Like the house that Hawkeye had visited on Q Street, this building was a residence converted into an apartment.
It bore the name plate: “Northern Arms.”
CLIFF parked his coupé. He went into the lobby, pushed a bell beside a name and listened in hope of luck.
The door clicked; Cliff entered. Instead of going upstairs, he sneaked to the rear of the hall and waited.
A door opened above; a voice shouted; then the door slammed. Some annoyed apartment dweller had decided that the ring was a hoax.
While outside, Cliff had noted one point in a preliminary survey. Windows, first and second floors front, had been lighted. The slammed door had apparently come from the second story back; a likely guess, for Cliff had pressed a button marked 2B. The third floor, therefore, seemed like a good bet. Cliff sneaked up the stairs and reached it.
This building, like the one that Hawkeye had visited, was equipped with a rear fire escape. This was required by law in both cases; for none of these old houses were fireproof. Cliff took the rear apartment as the easiest mode of entry. He reached the fire escape and leaned over to a locked window.
Using a thin prying tool, Cliff tried The Shadow's system. His efforts were comparatively clumsy; for he required several minutes before he could catch the lock, and he chipped the woodwork into the bargain.
When he finally opened the window, Cliff slid into a small kitchen; from there, he reached a darkened hall, with a bedroom on the side.
Using a flashlight, Cliff spotted a suitcase. He opened it; the first objects that he saw were papers and letters.
Cliff examined them and chuckled; he opened an envelope and produced a handful of newspaper clippings.
These were all he needed.
Continuing through to a living room, Cliff calmly turned on the light and picked up a telephone. He dialed the Hotel Halcyon. He asked for 808. Burbank's voice responded. Cliff reported. That done, he stretched out in a comfortable chair and laid his revolver on the table beside him. Cliff was prepared to wait as long as necessary.
MEANWHILE, Dunwood Rydel had met two persons in the Lotus Club. One was Coyd's daughter; the other was another girl, a blonde whose attractiveness was quite as marked as Evelyn's. This was Beatrice Rydel.
The girls had come in from Virginia. Delayed by the storm, Beatrice had called her father; he had told her to meet him at the Lotus Club.
The trio went into the upstairs dining room. As they were ordering dinner, a man strolled in and took a table close by. It was The Shadow, guised as Henry Arnaud. Quietly, he ordered a prompt dinner, stating that his time was short.
“Father,” remarked Beatrice, “we are in a great hurry. Evelyn wants me to go with her to hear her father's speech. He is delivering it from his home, you know.”
“Humph,” growled Rydel. “So that's why he was so testy this morning. I had forgotten about that plagued speech of his.”
“Father!” reproved Beatrice. “You are forgetting Evelyn—”
“That's all right, Beatrice,” laughed the brunette. “Daddy has said many mean things about your father.”
“He has?” queried Rydel.
“Yes,” acknowledged Evelyn. “Many times.”
“Humph.” Rydel's tone was a chuckle. “Maybe the old codger is a good fellow after all. I like people to be frank. Come to think of it, he is frank.”
“Why don't you come with us?” queried Evelyn.
Rydel shook his head.
“Not for the speech,” he decided. “I have a conference with some friends, here at the club. Mullard is to take the limousine back and come for me in the coupé. I believe, though, that I can get away by nine−thirty. I shall have Mullard keep the limousine in town; then I can come along for Beatrice.”
“And meet daddy.” added Evelyn.
“Perhaps,” said Rydel. “Anyway, you girls can call Mullard and have him take you to Coyd's in the limousine. I sent him to the F Street garage. I told him to wait there in case you needed him.”
“We have my coupé, father,” reminded Beatrice. “We can drive to Evelyn's in it. Then I can call one of the chauffeurs and have him take it home from there, since you will be coming in the limousine.”
An attendant entered and spoke to the headwaiter, who indicated The Shadow. The attendant approached and delivered a message. The Shadow read the statement that Mr. Burbank was calling. He left the table, went to the lobby and answered the telephone. He received news of Cliff.
Telling the attendant to cancel his dinner order, The Shadow left the club. Hailing a taxi, he gave a destination. When the driver reached an empty house, he paused, puzzled; then the fare was thrust into his hand. The door of the cab opened; the passenger was gone.
The driver blinked. He had remembered a man with a briefcase. Yet no such passenger had alighted; in fact the driver had no recollection of anything but a gloved hand, tendering him his fare and tip. Shrugging his shoulders, the cabby drove away along the puddly street. The Shadow, turning the nearest corner, saw him travel by.
NEARLY a block ahead, a limousine was halted by the curb. As The Shadow swished forward through the darkness, he caught a glimpse of a figure by the machine. An instant later, the big car shot away. Continuing, The Shadow reached the back of a huge brownstone house. He had arrived at Congressman Coyd's.
Moving through the passage beside the house, The Shadow reached the front. He seemed unconcerned by that brief sight that he had gained upon arrival. Outside, he discovered a parked sedan; it was Senator Releston's car. Harry Vincent was already at Coyd's.
Long minutes passed; a phantom shape had glided out of sight. Elsewhere, however, a watcher had found something to observe. Hawkeye, stationed outside the F Street garage, saw a limousine swing into the entrance, a dozen minutes after The Shadow had spotted the same car at Coyd's.
Inside the garage, Mullard alighted and hailed an attendant. The fellow came over; the chauffeur put a query:
“Did the boss call?”
The attendant shook his head.
“Listen, Stevie.” Mullard drew the fellow aside. “I got a hunch that old Rydel is checking up on me. I've been riding around in this bus of his and the gas bill's kind of heavy. See?”
Steve grinned and nodded.
“Got a date with a gal,” confided Mullard. “Want to slide out of here along about nine; and I won't be back for an hour. Maybe some snooper is watching. Give me a break, will you?”
“How?”
“You know that old entrance over on the other side?”
“Sure. A couple of old junkers are blocking it.
“Shove them out so I can use the door. Worth a couple of bucks for your trouble?”
“You bet.”
The attendant went away. Mallard remained by the limousine, away from Hawkeye's range of vision. Though he had not spied the spotter, Mullard still figured that a car had trailed him. If so, it might have come back to the front of the F Street garage, after being shaken in the chase. By using the forgotten side door, Mullard was making a sure thing of a get−away.
EIGHT o'clock was nearing; it was the scheduled time for Coyd's speech. The Shadow, watching from the passage beside the brownstone house, saw a taxicab jolt to a stop in front. A man alighted; he was the radio technician sent to make the hook−up. He had evidently come from the banquet, allowing ample time for the final arrangements.
Hardly had the cab moved away before an imported coupé stopped before the house. Two girls alighted; Evelyn Coyd and Beatrice Rydel had hurried through their dinner in order to be in time for the speech. They, too, were admitted to the house.
Softly, The Shadow laughed as he merged beneath the darkness of the walls. His suppressed mirth faded, lost amid the patter of raindrops on the eaves above. A phantom shape, obscured in blackness, his time for action had come.