The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  “No!” exclaimed Coyd, bursting into the discussion. “Matters would be worse, Releston. Three or four men would be required to fill my place. There would be conflict; moreover, Congress has ended its session. Who would appoint those committee heads?”

  CROZAN appeared troubled; he was impressed by Coyd's statement. So, for that matter, was Releston.

  Worried, the senator looked to The Shadow, who was leaning by the mantel, puffing a cigarette that extended from its long holder.

  “What do you think, Cranston?” questioned the senator. “You have shown good analysis of this situation. Is there not some answer to our problem?”

  “Mr. Coyd can supply the answer.” replied The Shadow, casually. He looked straight toward the congressman as he spoke. “Moreover, I think he may be willing to do so.”

  “How?” queried Coyd. He was impressed by the magnetism of those focused eyes. “I am willing, sir, to listen to any reasonable request from Senator Releston. But when he tries to label me as a madman—”

  “Senator Releston admits that he is wrong,” interposed The Shadow, quietly. “He accepts the statement made by both you and your physician. Your mental faculties are active. It is wise that you should continue in your high service to the government.”

  Coyd was on his feet, his chest swelling as he listened to these flattering statements. The Shadow smiled solemnly.

  “At the same time,” he added, “Senator Releston cannot ignore your own admission of poor memory. An admission, Mr. Coyd, that has also been backed by your physician. So, in full fairness to Senator Releston, you should take precautionary measures to offset any future lapse of memory.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “By agreeing to let Senator Releston read any public statement before you make it; and to discuss its wisdom with him. That, Mr. Coyd, would be a courtesy.”

  Releston spoke up promptly.

  “A courtesy which I shall gladly return,” he assured. “I shall inform you of any public utterance which I intend to make, Mr. Coyd.”

  Coyd nodded slowly. His expression showed that he had been conciliated.

  “I agree,” he declared, emphatically. “But suppose I should forget? My memory is really bad—”

  “You can instruct your secretaries,” interposed The Shadow. “Have them remind you that Senator Releston is to be informed beforehand of your statements.”

  “Vincent can help with that,” added Releston, quickly. “If he could be here more regularly—more often—”

  “Very well,” interrupted Coyd, abruptly. Then, to his secretaries: “You hear that, Jurrick? Tabbert? Jove!

  Why didn't the two of you jolt me yesterday?”

  “I was afraid to, sir,” confessed Jurrick. “When I was copying your penciled notes. I wondered about them—”

  “And I was puzzled when I heard you read them, sir.” broke in Tabbert. “But I knew that Jurrick must have copied them exactly. I saw you hand them to him, sir; I knew how quick you always are to catch any error in a copy.”

  “I understand,” nodded Coyd. “I know that I must have written that statement and delivered it verbatim. But I cannot explain my folly. Jove, Releston! Is there no way to stop it?”

  RELESTON shook his head; Crozan copied the senator's example. The Shadow, however, spoke in slow, deliberate fashion. His even−toned words were definite.

  “My understanding of the present situation,” he remarked, “is that the congressional committees are authorized to regulate the sales and purchase of all munitions that our government may require. Am I correct, senator?”

  “Absolutely,” returned Releston. “But we cannot control exports, Cranston. We can only lay down the law in reference to government purchases.”

  “I understand. I have heard also that Congress made a large appropriation for American armament, to be supplied as occasion may demand, bringing this country up to its treaty limitations. Am I correct again?”

  “You are, Cranston. One function of the present committees is to determine when that appropriation shall be made; and how the moneys shall be spent.”

  “Very well.” The Shadow's smile was fixed. “Suppose that you, senator, and Mr. Coyd, issue a joint statement. Tell the public that the committees may recommend that the entire appropriation be spent at once; that all munitions available should he purchased immediately, with the price fixed barely above cost. And then—”

  The Shadow paused, his smile unchanging. Senator Releston had grasped the idea. The solon's stern face was lighted with enthusiasm.

  “Marvelous, Cranston!” cried Releston. “You have the answer! These factories will be working overtime, rushing their foreign orders, knowing that our present committees cannot stop them.

  “But we control supplies needed for the American government. We can make the factories store away their output; we can deny them the privilege of export on the grounds that we control all munitions that the American government may want. We can make them wait for our refusal before they ship their munitions.

  Until we say that we will not buy, they cannot unload elsewhere!”

  “And when you decide that you will not buy,” remarked The Shadow, “Congress will again have been in session. The new committees will have been formed, empowered to control—to ban—all exports of munitions.”

  “Munitions on hand, with no sale,” ejaculated Releston, his face beaming. “The only possible purchaser would be our own government. It would buy at cost—”

  “But it never will,” assured The Shadow. “Once your statement has been made, senator, with Mr. Coyd's approval, the whole game will be spiked. Those rising stocks will slump back; the factories will never open.”

  RELESTON nodded. He turned to Harry Vincent and pointed to a typewriter in the corner of the room.

  “Take this statement, Vincent,” said the senator, briskly, “direct on the machine. A joint statement by the congressional committees on munitions, of the Senate and the House—”

  The Shadow had stepped forward; Releston saw a slight restraining gesture of his hand. The senator understood; he turned to Layton Coyd.

  “It is your privilege, sir,” bowed Releston. “You have heard the plan, Mr. Coyd. I shall concede to you the honor of delivering the words for this epoch−making statement.”

  It was the perfect stroke. Coyd, when the cause had seemed hopeless, had expressed his willingness to follow Releston's lead. He could not withdraw from it; in fact, a statement from Releston alone would be sufficient to spike the scheme by which swindlers hoped to use munitions makers as a step to wealth.

  Even though he might have shown reluctance, Coyd was committed, now that The Shadow had shown the way. But if Coyd were forced to play second fiddle at this time, future relations might be strained between him and Releston. Knowing that, The Shadow had gestured to the senator; Releston, wise in all circumstances, was stepping aside for Coyd.

  In grandiloquent fashion, Coyd stepped forward. Bombastically, he delivered his statement, one hand tucked beneath his coat in Napoleonic fashion.

  The statement finished, Coyd relaxed. He seemed to shrink as he always did, when an effort had been ended.

  As Coyd groped his way back to his chair, Harry pulled out sheets of paper and their carbons. He brought the triplicate copies to Releston, who pointed toward Coyd. Harry brought the papers to the congressman. Coyd signed each one with a flourish.

  At the bottom of each sheet, Releston wrote the words: “Approved in full”; then added his own signature.

  Coyd saw the action and smiled. He knew that the glory was all his. Speaking quietly, his tone filled with friendliness, he said:

  “I leave the rest to you, senator. I am too tired to interview the press. I am starting for Virginia within an hour. Doctor Borneau assures me that after a brief rest, I shall be myself again.”

  “Call the newspapers, Vincent,” ordered Releston. “Tell them to have representatives at my apartment within fifteen minutes. This news will rea
ch New York by wire in time for the noon editions. It will stop that forced rise of munitions shares, before the closing rush at the market.”

  THE visitors left Coyd's. Harry took the wheel of the sedan. Senator Releston occupied the center of the rear seat, clutching two of the precious papers that bore Coyd's signature and his approval. The senator was bubbling with enthusiasm. Foster Crozan, on his right, was nodding, his lips wreathed with a steady, set smile.

  The Shadow, his disguised lips straightened, was looking from the window on the left as the sedan pulled away from the brownstone house. Enthusiastically, Releston turned and thumped his hand upon The Shadow's back.

  “Grand work, Cranston!” approved the senator. “You gain the credit. You were right, the poison was given—a big dose to the public, the interview that Coyd gave yesterday. But you found the antidote, old fellow. You found it and the cure will be complete.”

  A slight smile formed on the lips of Lamont Cranston. Releston thought that The Shadow's expression was a response to his own enthusiasm. The senator was wrong; The Shadow had smiled because of something that he had seen, not heard.

  The Shadow had noticed a coupé parked across the street as the sedan rolled by. He had spotted the man hunched behind the wheel; he had recognized the mustached face of Walbert. But The Shadow had seen even more. He had noticed a slight lift of the rumble seat; he had caught a momentary glimpse of a wizened face ducking out of view, within the back of the coupé.

  Hawkeye, the artful trailer, had been clinging close to the mustached dick. The little spotter had chosen the cute system of riding everywhere within the confines of the rumble seat at the back of Walbert's coupé.

  CHAPTER XI. WEED GAINS FACTS.

  “WALBERT has arrived.”

  Burbank's hand came up over his shoulder as his voice spoke these words. The Shadow received the earphones in the darkness. Quiet reigned in 808 as the chief and his agent waited in the blackness. Evening had replaced daylight.

  Voices came through the earphones. Tyson Weed was querulously interrogating Walbert.

  “So you saw Releston come and go.” remarked the lobbyist. “And you saw Coyd leave alone, in a hired hack.

  You trailed him twenty miles down in Virginia; then you guessed he was going to see his daughter, so you came back. So what?”

  “So what?” queried Walbert, gruffly.

  “That's what I said,” retorted Weed. “What does any of this mean? Borneau, Vincent, Crozan—all the rest of them—what have you got that's new? Then this about Coyd?”

  “I've given you all the facts about Coyd—”

  “But not the kind I need. Go back on the job and keep your eyes open. Maybe you'll land a break if you persist long enough.”

  “Want me to go down to Virginia and watch his nibs?”

  “No. He's taking a vacation; incidentally, the newspapers mentioned that also. There's no good of keeping tabs on Coyd while he's taking the rest cure. Wait until he comes back to Washington.”

  Sounds of Walbert's departure came. The earphones went back to Burbank. The Shadow moved toward the window; his keen eyes stared out above the lighted city.

  WAITING at the window of 808, The Shadow was confident that Quidler should soon arrive in 1012. Both dicks had had appointments with Weed on that preceding night. It was likely that both would be here again.

  Walbert had come and gone; Quidler, by rights was due. As The Shadow mused, Burbank spoke:

  “Quidler has arrived.”

  The Shadow took the earphones. He heard Quidler's clipped tones, which Burbank had promptly recognized.

  Like Walbert, Quidler had brought a written report. The Shadow listened.

  “Say!” The exclamation was Weed's. “You're sure about this, Quidler?”

  “Sure about everything I've written.” informed Quidler, snappily. “It's more than a guess when I say a guy has been trailing me. I've wised to it a couple of times. What's more, I've seen that coupé parked in front of Coyd's too often—”

  “Forget it,” interrupted Weed, impatiently. “That's not the part of the report I'm talking about. I'm interested in this business about Coyd himself. You're sure you saw him outside the house?”

  “Sure. Two days ago I spotted him coming in just after I got there. Along around four o'clock. He got out of that limousine and went in through the side door of the house.”

  “Leaving the limousine waiting for him?”

  “Out back. Just like my report says. He'd been somewhere, Coyd had. Well, he came out again half an hour later, and the chauffeur drove him away.”

  “You should have had a cab ready to trail him.”

  “I know that, Mr. Weed. But I muffed it that time. It took me too long to get a cab; and I chased all over town trying to locate the limousine. And it was while I was chasing around that Coyd must have hopped back home.”

  A pause. Weed was evidently consulting the report. The Shadow listened keenly at the earphones. This expedition of Coyd's was something that had happened while Cliff had not been watching Quidler.

  “Coming to yesterday,” Quidler remarked suddenly. “It was pouring rain. I didn't think Coyd would slide out again. I kept going back and forth; and he must have left his house while I wasn't there. Because along after four, when I got there again, the limousine was waiting on the back street.

  “Not conspicuous you know. It had pulled away from Coyd's house. But I knew it by the license plate; and I'd looked the number up, like my report says.”

  “Tell me this,” demanded Weed, “you're positive that the limousine belongs to Dunwood Rydel?”

  “You bet it does,” returned Quidler, “and that chauffeur is one of the monkeys who works for Rydel. Listen: it was about quarter of five when Coyd comes barging out of the side door, like he was in a hurry. Leastwise I think it was Coyd; it was too dark for me to make sure. Anyway, he took the limousine.

  “I had a taxi waiting around the corner. I grabbed it and trailed the big bus to that old apartment I tell about, there in the report. The limousine waited there about ten minutes. I couldn't see nobody get out; but maybe Coyd did. It's likely he got back into it again, if he was out, because he probably had to get back to his house.”

  “But you lost the trail?”

  “Yeah. The taxi driver skidded going around a corner and wound up on the curb with a flat. I paid him and beat it, because I didn't want to be around if some cops showed up and started an argument.”

  “You went to Rydel's later?”

  “Sure. To see if the big limousine showed up there. It did. What's more, I found out that sometimes the chauffeur parks it at the old F Street garage; and the chauffeur's name is Mullard—”

  “Wait a minute.”

  WEED evidently took time out to make a final perusal of Quidler's report. When he spoke again, the lobbyist was sharp in tone.

  “Look at this newspaper,” he ordered. “This account says that Coyd has gone away for a trip.”

  “Sure he has,” chuckled Quidler “That fits my report, don't it? Look what I've got to say about this afternoon.

  I went around to that apartment and did some gumshoe work. Kept looking through transoms until I spotted the place I wanted. There was Coyd, big as life, smoking a stogie and reading a newspaper. Had the light on—the shades drawn—”

  “Hold on, Quidler. The newspapers have more to say about his trip. They state that he went to Virginia.”

  “They're wrong. He's here in Washington. I saw him this afternoon.”

  “But I'm sure that he was driving down through Virginia at noon. Twenty miles south of Washington.”

  “Maybe he was. He could have doubled back. I've seen too many pictures of that guy's mug to be mistaken.”

  “That doesn't follow, Quidler. Look at these photos.” Newspapers rustled; Weed was exhibiting the morning dailies, with their story of yesterday's interview. “See? They're all different.”

  “They're all funny−looking. Like Coyd, himself. Maybe the
galoot does look one way when he's swelled up and another when he's tired or sick. But that mush of his is a give−away. Nobody else has a mug just like it.

  That scar of his, those eyebrows, that shaggy hair. Don't tell me, Mr. Weed. I know.”

  “Humph.”

  Another pause after Weed's utterance. Then came an ejaculation from Quidler:

  “My report! You're burning it!”

  “I am,” rejoined Weed, with an ugly chortle. “It's dynamite, Quidler. I want to get rid of it.”

  “You mean—you don't think—”

  “I'm thinking plenty. I don't want to carry this paper; I don't want any one else to see it.”

  “I get you.” Quidler chuckled.

  “Never mind, Quidler. You've done well. We can pass up a discussion of the details.”

  “You mean you've got enough on Coyd to make him talk turkey. Well, I hope you remembered the address of that apartment. That's where you'll find the old bozo.”

  “I've remembered it. That is where I'm going, Quidler.”

  “To talk with Coyd?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I've put two and two together, Quidler. Maybe it will make four; maybe two and two will be twenty−two. Anyway, you've done your part. Slide along; and stay away from that apartment.”

  “You're going there right away?”

  “Not for a while. I'm waiting in case of a long−distance call from New York. But there's no rush. The bird will still be in the nest when I look for him.”

  SOUNDS indicated Quidler's departure. A chuckled laugh followed; it was Weed's expression of a deep understanding. The lobbyist was comparing Walbert's report with Quidler's, much to his satisfaction. The Shadow knew that Weed had gained even more results than before.

  Earphones went back to Burbank. The Shadow strolled from the room. As Henry Arnaud, carrying a briefcase, he reached the lobby and took a seat there. From this post, he could witness Weed's departure and take up the crafty lobbyist's trail.