. Coyd was in the downstairs study; that I was to go there and not come up here. I never saw Mr. Coyd actually go in there. Jurrick must have met Hadwil at the side door—covered his departure when the man left—”