One was a face that appeared at an upstairs window—Coyd's bedroom—and watched The Shadow's agent drive away. That countenance was Hugh Tabbert's; and the face was much more alert than Harry would have believed possible.
The other factor that escaped Harry's observation was a parked coupé across the street. From behind the steering wheel of that vehicle, a thick−faced man with a heavy, black mustache had been watching the front of Congressman Coyd's home.
With glaring eyes, this mustached observer watched Harry drive away; then grunted with satisfaction as he settled back in his seat and resumed his observation of Coyd's residence. With stubby fingers, the spy noted down the license number of Harry's car.
Events were brewing about the mansion wherein Layton Coyd resided. Cross purposes were at work; and the very atmosphere presaged the coming of the crisis that Senator Releston had anticipated. Senator Releston had been wise in his request for The Shadow's aid.
CHAPTER V. TWO CAMPS.
DUSK had followed afternoon. Lights were agleam in a stately mansion that stood back from the traffic of a Washington avenue. This was the Washington colonial residence of Dunwood Rydel, the millionaire magnate who felt that his interests commanded his stay in Washington.
Behind the huge colonial mansion, the garage formed a wide, squat building. It had once been a stable; now it housed the half dozen cars that formed Rydel's fleet of automotive vehicles. Back of the garage was a high, thick hedge; it was from this barrier that a sidling figure entered the grounds, unseen against the blackness of the hedge itself.
Heedless of the patrolling servants who kept watch for prowlers, this prowler glided along the side wall of the garage and reached a small door at the front corner. A gloved hand turned the knob; a shrouded figure entered a darkened passage. The visitant found another door and opened it inch by inch.
The sound of voices came from the big storage room of the garage, where four cars were parked in a row.
The Shadow had seen the lights through the rear windows. He had stopped at the garage to listen in on any conversation that might prove of interest. The voices that he heard were those of two chauffeurs in Rydel's employ. One was standing ready to enter a large imported coupé.
“I guess the master's ready and waiting, Chet.” declared the chauffeur by the car. “I'd better not keep him waiting. He's got an appointment this evening.”
“Where's he going, Bill?” queried the idle chauffeur. “Down to the Lotus Club?”
“Yeah, for dinner. That's why he's starting early. He always goes there when Miss Beatrice is away. Say—is Mullard driving clear down to that place in Virginia?”
“No, He just took Miss Beatrice into town to meet her girl friend. Won't be back for a while, though; he's probably getting those new tires for the limousine.”
Bill clambered aboard the coupé and backed it from the open door of the garage. Evidently Rydel had been waiting Bill's appearance.
The Shadow swung suddenly about as Chet came toward the little door where he was stationed. The chauffeur was whistling; the trill announced his approach. The Shadow moved out through the little front door and blended with blackness against the wall. The move was a wise one, for Chet stepped into view a moment later. The chauffeur paused to light a cigarette.
Forced to delay his departure, The Shadow waited. He had no further purpose here; as soon as Chet was gone, he intended to glide along. But before the chauffeur could step away, a flashlight glimmered. One of Rydel's inspecting servants arrived to talk to the chauffeur.
“Hello, Whitey,” greeted Chet. “Giving the grounds a look−over like the boss wants?”
“Yeah,” growled Whitey. “Fine job for a butler, ain't it? Like Toby, being a valet, and doing his bit on the other side of the house. Scouring the shrubbery.”
“Hubert and Tobias,” chuckled Chet. “Great monikers for a couple of guys like you fellows. Well, I'll still call you Whitey and Toby—”
“Here's Toby now,” interrupted Whitey, swinging toward the gravel drive. “Hey, Toby—”
WHITEY'S greeting ended as a harsh exclamation came from Toby. The approaching watchman had pressed the button of his flashlight. Purely by accident, the glare had focused on the wall of the garage; there it had revealed the blackened outline of The Shadow. Toby had seen the living shape.
Hard upon Toby's discovery came action. Before the servant had opportunity to catalog the physical appearance of this black intruder, The Shadow's swift form surged forward. Toby swung hard with a lead−weighted club that he was carrying. A gloved hand plucked his descending wrist.
With a sharp cry, Toby spun upward; his body was heaved into a somersault. His fingers lost their clutch upon the club; his flashlight went spinning through the air. Toby flattened on the gravel and rolled over into a helpless sprawl.
Two reserves were springing into action; Whitey, with a club and flashlight; Chet, yanking a revolver that he carried while about the garage. As Whitey's torch cleaved the darkness, a black form hurtled in to meet him.
Gloved hands found their grip as The Shadow joined in swift grapple.
Flashlight and club went flying. With a grunt, Whitey sagged beneath choking fingers that clamped his throat. Then The Shadow flung the husky guardian to the gravel; coming up to hands and knees, Whitey paused, half dazed beside the groggy form of Toby.
Chet had snatched the flashlight from the drive. Away from the garage, he circled the gleam, frantically trying to spot the intruding fighter. A sudden exclamation of success came from the chauffeur as a figure sprang suddenly into the light. Chet swung the revolver, seeking quick aim.
A gloved fist swished through the glare. Buffered knuckles clipped Chet's chin. The chauffeur reeled backward; then thudded to earth. Torch and revolver slipped from the chauffeur's loosened grasp while The Shadow swished past the garage and gained the hedge beyond. Silent, mirthless, he was gone when the half−groggy servants came clambering dizzily to their feet.
AT the Lotus Club, Dunwood Rydel was seated at a corner table in the grill−room, confining his diet to a bowl of milk and toast while he growled to a companion opposite. Big, portly and glowering, Rydel seemed in ill sorts. His friend, a quiet, mild−mannered man, was shaking his head in disapproval.
A stranger entered the grillroom and seated himself at a table opposite. His features were the hawklike guise of Henry Arnaud. Departing from Rydel's terrain, The Shadow had headed for this club that he had heard the chauffeurs mention. His manner of entry had been simple. He had used a letter of introduction signed by Lamont Cranston, whose name was known in all exclusive clubs.
“You're a lawyer, Wimbledon,” The Shadow heard Rydel say. “You ought to agree with me. I tell you, there's not been fair discrimination.”
“You are wrong, Rydel,” returned the mild−mannered man. “True, you have suffered through certain investigations. The findings, however, justified.”
“But why are they pressing on me all the time? Striking at interests which concern me? Why don't they let up? Why don't they pick on other big−money men?”
“They will,” assured Wimbledon. “Give them time, Rydel. Many investigations are under way.”
“Humph.”
With this utterance, Rydel pushed aside his bowl of milk and toast and delivered a sour expression that befitted his dyspeptic nature.
“Why stay in Washington?” queried Wimbledon. “You have business in New York. Why not spend your time there, Rydel?”
“I'll have to go to New York,” grumbled the magnate. “But I'll be back here, Wimbledon. I'll tell you why.