The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  “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.

  Foster Crozan is here—has been, off and on, for weeks. He's staying at that hotel where Senator Releston lives.”

  “You don't like Crozan, do you?”

  “Why should I? In order to boom his campaign for next fall, he's stirred things up in that State where he lives.

  He wants to be a senator; that's why he pushed himself into the investigation of the lumber contracts.”

  “That shows no personal animosity on his part. You merely chanced to be a contract holder.”

  “I don't trust Crozan. He's out to win more than that Senate election. He blackened me once; he will try it again. He's jealous of my wealth.”

  “Preposterous, Rydel. Crozan is a millionaire in his own right. True, he has ambitions; but they are honorable ones. Take my advice as a friend, Rydel; do not let your animosity carry you too far against a man of integrity such as Crozan. Your own malice will boomerang and injure you instead of him.”

  THE two men arose and left the grill−room, en route to some business conference. The Shadow followed.

  Through this brief observation he had gained a definite idea of Dunwood Rydel. He had heard enough to know of the man's prejudices; but he had recognized also that he had seen but the surface of Dunwood Rydel.

  Later, when the occasion might demand it, The Shadow could learn more.

  Another point gained by The Shadow: he knew that Rydel's servants had not informed him of the affray out at the house. Evidently they had decided that their report of a mysterious prowler could wait until their master returned.

  In the easy fashion of Henry Arnaud, The Shadow left the Lotus Club. He entered a taxi and told the driver to take him by the shortest route to the Hotel Halcyon. As the cab rolled along, The Shadow glanced at his watch. His whispered laugh betokened satisfaction.

  It was nearly eight o'clock, an important hour in The Shadow's plans for to−night. For The Shadow—as Arnaud—had learned to−day that Tyson Weed was due back in Washington, scheduled to arrive at eight this evening.

  A soft laugh came from The Shadow's disguised lips. While waiting for Weed's return, he had looked in on one camp; that of Dunwood Rydel. At present, he was on his way to investigate the other headquarters.

  Within the next few hours, The Shadow intended to learn some inside facts concerning Tyson Weed's business in Washington.

  CHAPTER VI. THE DOUBLE DEAL.

  WHEN The Shadow alighted at the Hotel Halcyon, he still affected the easy guise of Henry Arnaud. It was a part less leisurely than the languid role of Lamont Cranston; nevertheless, his actions as Arnaud gave no appearance of great haste.

  Perhaps that was why The Shadow, glancing casually across the street, managed to spy a hunch−shouldered figure sidling from view beyond the railed front of an old, darkened house. The man whom The Shadow noted had not expected observation from so casual an arrival as this one who had stepped from the cab.

  A thin smile showed on The Shadow's lips, as he entered the hotel. The man whom he had spied was one whom only the keenest eyes could detect. That huddled figure was “Hawkeye,” one of The Shadow's own agents, a trailer whom The Shadow used on numerous occasions.

  Inside the hotel lobby, The Shadow observed a husky, well−built man seated in a corner chair. This chap looked heavier, more rough−and−ready than Harry Vincent; at the same time, his features were clean−cut, and he was quite at home in the gilt surroundings of the Hotel Halcyon. This was Cliff Marsland, another of The Shadow's agents.

  Across the lobby, lounging by a cigar counter, was a thick−faced man with heavy, dark mustache. Swarthy of countenance, wise of manner, this individual was wearing a Derby hat tilted down over his sharp, almost glaring eyes.

  Though not conspicuous, the mustached man came immediately within The Shadow's keen range of observation. While pausing at the news stand to make a purchase, The Shadow, mild in his guise of Arnaud, found opportunity to study the fellow at close range, without the man knowing it.

  Walking toward the elevator, The Shadow noted Cliff Marsland watching the man in the Derby. It was not surprising that Cliff should be making such observation on his own initiative. The fellow with the mustache had the air of a private detective. Cliff, knowing the ways of such worthies, had not been lax in noting it.

  REACHING 808, The Shadow entered a darkened room. He spoke in a whisper; a quiet voice answered from the corner. A man was stationed there in the darkness, earphones clamped to his head.

  His stooped shoulders were barely visible in the light from the window. This was Burbank, The Shadow's contact man; he had been summoned on from New York to take up his post here during The Shadow's temporary absence.

  A buzz sounded from beside the table where Burbank was seated. The contact man removed the earphones and picked up the telephone while The Shadow waited. Burbank held a brief, even−toned conversation; then hung up and reported to The Shadow in the darkness.

  “Weed has arrived,” stated Burbank. “Marsland recognized him from Burke's description. Weed has gone up in the elevator. Marsland also reports a man loafing by the cigar stand who looks like a dick. The fellow took an interest in Weed's arrival.”

  His report given, Burbank again donned the earphones. The Shadow turned on a light above another table. He opened an envelope that was lying there; from it he produced a coded report. This was from Harry Vincent; it told the details of Harry's recent trip to Coyd's.

  Harry's report, however, made no mention of the mustached man in the coupé; for Harry had not spied that watcher outside of Coyd's. Such mention would have been illuminating had it been included in Harry's report.

  For the man with the Derby hat whom The Shadow and Cliff had noticed in the lobby was the very fellow who had been acting as spy outside of Coyd's.

  The telephone buzzed; again Burbank answered it. This time he held the earphones above his shoulder as he hung up the telephone receiver with his other hand. Methodically, he reported:

  “Marsland again. Man by the cigar stand went up alone in an elevator. Indicator showed tenth−floor stop.

  Looks like a visitor for Weed.”

  The Shadow donned the earphones. Half a minute followed. Then he heard a sound of muffled knocking.

  Dragging footsteps; a door opened, then closed. After that came voices.

  Cliff was right; Weed was receiving a visitor. Those earphones which The Shadow wore were picking up all sounds from Suite 1012, thanks to a tiny microphone that The Shadow had planted on his visit a few nights ago.

  A WHINY voice reached The Shadow. It was Weed, greeting the visitor. The tone fitted the description that Clyde Burke had given of the long−faced, sneaky−looking lobbyist. Weed's whine, though peevish, also carried a tinge of authority.

  “Well, Walbert?” came the lobbyist's query. “What about it? Where's your report?”

  “Right here,” was a gruff response, that fitted the man with the Derby. “Take a squint at it. There's lots for you to lamp. I was parked across the street from Coyd's most of the afternoon.”

  Weed spent time in perusal; finally, he spoke, as peevishly as before.

  “This doesn't help me, Walbert,” declared the lobbyist. “None of these details give me anything. Doctor Borneau has been to Coyd's before.”

  “But not this other fellow,” observed Walbert. “I
checked the number of his license. He was driving Senator Releston's bus.”

  “Get his name. It might be useful. But if he's from Releston, he'd be hard to deal with. That's obvious, Walbert. No, you haven't brought me much.”

  “What about Coyd's daughter being there? That's something, ain't it?”

  “Listen, Walbert.” Weed's tone was querulous. “I didn't hire you just to watch Coyd's house. This is no ordinary gumshoe job. Any cheap dick could do what you've done. I want something that will give me an opening.

  “You know what I'm up against. I've got to reach either Senator Releston or Congressman Coyd. Both of them have given me the grand bounce. All I can hope for is to get something on one of them. Releston's a tougher proposition than Coyd; that's why I'm concentrating on the congressman.”

  “Maybe there's nothing you can get on Coyd. He's supposed to be mighty honest.”

  “Perhaps he is; but the odds are he isn't.”

  “What about that sculptor guy that I saw going in there once?”

  “He doesn't know anything. Just a goof that's making a bust of the old guy. What you've got to spot, Walbert, is some bird from Coyd's own State. Some yahoo that's come to Washington looking for a favor. That kind always likes to tell things that they remembered when some senator or congressman was just a small−time legislator in his home State.”

  “All right, Mr. Weed; I'll keep my eyes peeled. Nobody spotted me outside of Coyd's to−day. I'll go back there to−morrow. Maybe I can pick up some dope on Coyd, from guys around town.”

  “Get what you can, Walbert. Let me know if you spot anything. That's all for to−night.”

  Conversation ended. The Shadow spoke to Burbank; not in the tone of Henry Arnaud, but in a low−voiced, commanding whisper.

  “Call the desk,” was The Shadow's order. “Ask the clerk to look for a message.”

  Burbank did as ordered; he received word that there was no message in box 808. As soon as Burbank hung up, the telephone rang. It was Cliff. He had seen the clerk look in the pigeonhole marked 808. He knew that Burbank wanted him; the signal had been prearranged.

  “Hawkeye to trail Walbert, the man who visited Weed.” ordered The Shadow, quietly.

  Burbank repeated the order to Cliff. Through the earphones, The Shadow could hear the sounds of Walbert's departure. There was ample time for Cliff to stroll out and tip off Hawkeye, giving the little agent the name that The Shadow had learned. Hawkeye was going on the trail of a man whose identity was now known.

  TWENTY minutes passed. The Shadow had given the earphones back to Burbank; suddenly, the contact man took them off and raised them toward his chief. Listening, The Shadow heard new voices. One was Weed's again; the other was abrupt and harsh.

  “Let's read it, Quidler,” came Weed's comment. “I hope you've got something this trip.”

  “I have,” was the reply, in the clipped tone. “You said you wanted a real operative—not a dumb dick. Well, I'm the bozo you was after.”

  “Say—this is something, Quidler! Coyd's daughter has gone on a trip to Virginia and Beatrice Rydel is along with her. How did you grab off that dope?”

  “I'll tell you how. I stuck around the back of Coyd's house. There I met Mose, an old half−blind servant of Coyd's. I pumped him a good deal. He told me that Coyd has been rather sick lately, that Evelyn Coyd and Beatrice Rydel were going to Virginia on a vacation. Then there was this fellow Vincent who came from Releston—”

  “All right, Quidler,” Weed cut in. “That's enough. Sit down and help yourself to a drink while I review the details.”

  The Shadow spoke to Burbank. The contact man picked up the telephone and put in another call to the desk.

  He wanted to be sure about the expected message. The clerk finally reported that he had made another look. It was not there.

  TWO minutes later, Cliff called the room. Prompted by The Shadow, Burbank asked about any suspicious−looking persons who had recently entered the lobby. Cliff stated that a tall, slouchy−looking fellow had gone up in an elevator. Cliff described him as a long−nosed, peak−faced individual who had looked like a salesman.

  “Watch for him,” stated Burbank, methodically. “If he comes down shortly, you'll know that he is the man now visiting Weed. His name is Quidler. He's another dick like Talbert. Trail him.”

  Sounds of departure came through the earphones. The Shadow removed the instruments; he picked up a briefcase which he found in the darkness. Leaving Burbank, he strolled out into the hall. Still as Arnaud, he walked in the direction of the elevators.

  When The Shadow reached the lobby, Cliff Marsland was gone. The Shadow knew the answer. Quidler had descended in a previous car; Cliff had spotted him and was on the fellow's trail. With a slight smile on his fixed lips, The Shadow walked out to the street. He reached a darkened spot; there a transformation took place. Henry Arnaud became The Shadow.

  A whispered laugh sounded amid darkness; prophetic as well as understanding. The Shadow had learned the game that Tyson Weed was playing. It was a double deal, involving two private detectives. Weed had signed up two dicks, independently; both had been assigned to get something on Congressman Layton Coyd.

  The Shadow had matched the lobbyist's double deal. On Walbert's trail he had dispatched Hawkeye; he had sent Cliff after Quidler. Burbank was still covering Weed, thanks to the dictograph hook−up between 1012 and 808.

  That accomplished, The Shadow was free to roam alone; to pass unseen through the secluded byways of Washington, seeking objectives of his own. Phases of the game were opening; The Shadow was seeking further indications of the moves that lay ahead.

  CHAPTER VII. COYD'S SECRET.

  FOUR days had passed. They were uneventful ones, stalemated at every point. Senator Ross Releston and Foster Crozan had expressed no opinions to Harry Vincent.

  Tyson Weed had received no reports from his detectives. Hawkeye and Cliff had trailed the dicks, but to no avail. All had proven empty. Dunwood Rydel, however, was at home; a newspaper mentioned that he was confined to bed by a slight illness. All seemed quiet on the surface.

  Meanwhile, Congressman Coyd was ill at ease; but he managed to keep his burden to himself. He was about to dismiss Tabbert when Jurrick entered to announce that his daughter had arrived unexpectedly from Virginia.

  This gave Coyd his opportunity to dismiss both secretaries. A few minutes later he was alone with his daughter and his physician. Evelyn began to talk; her father listened with an indulgent smile.

  “You are coming to Virginia,” affirmed Evelyn, emphatically. “This very afternoon, daddy. No excuses this time.”

  “Is Beatrice Rydel still there?” inquired Coyd. “That might be the only excuse that I needed.”

  “She is still at the lodge, daddy, but that makes no difference.”

  “Very well, my dear, I shall come down to see you to−morrow.”

  “To−day, daddy.”

  “No. To−morrow.”

  Evelyn persisted no longer. She knew when her father's mind was made up. Evelyn closed the door when she left the living room. As she walked through the upstairs hall, she saw some one stepping into a doorway. The girl stopped with a sharp exclamation. Sheepishly, Hugh Tabbert stepped into view.

  “Sorry to have startled you, Miss Evelyn,” apologized the red−haired secretary. “I—I was just passing along here when—”

  “A poor excuse,” interposed the girl. “You were listening to our conversation, Tabbert. I would report you, if it were not for my father's nervous condition.”

  “Honestly, Miss Evelyn, my duty is to—”

  “Your duty does not include listening outside of doorways. See that it does not happen again, Tabbert.”

  On the stairs, Evelyn met Jurrick. The sleek−haired secretary had heard words uttered above; he gazed inquiringly as Evelyn approached. The girl spoke to him quietly.

  “Tabbert is behaving oddly,” she explained. “It would be best for you to watch him, Don. I rebuked him;
but I did not want to report the matters to father.”

  “Certainly not, Miss Evelyn,” responded Jurrick, solemnly. “You may rest assured that I shall maintain your confidence.”

  “Thank you, Don,” smiled the girl; then, with a twinkle in her eyes: “Very few people call me Miss Evelyn.

  Most every one addresses me either as Miss Coyd or just as—”

  “Evelyn?” inquired Jurrick.

  The girl nodded.

  “Remember it,” she remarked, as she turned to walk toward the front door.

  Jurrick smiled. He watched the girl's departure, feeling pleased because Evelyn chose to meet him on less formal terms. Upstairs, however, Tabbert was staring downward; his fists clenched, his teeth gritted.

  Tabbert had known Evelyn for years; for he came from her father's home town. An adoring swain, secretly in love with the congressman's daughter, he resented the favor that she had shown to the smooth−mannered Jurrick.

  WHILE this bit of drama was in progress, Congressman Coyd had chosen to discuss more serious matters with Doctor Borneau. Seated in the living room, Coyd was explaining his present trouble.

  “I feel better, doctor,” he stated. “Much better; and yet, in a sense, I am worse. Physically, I am comfortable; but my brain is in a whirl. It has been, for the past two days.”

  Reaching to the table. Coyd produced some newspaper clippings and handed them to the physician. They were interviews, given the day before. Borneau read them solemnly.

  “These show lucidity, Mr. Coyd,” decided Borneau. “Your statements are proof of your good reasoning.

  Simple facts regarding the amount of time it will take to complete investigations.”

  “The statements were all right, doctor, when I read them.”

  “When you read them?”

  “Just this, doctor. I don't remember having given those orders. I rested from dinner on till supper. But when I read those clippings this morning I was amazed. I questioned my secretaries, tactfully, of course. They told me that at four−thirty I had gone down to interview the reporters. I can't understand it. I can't even remember going downstairs.”