Gliding from the bedroom, The Shadow softly closed the door behind him. His form was barely visible in the gloom; his sharp eyes, however, could still espy all objects. A wastebasket stood by a table.
Reaching into it, The Shadow found torn letters and crumpled papers. The latter impressed him most.
Removing them, The Shadow carried his trophies to the window.
Examining each, he rejected them until he came to one that bore a penned scrawl. It was a brief note, the handwriting characterized by oddly shaped letters. Coyd had written it to his daughter Evelyn; the congressman must have heard from her before mailing it, hence he had thrown it away.
The Shadow kept this letter, but dropped the others back into the wastebasket. He laughed softly as he moved toward the thick darkness of the windowless hall. Silently, he descended the stairs; there he turned toward the rear passage. He stopped suddenly and pressed against the wall by the stairway.
THE door of Coyd's study was opening; a glimmer of light came from that room, which The Shadow had left dark. Then Mose appeared; wobbling as he walked, the old servant was carrying out the wastebasket. Mose passed The Shadow; the menial's dim eyes never noticed that blackened shape against the wall.
The Shadow watched Mose add the wastebaskets to others that were standing near the doorway to the living room. Then Mose started upstairs. Listening to his creaky footsteps, The Shadow knew that the servant was going up to get other wastebaskets to empty with those that were on the ground floor.
With a swift move, The Shadow gained the passage to the outside door. He left the house, carefully latching the door behind him. Passing through the deepening darkness, he reached the rear street, followed it for a block and came upon the entrance of a deserted store. Moving into the doorway, The Shadow removed his cloak, hat and gloves. He bestowed them in a briefcase that he opened into enlarged form.
Donning a soft gray hat, he strolled from the store front. His gait was that of Henry Arnaud. One block on, The Shadow reached an avenue. Standing in the drizzle, he formed a plain figure as he hailed a passing cab.
Entering the vehicle, he ordered the driver to take him to the Hotel Halcyon.
A soft laugh came from the lips of Henry Arnaud as the cab wheeled through the rain. That repressed mirth was both reminiscent and prophetic. It also carried keen understanding. A crisis had come, despite The Shadow. But the aftermath had been of The Shadow's own making.
CHAPTER IX. THE ANTIDOTE.
TEN o'clock the next morning found Senator Ross Releston at his desk. Spread before the senator were copies of many metropolitan dailies; the headlines on their front pages made a mass of screaming print. The munitions story had broken with a bang. Releston's countenance was troubled.
Across from the senator was Foster Crozan; his face, too, showed glumness. Like Releston, Crozan knew how terrific the consequences of Coyd's interview could be; but he was not discussing the matter with the senator. Both were waiting for a visitor.
Lanson entered. Releston looked up eagerly and put a question to the secretary.
“Mr. Rydel is here?”
“No, sir. Vincent has not yet returned with him. It is Mr. Cranston who is here, sir.”
“Mr. Cranston? I thought he had gone to Brazil?”
“Apparently not, sir. He said—”
“Show him in, Lanson. Show him in. Cranston can speak for himself.”
Half a minute later, Releston was on his feet welcoming his millionaire friend. The Shadow, again in the guise of Lamont Cranston, had entered in his usual languid fashion. Releston's greeting ended, The Shadow shook hands with Crozan.
“My Amazon expedition is off,” remarked The Shadow, quietly. “It fell through while I was in Havana. So I am heading north instead. I decided to stop off and see you, senator.”
“I am glad you did, Cranston,” acknowledged Releston. “Of course, you have seen the newspapers. Our worst expectations have been realized.”
Before The Shadow could make comment, two men appeared at the door of the room. One was Harry Vincent; the other Dunwood Rydel. Harry stepped aside to let the magnate enter. Rydel advanced to meet the challenging glare of Releston, who waved him to a chair. The senator made no further introduction. Instead, he opened hostilities immediately.
“Rydel, I demand an explanation,” stormed Releston. “I am confident that the story in to−day's newspapers is your work. I want to know why you forced it into print!”
“My work?” queried Rydel, savagely. His eyes were beady as he turned his glare from Releston to Crozan.
“Where did you get that impression, senator? From Crozan?”
“Yes.” Crozan spoke boldly for himself. “It is obvious that you were behind it, Rydel. I know your methods.
Dollar−grabbing is your specialty.”
Rydel was about to fume a reply when Releston silenced him. The stern−faced senator continued his accusation.
“IT was believed,” stated Releston, “that restrictive measures might be placed upon the sales and price of all munitions, including those to be shipped to foreign countries. To enforce that last measure, however, we needed to await the next session of Congress.”
“It was our plan to form a special committee at that time; to have it cooperate immediately with the present committee, which is not—unfortunately—permitted to interfere with exports that are free from embargo.
“We had hoped to keep that fact to ourselves. We knew that hidden interests were buying up the stock of idle munitions plants; but that they were afraid to operate while the committee report was pending, because they thought their profits might be seized.
“Coyd's statement has ended their doubt. Already the shares of those munitions companies are shooting skyward. Speculators, tipped to what was coming, are primed to make millions. During the next few months, factories will work at full capacity, pouring American−made munitions into foreign lands.
“A golden harvest, through steel and powder that will later bring blood and strife. That is the terrible part of it, Rydel. Lust for wealth has inspired those behind the game; and I accuse you as the leading instigator!”
Another might have wilted under Releston's salvo; but not Rydel. The portly magnate showed challenge in his heavy−jowled face. He came to his feet and glowered across the desk.
“Rubbish!” he snarled. “Plain guff; poor talk from a man of your intelligence; senator. I have no interests in munitions, sir. The stocks that I hold in such companies are few; and most of them are in large concerns that have already promised full cooperation with the government!”
“What about proxies?” demanded Crozan.
“Proxies?” queried Rydel, with a laugh. “Find any if you can. Prove that I have been buying munitions stocks, in my name or in any other.”
“We know you could have covered it, Rydel.”
THE magnate delivered a contemptuous growl. An ugly smile showed on his pudgy face as he resumed his chair. Thumbs tucked in vest sleeves, Rydel leaned back as if to welcome further query.
“Perhaps,” decided Releston, “the profit to your basic interests will sufficiently reward your scheming, Rydel.
We realized that you would be in a position to defy us. I merely wanted you to know the greatness of the misery that your selfishness may produce.
“Europe is in foment. Increased armaments and munitions purchases may cause destruction there. We, who think of the welfare of the world as well as that of America, felt sure that we could do our part to prevent foreign strife. Our hopes have been shattered.”
“Not by me,” announced Rydel. “Look here, senator—now that you're talking quietly, why don't you listen to common sense? Somebody's in back of the munitions game; but I'm not. I'm not an ugly octopus, trying to swallow everything.
“I wouldn't be fool enough to mix into the munitions racket, even if I were mean enough to want to. You've singled me out, senator, simply because you've been prejudiced against me.”
Rydel pau
sed; then glared viciously at Crozan. He continued:
“How could I have been in back of it?” demanded the magnate. “Coyd did the talking, didn't he? He has it in for me just like you have. How could I have reached him? Answer that!”
“I can tell you.” Foster Crozan spoke steadily, as he arose from his chair and towered above the seated magnate. “Congressman Coyd has a daughter, who is a great influence in his life. She has visited her father at recent intervals, coming to Washington from Virginia. You, too, have a daughter, Rydel. She is Evelyn Coyd's closest friend. Do you deny that at present your daughter Beatrice is staying in Virginia with Evelyn Coyd?”
Instead of replying, Rydel bounded to his feet. He clenched his fists. Crozan dropped back, expecting a threatening gesture; but Rydel merely pounded his fists against the side of his own head and began to stalk the room, laughing like a madman. Near the door, he stopped and faced the others.
“My daughter!” he giggled. “My daughter! Mixing into politics—my daughter, with no thought in her empty head except a crazy infatuation for a conceited, penniless actor. Jove! Have the two of you gone as insane as Coyd? One would think it, to hear you advance such an absurd theory as—”
He stopped, tilted back his head and delivered another laugh.
“Perhaps,” asserted Releston, dryly, “you can suggest a better method of our learning who influenced Congressman Coyd to his ill−timed statement.”'
“I can,” assured Rydel, sobering. “Go to Coyd and ask him about it. But don't annoy me with any more of this kindergarten stuff. I am leaving for New York; I shall return in a few days, senator. Perhaps then you will have realized the absurdity of your theory.”
RYDEL turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving Releston and Crozan speechless. The Shadow, quiet through the tempest, was performing the Cranston gesture of inserting a cigarette in a holder.
“Perhaps you were wrong, Crozan,” remarked Releston. “The link does seem flimsy. Rydel's daughter could not be intelligent; if she were she would never have become infatuated over that ridiculous actor, Montgomery Hadwil.”
“That does not follow, senator,” disagreed Crozan. “Love and intelligence are different mental processes.
Beatrice Rydel may be quite bright. Moreover, I can see a reason why she would lend aid to her father's cause.”
“To gain his consent to her marriage to Hadwil?”
“Exactly. Senator, I think Rydel bluffed us. He is on his way to New York, he says, and he is probably going there to meet others of his kind. They will gloat over their victory.”
“Shall I have secret service operatives cover him?”
“What good would it do? He has committed no crime. You cannot arrest him. He has no conscience. More than that, Rydel has left us helpless.”
“Not quite,” observed The Shadow, in the calm tone of Cranston. “On the contrary, he has given a very excellent suggestion; one that may lead to real results. One, in fact, that may provide the antidote for this poison that has been released.”
“What was that?” queried Releston, eagerly, while Crozan stared, puzzled.
“Rydel told you to see Coyd,” returned The Shadow. “It was true advice, whether he intended it as such or not.”
“You are right,” agreed Releston. “Come, let us start for Coyd's.” Then, to Harry, at the door: “Have the car ready at once, Vincent.”
FIVE minutes later, Harry was piloting the sedan toward Coyd's. Senator Releston was riding in the back, between The Shadow and Foster Crozan. As the car spun along an avenue, the senator remembered something which The Shadow had said.
“By the way, Cranston,” he remarked. “You said something about an antidote. Is there a cure for this crisis, Cranston?”
“Perhaps,” replied The Shadow. “We shall see.”
That cryptic statement ended The Shadow's discussion. The sedan had reached Coyd's. Three passengers alighted; they ascended the brownstone steps. Releston first; then Crozan; after that, The Shadow.
Firm, disguised lips held the semblance of a smile that the others did not see. The Shadow, his keen brain at work, had found an answer to a problem.
CHAPTER X. COYD AGREES.
THEY found Congressman Coyd in his upstairs living room. His table resembled Releston's desk, inasmuch as it was piled high with newspapers. With Coyd were Jurrick and Tabbert; also a man of professional appearance, whom The Shadow knew must be Doctor Borneau.
Coyd was glum, almost apologetic as he greeted the visitors. He stared seriously at Releston when the senator sat opposite him. Yet in Coyd's eyes was the semblance of a glare; the natural mistrustfulness that went with the man's self−styled independence.
“Let us come to facts, Mr. Coyd,” asserted Releston. “We do not require privacy. All present know the reason for my visit. I have come to ask you about the interview that you gave yesterday. Just what was its purpose?”
“I cannot answer you, senator,” groaned Coyd, wearily. “Please do not plague me with useless questions. My mind is burdened. I am leaving for a rest.”
“To Virginia?” inquired Crozan.
“Yes,” replied Coyd. “Doctor Borneau has advised it. I wish, gentlemen, that I had gone there sooner.”
“Then,” stated Releston, “I take it take you have regretted yesterday's interview.”
Coyd's eyes blazed. The congressman towered as he rose from his chair and raised his fist dramatically. His face took on a fullness; it showed its true likeness to the bronze bust on the mantelpiece.
“I regret nothing!” cried Coyd, reverting to his oratorical complex. “I stand upon my own record! I take no orders from others! Not from you, Senator Releston, nor from any man at all—”
“Even though you have done great harm,” interposed Releston, with a sad shake of his head. “Have you considered that, Mr. Coyd?”
The congressman subsided. The sorrow that was evident on Releston's face was something that Coyd had not expected. Despite his love of independence, Coyd was sympathetic. He subsided into his chair.
“Frankly, senator,” he declared. “I may have made a mistake. You must realize, though, that my urge is one of progress. I represent the people; it is their right to know of certain facts.”
“And your constituents include those rogues who are already reaping their evil harvest?”
“You mean that rogues were awaiting my statement regarding munitions control?”
“Exactly. They have probably bought up shares of stock for trivial sums. The market in such securities has started to rise. To−morrow—or in a few days—it will be soaring. Scamps knew the truth; they were prepared.”
COYD slumped and bowed his head in his hands. His voice came in a mutter; when he looked up his whole countenance showed haggard.
“Whatever I can do, senator—whatever I can do—”
“Your mistake cannot be rectified. You can, however, tell me one fact that may aid us in finding the culprits.
What caused you to issue your statement to the press?”
Coyd shook his head seriously.
“I do not know, senator,” he declared. “Oddly, I cannot answer the question.”
“Did any one approach you?”
“Certainly not! You know that I would never listen to outside suggestions!”..
“Something must have persuaded you. Can't you remember?”
In response to Releston's question, Coyd shifted uneasily. He glanced appealingly toward Doctor Borneau.
The physician nodded and stepped forward.
“You have named the ailment, senator,” declared Borneau, quietly. “Mr. Coyd cannot remember.”
“Cannot remember?”
“His mind has been overtaxed. He is subject to a mild form of aphasia. Not a serious condition; but one which causes a hiatus in his memory.”
“You say it is not serious!” exclaimed Releston. “Not serious, when it leads to such results as this?”
Emphatically, Releston picked up
one of the morning newspapers and pointed to the headlines. Doctor Borneau smiled.
“I speak as a physician,” he reminded. “Not as a politician. I say that Mr. Coyd's condition is not serious, senator, because his brain is lucid. Read his statement; you will agree with me that it shows the efforts of a healthy mind.”
Releston looked puzzled. It was Coyd who tried to help the senator out of his dilemma.
“Yesterday,” Coyd explained, “I took a rest. I awoke from my nap shortly after four. I came downstairs; I met the reporters and gave the interview. I had words with Vincent, which I am forced to regret. Then I went back to nap and did not awaken until seven.”
Coyd paused; half pitifully. He looked toward Doctor Borneau, who delivered a prompting nod. Coyd pushed his fingers through his shock of black hair; then turned appealingly to Releston.
“Frankly, senator,” he admitted, “I cannot remember waking between those two naps.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Coyd,” Releston stated dryly, “your mental condition is so precarious that your best policy would be to resign the chairmanship of your committees.”
“Never!” retorted Coyd. “Hear what Doctor Borneau has said! My faculties are not below normal! I am alert, despite my nervousness. I can assure you of this; my statement yesterday was a clear one. I must have had reason to give it!
“Since I no longer recall the episode, I naturally have forgotten my reason also. That is a logical consequence.
I can assure you, however, that I must have acted on my own. I take orders from no one!”
“What do you think of it, Crozan?” inquired Releston. “Should I insist upon this matter?”
“It will do you no good, senator,” stormed Coyd, suddenly. “No one can force me to abandon my normal rights. I shall retain my position of authority!”
“Suppose Mr. Coyd should resign,” suggested Crozan, speaking straight to Releston. “Who would head the committees? Is there any one competent to replace him?”
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