The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  Doctor Borneau shook his head and smiled seriously. He waved a warning finger. “The overwork again, Mr.

  Coyd.”

  “Is my condition serious, doctor?”

  “No. It's merely a state of temporary aphasia. To explain it would involve a lot of medical terms, but it is not dangerous.”

  “But will it become worse, doctor?”

  “Not if you are careful. Do not worry. Above all do not discuss it with persons.”

  “But if I should have another interview, if I say things without realizing it—”

  “Ah! You are worrying already!” Doctor Borneau smiled triumphantly. “You see what I mean? What I have told you, you must do. Do not worry. That is my advice, Mr. Coyd. To−morrow you will start on your vacation. It will do you good.”

  There was a rap at the door; Coyd called to enter. Jurrick entered, bringing a square box that formed a heavy weight. Coyd smiled.

  “Open it, Jurrick,” he ordered. “It must be the bronze bust for the State capital.”

  “One moment,” remarked Doctor Borneau. “The medicine must first be taken. Go, young man, and prepare it.”

  Jurrick went to the medicine chest and began to remove the bottles. He paused; then turned doubtfully, just as Tabbert arrived from the hall.

  “Which ones do I use, sir?” inquired Jurrick. “Just what is the mixture? How much of each?”

  “Tabbert will prepare the medicine,” responded Coyd. “You open the box in the meantime, Jurrick.”

  TABBERT took over Jurrick's task. He had completed the mixing of the medicine just as Jurrick finished opening the box. The bronze bust came into view while Coyd was gulping down the contents of his glass.

  “It flatters me,” grumbled Coyd. “It is too healthy−looking. It has my scar”—he rubbed his chin—“but the face is fuller than mine.”

  “It was taken from your own casts, sir,” reminded Jurrick. “You have not changed so greatly in these few weeks.”

  “You look unusually well, sir,” added Tabbert, comparing Coyd's face with that of the bust. “You do change, though, Mr. Coyd. Sometimes you look quite differently—even on the same day, sir—”

  “That is enough,” interrupted Doctor Borneau. “Do not worry my patient. Indisposition makes the face become hard; sometimes, it will give a relax, very strongly, afterward.”

  “Put the bust on the mantelpiece,” ordered Coyd, rising and stretching his arms. “Keep it up here, where reporters never come.” he yawned; then laughed: “I don't want those pests bringing troublesome photographers here with them.”

  Coyd started toward the bedroom. Tabbert put a question as the congressman reached the door.

  “You intend to take a nap, sir? What if the reporters should come this afternoon?”

  “Come up,” replied Coyd, “and if I am awake, tell me that they are here. If I am asleep, do not disturb me.”

  With that, Coyd entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Doctor Borneau accompanied the secretaries downstairs; then left the house. As the physician stepped into a taxicab, a man across the street eyed him from a parked coupé.

  It was Walbert; the watching dick made a note of the time, then leaned back behind the wheel to wait.

  Nothing to be gained, he thought, by watching Coyd's house when no visitors were there. In fact, Walbert was convinced that nothing was due to happen within that house to−day.

  In that guess, the dick was wrong. Already, important events had brewed. Deep−laid plans of schemers had gained proven strength. The crisis that Senator Releston feared had arrived. A thrust that involved millions of ill−gained dollars was ready for delivery, with all its staggering consequences.

  CHAPTER VIII. THE INTERVIEW.

  GATHERING clouds had brought an overcast sky during the period of Doctor Borneau's visit at the home of Congressman Layton Coyd. As hours lapsed, heavy gloom enveloped the old mansion, as if the very elements were themselves presaging ill.

  Swirling wind, pattering rain; these obscured the outside scene. To Walbert, watching Coyd's house from his rain−swept coupé, the house lights were splotches amid the dull mass of darkness formed by the brownstone house front.

  Noting that the lower story was alone aglow, the mustached dick began to speculate on the possibility of further visitors.

  If others came, Walbert realized that it would be difficult to recognize them, without parking closer to the house. He preferred to remain where he was, at an angle, across from Coyd's residence. Muttering angrily, Walbert shifted in his seat. As he did, he fancied that he heard a scraping sound from the back of the car.

  Shifting, jolting up and down, the dick tried to gain a repetition of the sound. There was none; instead, the driving of the rain became more apparent. The windshield and the windows were clouding; Walbert was feeling warm. So he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish the mist from the glass, at the same time tossing his Derby hat to the seat beside him.

  INSIDE Coyd's mansion, the atmosphere was morose. The lower hall was poorly lighted; the stairs were obscure; while the passage that led beyond the stairway was almost totally dark. A loud−ticking grandfather's clock was pointing to twenty−five minutes after four when Tabbert, a book beneath his arm, emerged sleepily from the front library on the ground floor. The red−haired secretary strolled toward the stairs.

  “Tabbert! Where are you going?”

  The hail came from the passage beyond the stairway. Tabbert paused as Jurrick came into view. Pausing, Tabbert scowled; then decided to reply.

  “Upstairs,” he reported, curtly. “To see if Mr. Coyd is awake. It's nearly time for the reporters.”

  “I know that,” smiled Jurrick. “So does Mr. Coyd. That is why he came downstairs while you were day−dreaming in the library. He is in his study; he wants to see you there.”

  Sourly, Tabbert followed Jurrick through the dim passage. Jurrick knocked at the study door; a response coming, he and Tabbert entered. They found Coyd seated behind a large desk; he was wearing an old smoking jacket and was puffing at a rank−odored stogie, his favorite type of cigar.

  Coyd, quite alert, noted Tabbert's expression and rapped severely upon the desk.

  “Come, come!” he exclaimed. “This is no time for petty jealousies. This afternoon is important; I have an interview to grant when the reporters arrive. Jurrick, type these notes”—Coyd picked up a sheet of pencil−scrawled paper—“and you, Tabbert, be ready to receive the reporters. Leave the door open so I can call you.”

  Jurrick took the penciled notes to a typewriter in the corner. Tabbert went out into the hall and loafed there, listening to the click of the machine. Soon the doorbell rang. Mose appeared to open it; he admitted a bevy of rain−coated reporters. Tabbert conducted the news hawks into the study.

  As the reporters began to take their chairs, others arrived. Soon there were ten in all, among them, two who had been present yesterday for the first time. These were Clyde Burke and Garvey.

  Another ring at the doorbell; Tabbert followed Mose to answer it. Harry Vincent stepped into the hall, shaking the rain from his hat and poncho. He hung the garments on a hat rack, along with the dripping coats of the reporters; then followed Tabbert into the study. Meanwhile, Jurrick had finished typing the notes. The handwritten ones he tore up and put them into the basket.

  “Gentlemen”—Coyd looked over the top of his spectacles to note the last arrival, then reverted to his notes—“I have a statement that is both definite and important. It concerns munitions and their regulation.”

  An audible buzz came from the reporters. It stifled as Coyd shot an annoyed glance toward the group.

  “Munitions have been regulated,” announced Coyd, “and the rulings will stand. The committee of investigation came unanimously to that decision. Present embargoes that concern warring countries will be maintained; the same will apply to new conflicts and to nations wherein revolution threatens.”

  HARRY VINCENT shifted une
asily. So far, the congressman's statement was merely one of generalities; but Harry feared that more drastic expressions were coming. Harry's dread was justified.

  “In making appropriations for munitions and armament,” continued Coyd, pounding his fist upon the desk,

  “we have decided to take the profit out of war. No American manufacturer”—Coyd was on his feet, his voice rising to the forced oratory that Clyde Burke had heard him use before—“no countryman of ours shall ever again gain fortune through sales of war supplies to our government.

  “Congress will set the price; Congress will also force a refund should any profits result. The supplying of materials for war will be made a patriotic duty; not a business enterprise. That, gentlemen, is final.”

  Coyd paused. But the congressman's statement was not finished. A bombshell was coming.

  “A patriotic duty,” repeated Coyd, his voice lowered, his clenched fist half loosened and wagging slowly.

  “Patriotism, gentlemen, concerns one's duty to his own country; not to others. Should American manufacturers choose to supply war materials to foreign governments that are under no embargo, they will be free to do so.

  “Such sales will not be subject to congressional price regulation. We do not consider them—for the present—to be within our sphere of attention. Later, a new committee will be formed to deal directly with that subject. The appointment of that committee, however, will not be discussed until the next session of Congress.”

  Voice modulated, the speaker seemed spent in effort. Watching Coyd, Clyde Burke saw him slump into his chair, exactly as he had sagged after his speech in the Hall of Representatives. There was something dramatic in the action; it was difficult to guess whether the weariness was genuine or feigned.

  Then Coyd removed his spectacles and faced his audience, with head tilted to the right.

  “That is all, gentlemen,” he announced, quietly. “You may go and print this interview.”

  Reporters came to their feet. Some were buzzing; the wiser ones were nudging them for silence. They moved from the study in a pack, Tabbert following, to usher them out.

  BACK in the study, Harry Vincent was staring at Coyd's slumped figure.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Coyd,” stated Harry, “that you did not tell me of your intention to give this interview. You had opportunity to do so when I called up at noon. Because of your calmness, I assured Senator Releston that you would make no special statements to the gentlemen of the press—”

  “I changed my mind,” snapped Coyd, angrily. “Confound Releston—and you, too, Vincent!” With these words, Coyd's fist smashed against the desk. “Who am I that I should toady to Releston? The Senate committees are his business; those of the House are mine!”

  “But their interests are identical—”

  “They are not! They run parallel; but each is independent. I have never told Releston what he should or should not say.”

  “You might at least have called him. But since you did not, I shall.”

  Harry was on his feet, reaching for the telephone that stood on Coyd's desk. An arm shot forward; quick fingers clamped Harry's wrist; The Shadow's agent found himself staring into glaring eyes that were fierce beneath Coyd's heavy brows.

  “You will make no call from here,” Coyd's lips hissed furiously. “If you wish to talk to Senator Releston, go and see him. Remember your place, Vincent!”

  Jurrick stepped over and gripped Harry's arm in friendly fashion. At that moment, Tabbert arrived at the door; his eyes narrowed, glowering, as he saw Coyd rise to his feet and shake a heavy fist in Harry's face.

  “'Get out!” stormed Coyd. “Out, I tell you! Go back to Releston! Tell him what you wish!”

  “I'll tell him plenty,” assured Harry, grimly, as he let Jurrick draw him toward the door.

  “You'll tell him lies!” Coyd's voice was a wild scream, his gestures frantic. “Lies! I shall need a witness to them. Go with this fellow, Tabbert. Hear what he says to Releston. Bring back what the senator tells you!”

  Tabbert nodded; roughly, he gripped Harry's other arm and dragged The Shadow's agent from the room while Jurrick was aiding with mild pressure on the other side.

  “Keep steady, old man,” suggested Jurrick, as they marched through the hall. “You couldn't help breaking loose the way you did. I understand.”

  “What's that, Jurrick?” demanded Tabbert, savagely, his face enraged. “You are turning against Mr. Coyd?

  Against our employer? Against the one whom we should admire and respect?”

  “Lay off, Tabbert,” pleaded Jurrick. “I'm just seeing Harry Vincent's viewpoint—”

  “You lack loyalty. You—you traitor! A scummy traitor, Jurrick, that's what you are! When Miss Evelyn hears that you—”

  “Do not bring Miss Coyd's name into this, Tabbert. Remember, you are going along with Vincent. It would be best for you to realize that he has a duty to Senator Releston, as important to him as yours to Mr. Coyd.”

  TABBERT subsided. They had reached the front door; the enraged secretary followed Harry to don hat and poncho. Sullenly, Tabbert picked up garments of his own. A voice spoke from the hallway; Tabbert and Harry turned with Jurrick to see Congressman Coyd standing wearily at the stairway.

  “I am going to my bedroom,” announced the congressman, wearily. “I am going to rest. My effort is spent; I did not expect so much confusion.

  “Jurrick, see Tabbert and Vincent off. Then station yourself in the library. If there are any callers, have Mose bring them to you. I want you to talk to them, Jurrick. I shall rest until dinner time.”

  Jurrick nodded. Harry and Tabbert preceded him through the front steps. Jurrick pulled the door shut, but kept his hand on the knob while he watched Harry and Tabbert walk to the sedan. They appeared to be arguing; but their animosity had lessened.

  Jurrick saw the sedan roll away; then he turned to enter the house. Hence he did not observe the coupé that started from the other side of the street, after Harry's car had passed it. Walbert had seen some one come out with Harry; the dick was tailing the sedan.

  Jurrick, halfway in the house as Walbert started, regained the hall and closed the big front door. Congressman Coyd was no longer by the stairway. Jurrick went into the front library; there he found Mose, carefully rearranging books upon their shelves.

  “Mr. Coyd went upstairs, Mose?” inquired Jurrick, seating himself in a comfortable chair.

  “I guess so, Mr. Jurrick,” responded the servant. “I hain't seen him, though, since them reporter men were here. This is where I've been all along. Here in the library, fixing all these here books.”

  “All right, Mose,” laughed Jurrick. “I'll help you by reading one of the books while I'm here. You won't have to put it away then.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Jurrick.”

  THE big hall clock was chiming five. The only light within Coyd's residence was that of the widely spaced electric incandescents; for the outside gloom had greatly increased.

  Of all spots where premature darkness had thickened most effectively, those passages between Coyd's house and the neighboring buildings seemed most favored. They were almost completely blackened.

  A movement occurred near the rear of one passage. A dark−garbed, rain−swept figure merged with the darkness that was beneath the shelter of an overhanging roof. Keen eyes peered from the gloom. The Shadow had arrived at the home of Layton Coyd.

  The Shadow had reached the old house less than ten minutes after Harry Vincent's departure. The reason for his quick arrival was a telephone call that he had received from Clyde Burke, while Harry was still engaged in stormy session within Coyd's study.

  Immediately after the brief interview, Clyde had found some pretext to call The Shadow from a drug store near Coyd's. Clyde had accomplished this in an offhand fashion that had passed with Garvey.

  Keeping close to the house, The Shadow followed the passage to the front, till he arrived at the door.

  The Shadow tried the door and
found it locked. He produced a probing tool; his tiny flashlight glimmered from beneath the folds of his cloak. The door yielded when The Shadow jabbed a thin, flat piece of steel between frame and door.

  ENTERING the house, The Shadow found himself in a gloomy entry. He went up a few steps and came into the rear halls. On his left was the door of Coyd's study. The Shadow opened it and entered. He closed the door and turned on the light. He found a folded sheet of paper on the desk. Opening it, he read the notes that Jurrick had typewritten.

  Remembering a point of Clyde's report, The Shadow looked in the wastebasket and found the original penciled paper. The Shadow fitted eight fragments together. He found that Jurrick had copied the notations exactly. The papers fluttered one by one into the wastebasket, until seven had dropped. The Shadow still held the eighth. He folded it and placed it beneath his cloak.

  Moving from the study, The Shadow reached the front hall. Stealthily, he peered into the library; there he saw Jurrick reading by a lamp. Mose had finished arranging books; the servant was slowly gathering up old newspapers and dumping them into wastebaskets.

  Softly, The Shadow glided away from the door. He gained the stairs and ascended; his footfalls silent, no swish from his rain−soaked cloak. The door of the upstairs living room was open. The Shadow entered that apartment. Large windows at the front gave the living room a bit of outside light. Objects were discernible.

  The Shadow saw the bronze bust on the mantel. He approached to study it. He could tell that it was a perfect replica of a face mask, for no effort had been made to smooth the roughness of the profile. Even the scar upon the chin was prominent in this metallic likeness of Congressman Layton Coyd.

  With a soft, whispered laugh, The Shadow moved away. He reached the closed door of the bedroom and opened it softly. He entered and approached a large four−poster bed. There he saw Coyd, stretched out in slumber.

  The congressman was garbed in a dressing gown. His face was toward the window; the haggard features showed a pallor in the fading light. Coyd looked like a man whose health was irregular. The lines of his face seemed deeper than those of the bust. His closed eyes looked more sunken.