Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 123 - Washington Crime

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WASHINGTON CRIME
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 1, 1937.
Like a vigilant eagle soaring in the sun, The Shadow casts his pall of
darkness over the nation's capital - to swoop down on birds of prey and with
talonlike hands snatch from them the papers of state they so eagerly seek!
CHAPTER I
THE COURT-MARTIAL
A SOLEMN group of army officers sat at a long table in a somber-walled
room. Beyond them, broad windows showed the dome of the Washington capitol
against a dull gray sky. Dusk was approaching; with it, proceedings were
drawing to a close. These officers were engaged in the most serious of all
military matters, a court-martial.
The Judge Advocate, a portly man of captain's rank, arose to summarize
the
case. He paused; looked toward the door, where a uniformed soldier was
standing
at attention, armed with a rifle. That door was opening.
Catching the Judge Advocate's gesture, the soldier swung about, bringing
his rifle to port arms. With crosswise gun, he stopped the entry of a tall
personage from the hallway.
The arrival spoke a password. The soldier about-faced; brought his rifle
to order arms. Facing the officers at the table, he used his left hand to give
the rifle salute. The Judge Advocate advanced to meet the tall arrival, who
handed him a folded message. The officer opened it.
The note was from the White House. It ordered that the bearer, Mr. Lamont
Cranston, be admitted to the court-martial proceedings. The order bore the
signature of the President of the United States.
The Judge Advocate bowed the visitor to a chair; tendered him a copy of
the early court proceedings. Others observed Cranston and studied the face of
this mysterious stranger who had come direct from the White House. They saw an
impassive, masklike countenance, its expression strangely hawkish. The
features
of Lamont Cranston impressed them. All present knew that Lamont Cranston must
be
some one of importance. None, however, guessed his actual identity.
This stranger was The Shadow. Master investigator who could solve the
greatest riddles of crime, he had been summoned to Washington to aid the
government with the most vital problem that had ever concerned the defense of
the nation. The whole case hinged on the proceedings of this court-martial,
hence The Shadow had chosen to be present.
The Judge Advocate began a terse summary. Calm-faced in his guise of
Cranston, The Shadow listened to the basic facts.
"YOU, Colonel Richard Follingsby" - the Judge Advocate looked toward a
rawboned, thin-faced man, whose hands were tightly clasped - "stand accused of
extreme negligence. You were entrusted with the keeping of the National
Emergency Code, commonly known as the NEC. It was stolen from your apartment
during your absence."
Colonel Follingsby was drearily nodding his admission. The Judge Advocate
turned to a bulky man in uniform, whose shoulders showed the two stars of a
major general. The Shadow recognized the bulky officer as General Louis
Darson,
acting chief of staff.
"We would like your testimony, General Darson," requested the Judge
Advocate. "Kindly state just when and why you gave the NEC to Colonel
Follingsby."
General Darson arose; cleared his throat with a gruff, important cough.
"The war department has faced great problems," he announced. "Every army
post and naval base has reported attempts at espionage. Honolulu, the Canal
Zone, Puerto Rico - from every quarter the reports have been the same. Arrests
have been frequent. Evidence against the accused men has been difficult to
obtain.
"One month ago, however, we were forced to the serious conclusion that
every code commonly used in the military service was worthless. The navy had
already discarded many of its codes as obsolete. The army was prepared to do
the same. It was imperative that a master code be ready for immediate use in
case of war.
"We had such a code. It was a comprehensive one, containing more than two
hundred pages of typewritten symbols and key-words. That was the National
Emergency Code, known to the service as the NEC. The only copy was in my
possession."
General Darson paused dramatically. His eyes went to the huddled figure
of
Colonel Follingsby, who seemed shrunken in his civilian attire. There was pity
in Darson's gaze. Plainly, he felt sympathy for Follingsby.
"Years ago," declared Darson, "I was a colonel in the Canal Zone.
Follingsby was a lieutenant in my regiment. I came to Washington to take a
staff position. Follingsby remained in the Zone; he rose to the rank of
colonel.
"I knew that Follingsby was a capable student of codes. The master copy
of
the National Emergency Code required revision before it could be secretly
printed. So I retired Colonel Follingsby from active service and had him come
to Washington. He has been living here as a civilian.
"Three days ago, I had secret service men bring Follingsby to the war
department. There, alone in my office, I informed him of the master copy of
the
NEC, with instructions to revise it. I told him to await at his home; that the
NEC would be delivered to him within an hour. Only Colonel Follingsby and
myself could possibly have known that the code was in his possession. Four
hours afterward, the colonel called me to state that the NEC had been stolen."
Finishing bluntly, General Darson sat down. The Judge Advocate called
upon
Colonel Follingsby to testify. Rising shakily, the colonel spoke in a dull
tone.
"I WAS taken to the war department in a taxicab," said Follingsby. "It
was
driven by a secret service man. We went through an obscure doorway into a
courtyard. I was conducted up a private stairway and found myself in the
anteroom outside of General Darson's office.
"He told me about the National Emergency Code and said that I would
receive it within an hour. The cab took me to my apartment. One hour later -
at
seven o'clock in the evening - a secret service man delivered the code at my
apartment. He came there disguised as a postman and left the packet in my mail
box.
"I worked on the code until nine o'clock. At that hour, I received a
telephone call saying that my wife had been in an automobile accident and had
been taken to a hospital at Alexandria, Virginia. I placed the code in a desk
drawer and hurried to Alexandria by taxi. When I arrived there, I learned that
the telephone call was false. When I returned to my apartment" - Follingsby
wavered, choking as he spoke - "the National Emergency Code was gone. The
drawer was locked, as I had left it; but when I opened the drawer, it was
empty."
The Judge Advocate reminded:
"You had visitors, Colonel Follingsby."
"Yes," replied the colonel. "Senator Ross Releston and Major Frederick
Bryland called at half past six. I talked privately with Senator Releston, in
my study, for about ten minutes. I should specify that the visitors arrived
half an hour after I had returned from the war department. They were gone
twenty minutes before I received the National Emergency Code."
"You did not mention the NEC to Senator Releston?"
"Positively not. As for Major Bryland, I did not talk with him at all. He
brought Senator Releston to see me; but Bryland remained alone in the living
room, while I talked with the senator."
The Judge Advocate turned to a square-jawed man with deep-set eyes. The
man was attired in civilian clothes.
"Frederick Bryland," droned the judge, "formerly a major in the United
States army. Your testimony, please, Mr. Bryland."
The term "Mr. Bryland" was significant. Bryland was a man of some wealth
who had chosen an army career. An inventive genius, Bryland had produced some
valuable military devices; but his career had ended when he criticized the
government's plans for coast defenses. Bryland had resigned "for the good of
the service"; but it was generally known that he had been almost forced to
give
up his commission. He had offended persons high in the war department.
To Follingsby and other line officers, Bryland's criticisms had been fair
ones. Living in retirement at an old mansion near Fairfax, Virginia, Bryland
continued his military work.
Bryland's testimony was simple and emphatic. He had invented a new radio
device for army planes. Because of past circumstances, he had taken the device
to the navy department; and had been allowed to test the device on planes
belonging to the marine corps.
Feeling that the war department might still be prejudiced against him,
Bryland had gone to Senator Releston for advice. The senator had suggested
that
they visit various army officers, to ask if they would approve the tests. On
the
list was Colonel Follingsby. Bryland and Releston had merely stopped at his
apartment on their way to the Army and Navy Club.
Senator Releston was the next witness. A man of rugged features, but mild
expression, Releston was the symbol of dignity. His gray hair added to his
appearance; and Releston spoke in a tone that showed sincerity. No man in all
Washington possessed greater integrity than Senator Ross Releston.
The senator supported Bryland's testimony; he added that there had been
no
possible way of knowing that Colonel Follingsby was due to receive the
National
Emergency Code.
"Bryland and I were amazed, the next day," stated Releston, "when General
Darson called us and asked us to visit his office. Bryland was enthusiastic,
when he called me by telephone. He thought that the request pertained to his
new invention. We went to the war department separately. There, General Darson
gave us our first knowledge of the fact that Colonel Follingsby had received
and lost the National Emergency Code."
THERE was a lull in the proceedings. Follingsby was finally called upon
for further testimony. The trial officers, concerned chiefly with the question
of Follingsby's negligence, wanted to know more about the colonel's actions at
the time of the fake telephone call.
"I was confused," admitted Follingsby. "I knew that my wife was on a
motor
trip with the wives of some other officers. I actually started from my
apartment, forgetting all about the National Emergency Code. Then I went back,
put the code in the desk drawer and locked it there."
"You are sure of that?" came the stern question. "Did you actually
remember to put away the code?"
"Yes," responded Follingsby. "I forgot other things in my haste. For
instance, my gold-headed cane, given to me by my regiment in the Canal Zone. I
must have left it in the taxicab, while riding to Alexandria -"
The Judge Advocate interrupted. The matter of the cane was irrelevant in
his opinion. General Darson asked the privilege of a statement. It was
allowed.
"Colonel Follingsby left his cane in my anteroom," explained the chief of
staff. "It was similar to the one that my regiment gave me; but the initials
on
the gold heads were different. I never carry my cane while in uniform hence I
did not discover Follingsby's cane until to-day. I shall have it returned to
him."
Further questions were put to Colonel Follingsby; by the time they were
answered, dusk had settled in the trial room. Glowing lights of Washington
appeared beyond the windows; evening life was coming to the nation's capital.
The presiding officer rapped an order for adjournment. The strokes of the
gavel made Colonel Follingsby shudder as if he had heard his death knell. He
could foresee that when the court-martial assembled again, its first business
would be the giving of a verdict.
That verdict would be guilty. Dismissal from the service would be
Follingsby's disgrace. Yet that, alone, was not the full cause of the
colonel's
misery. Over Follingsby hung the terrible knowledge that he had been
responsible
for an irreparable loss.
All that General Darson had stated was fact. Victimized by the vicious
influence of conniving spies from foreign countries, the military defense of
the United States was confronted by the most pressing situation in its
history.
Army and navy alike had relied upon the National Emergency Code to meet a
crisis.
Should the NEC fall into the hands of the wrong foreign power, that
nation
might easily choose to declare war upon the United States. American forces
would
be paralyzed; for the National Emergency Code contained every intricate system
that had been secretly devised for military use. National calamity - if it
came
- would be blamed solely upon Colonel Follingsby.
There were serious faces on the men who left that somber room. All knew
that the fate of Colonel Follingsby was trivial; that the national welfare was
the cause at stake. Subtly, the trial officers had sought to ferret out some
chance clues that would lead to the recovery of the National Emergency Code.
They were faced by the realization that they had utterly failed.
One listener, however had gained a vital fact. The Shadow's thin,
masklike
lips showed the slightest semblance of a smile. As witness to the
court-martial
proceedings, The Shadow had gained a fact that interested him.
Had he been called upon to name the man who had stolen the National
Emergency Code, The Shadow could have done so. That, however, did not fit with
The Shadow's policy.
Knowing the identity of the man who possessed the missing NEC, The Shadow
was planning to regain the document intact. It was more important to secure
those papers than to expose the criminal.
CHAPTER II
A THIEF'S THRUST
OUTSIDE the court-martial room, The Shadow shook hands with Senator Ross
Releston. That was to be expected, because the senator had long known The
Shadow as Lamont Cranston. In fact, The Shadow was quite sure that the senator
was responsible for the president summoning him to Washington.
Though Senator Releston did not know that The Shadow traveled as
Cranston,
he had learned from experience that any facts given to Cranston eventually
reached The Shadow. Since the recovery of the NEC was so vital to the whole
country, it had been an urgent matter to get word to The Shadow.
The senator introduced his friend Cranston to ex-Major Frederick Bryland.
The three entered the senator's limousine. The Shadow remarked that he was
stopping at the Hotel Halcyon, but could spend a short while at Releston's
hotel, the Barlingham. Bryland asked to be let off at a parking lot where he
had left his coupe.
"It's after six o'clock," remarked the former major. "I can reach Fairfax
easily before seven. That will be in time for dinner. Of course, senator, I
can
stay in Washington, if you want to see me. I have a small apartment here,
where
I stay when the weather is bad."
"I doubt that there will be any new developments," returned Releston.
"Call me from your home later, Bryland."
Bryland dropped off at the parking lot. The limousine continued to the
Barlingham. Soon, The Shadow and Releston were alone in the senator's
extensive
apartment. They chatted until a secretary appeared, bringing typed copies of
the
court-martial testimony, with the added proceedings of the afternoon. The
Shadow
put copies of the new pages with the ones that he had already received.
"Those must go to The Shadow," asserted Releston, as soon as they were
again alone. "That is important, Cranston. I hope that he will learn something
from the testimony, although it seems to offer no clue to the whereabouts of
the NEC. If he does gain facts, there is something else that he should know.
Agent F-3 is in Washington."
The Shadow pretended to be puzzled. He knew whom Releston meant by Agent
F-3; but as Cranston, it was better to appear ignorant.
"Agent F-3 is a member of the secret service," explained Releston. "He is
something of a mystery man, who spends his time abroad. To-day, I received
word
that Agent F-3 is in Washington. If The Shadow gains facts, he should
cooperate
with F-3."
The senator wrote an address on a slip of paper and gave it to The
Shadow.
The address was that of a house on H Street.
"That address," said Releston, "is where The Shadow can find Agent F-3."
LEAVING Releston's, The Shadow went to the Hotel Halcyon. He had dinner
in
the dining room; after that, he stopped at the check room and obtained a small
bag that he had left there. He went up to the fourth floor and entered the
two-room suite that he had taken in the name of Lamont Cranston. Passing
through the small living room, he left his bag in the bedroom.
Returning to the living room, The Shadow noted other bags; also the case
of a portable typewriter. He had brought these with him when he had
registered.
During his absence they had been disturbed. The person who had gone through
the
luggage could have learned nothing. All evidence that proved The Shadow's
actual identity was in the single bag that he had brought from the check room.
The Shadow looked across the living room. On the opposite side was the
door to another bedroom, that could be added to the suite if three rooms were
required. It was plain that the intruder could have come from that room.
Like The Shadow's bedroom, the other one probably had a doorway of its
own
to the hall. Picking locks would not have troubled the thief who had opened
Follingsby's desk drawer.
The Shadow's portable typewriter was on a table. Tucked under the roller,
The Shadow found a note typed on hotel stationery. It had been typed on The
Shadow's own machine. The note stated:
Be wise. Leave Washington. Call Senator Releston. Inform him that neither
you - nor any one connected with you - will continue to search for the NEC.
Failure to heed this warning will mean death!
There was a telephone close by the entrance to The Shadow's bedroom. It
had an extension cord of considerable length. The Shadow picked up the
telephone, turned his back and jiggled the hook. He gave the number of Senator
Releston's telephone.
Playing the part of Cranston, The Shadow paid no attention to the door on
the far side of the living room. He paced nervously through the doorway of his
own bedroom, carrying the telephone with him. He swung back toward the living
room; stopped near the doorway and spoke quickly:
"Hello. Senator Releston's apartment?... This is Mr. Cranston... Yes,
Lamont Cranston... Certainly, I wish to speak with the senator. Immediately!
It
is urgent..."
While talking, The Shadow swung farther into the darkened bedroom. His
voice told that he was not far beyond the connecting doorway; so did the taut
extension cord to which the telephone was attached.
Ears heard The Shadow's voice; eyes saw the drawn cord. There was a
result
from the far corner of the living room.
The distant door connecting with the next suite opened. An angled figure
came into view. Body crouched forward, but with shoulders erect, the intruder
used a peculiar mode of stealth as he crept across the living room.
The lights of the living room revealed the approacher's face. The man
from
the next room was Frederick Bryland!
THE ex-major did not advance far. His position was a strategic one; near
the middle of the room, he could go farther or retire as he chose. Bryland was
waiting to hear the rest of The Shadow's conversation. His next move would
depend upon what the supposed Cranston told Senator Releston.
There was a half-minute pause while Bryland waited; then the voice of
Cranston, beyond the bedroom doorway. Bryland drew a big service revolver from
his hip pocket, gestured the weapon forward.
"Hello, senator," he heard The Shadow say. "Yes, this is Cranston...
Calling from my hotel... No, I do not intend to leave for New York. I have
received a threat. A note, here in my room. One moment I shall read it to
you..."
Bryland was crouched no longer. With a long, swift bound, he reached the
doorway to the bedroom. Stopping short, he twisted toward the darkened spot
where he was sure The Shadow stood. Even while he swung, Bryland opened fire
with his big six-shooter.
Those shots were murderous. They showed the efficiency of Bryland's army
training. While on the move, Bryland had estimated the exact limit of the
field
where The Shadow would be. He covered that narrowed space, seeking a hidden
target, just as he had once picked out rebel snipers in the jungles of
Nicaragua.
With each jab of his gun, Bryland moved his hand from left to right, so
that each bullet found a path a half foot away from the one before. Of those
six shots, one was certain to hit any human target that might be in the area.
The spurts of the revolver blinded Bryland momentarily. As he finished
firing into the darkness, he listened, expecting the topple of a body to
follow
the barrage. Instead, the room was silent. Bryland's square-jawed face showed
a
puzzled expression. His deep set eyes blinked as they tried to penetrate the
gloom.
Something was wrong, and Bryland knew it. Ignoring the fact that his
shots
must have been heard, the former officer found the bedroom light switch and
pressed it.
As the glare filled the room, Bryland saw the telephone. It was five feet
away, resting on a table. The receiver was on its hook. Lying on the floor was
an opened suitcase; beyond it, Bryland saw the door that led from bedroom to
hall.
The would-be murderer realized how he had been tricked. The Shadow had
faked that call to Releston. In the bedroom he had placed the telephone on the
table, to keep the extension cord taut and high. Still talking, The Shadow had
gone to his suitcase, opened it and donned garments of black. Resuming his
faked conversation, he had glided to the outer door, opening that barrier
while
he finished.
Bryland had been unable to see The Shadow moving in the darkened bedroom.
As for the sound of the voice - those words spoken in Cranston's style - the
illusion had been perfect. Though he had changed his position, The Shadow had
always kept the same distance away. His voice had come through the connecting
doorway from wherever he stood; hence Bryland had noticed no change in its
tone.
AS Bryland stood flat-footed beside the telephone, he heard a sound
behind
him. It was the door from the hallway to the living room. The Shadow was
opening
it, returning to intercept Bryland's path of escape.
Madly, Bryland sprang for the bedroom light switch, jabbed it just as The
Shadow, in from the hall, turned off the lights in the living room.
Bryland, like The Shadow, had gained darkness; but The Shadow held the
advantage. He was armed; Bryland had only an empty revolver. That thought
drove
Bryland berserk. With a savage snarl, the thwarted murderer pounded through to
the living room, swinging his empty gun in hope that he could sledge The
Shadow.
Figures clashed in the darkness. The barrel of a swinging automatic met
the revolver handle and nearly clanged it from Bryland's hand. The crook
grappled; suddenly broke free and made for the connecting door by which he had
entered.
Bryland encountered a chair on the way. He stopped to grab it with one
hand, to hurl it back toward The Shadow.
Against the window, Bryland and the chair formed an outline. The Shadow
opened fire; but his shots were high. He aimed for the chair, not for Bryland.
Bullets, sizzling from the mouth of a big automatic, splintered the chair back
just above Bryland's hand.
That was enough for Bryland. Expecting shots in his own direction, the
crook made a dive for the door of the adjoining suite, profiting by the short
respite that The Shadow had given him. The Shadow fired again as Bryland went
through the doorway; he gave the fleeing man no chance to close the door after
him.
Cutting through the next room, Bryland reached the hallway just before
The
Shadow began to fire from the connecting door.
There was a fire tower at the end of the corridor. Again, luck seemed to
be with Bryland. He was on the tower when he heard The Shadow reach the
corridor. A single shot told that The Shadow was continuing his pursuit.
Bryland headed down the tower.
The Shadow stopped at the top. He could hear the pound of Bryland's
footsteps, as the thwarted murderer continued pell-mell. From an alleyway
below
came the roar of a starting motor. Bryland was driving to a car to make a
get-away.
There were shouts from the fourth floor corridor. Hotel employees had
reached The Shadow's suite. There were other calls from below. People in the
street had heard the gunfire; also the start of Bryland's car. Roars of other
motors told that a belated pursuit had begun.
DELIBERATELY, The Shadow descended the fire tower, which was temporarily
forgotten. He reached the alleyway, moved through darkness for the front
street. He saw a cab there, its driver craning to watch the cars that had
started a chase around the block to try to pick up Bryland's trail. There were
other persons on the sidewalk; but all were looking in the same direction,
away
from where The Shadow stood.
Calmly, The Shadow crossed the sidewalk. For a few seconds he was visible
as a cloaked figure, his head topped by a slouch hat. Then his black shape
blended with the darkness beside the taxicab. Opening the door, The Shadow
stepped into the cab, thumped the door shut and spoke quietly to the driver.
Thinking that he had a passenger from the hotel, the driver nodded and
settled back behind the wheel. The Shadow gave an address; the cab started its
journey.
Again, The Shadow delivered a soft laugh. He was not disappointed by the
escape of Frederick Bryland. In fact, The Shadow had deliberately aided it;
and
had delayed his early pursuit in order to bluff Bryland. He wanted Bryland to
be
free for the present; free, with the belief that his identity had not been
learned.
The Shadow had managed that to perfection. Bryland had been in darkness
most of the time. At no time had The Shadow glimpsed the ex-major's face; and
Bryland knew it.
The Shadow's well-faked pursuit had made Bryland think that the cloaked
fighter wanted to identify him. Therefore, Bryland would be positive that he
had remained unknown. Yet The Shadow, without even glimpsing the intended
murderer in the light, had known all along that the man was Bryland. There was
only one person in Washington from whom The Shadow had expected either a
threat
or a surprise visit; and that man was Frederick Bryland.
From Follingsby's court-martial, The Shadow had brought evidence that
Bryland was the thief who had taken the National Emergency Code. How he had
gained that fact was something that The Shadow had kept to himself; but at
present, he was on his way to reveal it to another person.
When he reached the house on H Street, The Shadow would be prepared to
supply Agent F-3 with full details concerning the former army major, Frederick
Bryland.
CHAPTER III
THE HOUSE ON H STREET
WHEN he reached the house on H Street, The Shadow alighted from the cab
as
Cranston. He was wearing his slouch hat, its brim twisted upward along one
side
to give it an ordinary appearance. Across one arm, he carried his cloak like a
discarded overcoat. That seemed quite usual; for this was one of those
surprisingly mild nights that frequently sandwich themselves into Washington's
early winter.
The house was an old one; a type of residence seen throughout Washington.
Other buildings like it had been converted into apartments; but this one had
apparently been kept for occasional use by its owner. It looked as though it
had just been reopened.
The Shadow rang the doorbell. A servant in livery admitted him to a
vestibule, and eyed the visitor suspiciously. The Shadow quietly informed the
servant that he had come from Senator Releston.
That was sufficient. The servant conducted The Shadow through a gloomy
hallway, into a high parlor that was furnished with old-fashioned chairs and
couches.
The Shadow placed his hat and cloak on a corner couch; took his seat near
a fireplace where logs were crackling merrily. The fire was necessary to take
the chill from this old house. Beneath the light of a crystal chandelier, The
Shadow studied the surroundings and approved the methods of Agent F-3.
Few persons had ever heard of Agent F-3; but The Shadow knew much about
him. His real name was James Murtrie; for years, he had served the United
States government abroad. His job was to offset the efforts of foreign spies;
to ferret out their nests and make them known to the government that
unwittingly harbored them.
It was probable that Murtrie, otherwise F-3, had heard much of The
Shadow.
Since both were working on the same case, this meeting would be a most
opportune
one. Moreover, there was one man to whom The Shadow could safely make his
identity known. That man was Agent F-3.
While The Shadow was puffing a cigarette, in Cranston's leisurely style,
curtains opened at a rear doorway of the room. Into the light stepped a man of
medium height, whose face was one of the most striking that The Shadow had
ever
seen.
His features were almost triangular, when viewed full face. His forehead
was wide; his cheeks tapered to a pointed chin. Dark eyes peered keenly from
his narrowed lids; the lips beneath his thin nose formed a short, straight
line. His flesh was smooth of texture, but pale almost to whiteness - a proof
that the man spent most of his life indoors.
"I am Agent F-3," declared the pale man, in a precise, short-clipped
tone.
Then, with a noticeable sparkle of his eyes: "You are The Shadow."
THE SHADOW'S thin lips formed a smile. He knew that the pale man had
noticed his folded cloak and slouch hat; something that the servant had failed
to do.
"My name is James Murtrie," added F-3. "May I ask yours?"
"For the present," replied The Shadow, calmly, "I am Lamont Cranston. A
friend of Senator Ross Releston."
"I was informed that Senator Releston might contact a special
investigator," stated F-3. "That is why I suggested this meeting. It would
have
been unwise for me to appear at the court-martial. I am supposed to be in
Paris;
not in Washington. There is a certain man who knows that. His name is Hugo
Creelon."
The keen burn of The Shadow's eyes told F-3 that his visitor had
recognized the name. The pale man leaned forward; spoke solemnly.
"Hugo Creelon is the most dangerous of all international spies," he
declared. "Creelon always protects himself; never makes an open move. His game
is to purchase information stolen by others."
"I have heard of Hugo Creelon," returned The Shadow. "Unfortunately, I
have never met him."
"It might be unfortunate for Creelon, if you did meet him," spoke F-3,
grimly. "You can deal with crooks as we cannot. But Creelon is hard to find;
he
is so well hidden that I, alone, of all United States government agents, have
even learned of his existence.
"Creelon's position is so strong, his contacts so high and so important,
that I would find it difficult to make my fellow operatives believe that such
a
man existed! Only my long experience abroad has enabled me to recognize the
menace of Hugo Creelon!"
The Shadow nodded. His own exploits had carried him to Europe, where he
had discovered traces of the evasive Hugo Creelon. The notorious spy was a man
who had no country; yet who always adopted one when he saw chances of shrewd
espionage.
"I came to Washington," added Agent F-3 in a low, emphatic tone, "because
I am sure that Hugo Creelon is here. He knows that the National Emergency Code
is stolen. If Creelon can negotiate with the actual thief, he will buy the
code
intact. Wherever Creelon is, one thing is certain. We cannot reach him. He has
powerful friends. He would deny his identity and no one could prove it.
"Our only course, therefore, is to uncover the NEC before Creelon learns
who stole it. We must find the thief before Creelon does. Once the two make
contact" - the pale man spread his hands in a gesture of despair - "our cause
will be lost!"
THE SHADOW was considering all that Agent F-3 had said. It fitted
completely with The Shadow's own opinions. He knew that the NEC had been
stolen
by an opportunist, who knew its value but had found no chance to dispose of
it.
Foreign spies in Washington did not advertise in the classified section of the
telephone directory.
The thief's hope was that some master of espionage, provided with
unlimited funds, would somehow learn who held the National Emergency Code.
摘要：

WASHINGTONCRIMEbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"April1,1937.Likeavigilanteaglesoaringinthesun,TheShadowcastshispallofdarknessoverthenation'scapital-toswoopdownonbirdsofpreyandwithtalonlikehandssnatchfromthemthepapersofstatetheysoeagerlyseek!CHAPTERITHECOURT-MARTIALASOLEMNgrou...

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