The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  THEY hurried from the office. In a taxicab, en route to the senator's home, Garvey gave more details, also supplying facts that he had meant previously to mention.

  “Foster Crozan just arrived in town,” stated Garvey. “He's a man with a lot of money, mostly inherited, who's gone in for politics. He's taken the best way to do it; going in for investigations that will help the congressional committees.”

  “Didn't Crozan help to uncover those lumber contracts?” inquired Clyde. “It seems to me he was mentioned prominently.”

  “He did,” acknowledged Garvey, “and he's handed more good dope to the right people since. He's due to run for the Senate from his home State; and he's done plenty to talk about in his campaign. He's a friend of Releston's. Crozan has visited Releston before; and he's on again to learn things that will make him useful when he gets elected.”

  The cab had pulled up in front of the Hotel Barlingham, an old but conservative edifice which Senator Releston had chosen for his Washington residence. Garvey kept quiet as he and Clyde sauntered through the lobby, then entered the elevator.

  They alighted at the sixth floor and went to a corner suite. There they entered a lounge room; a secretary ushered them through a hallway and into an office. They found half a dozen newspaper men facing Senator Releston, who sat behind a large desk.

  THE senator was a man of somewhat rugged features but his face was mild in expression. Gray hair added to the dignity of his appearance; and Releston's eyes were kindly, almost curious, as they surveyed the new arrival. Recognizing that Burke and Clyde were new representatives of the press, Releston proceeded with the statement that he had been about to read.

  “Early this afternoon,” stated Releston, quietly, “one of my secretaries, Donald Lanson, went into my room to discover two men rifling the drawers in my filing cabinet. The thieves locked Lanson in a closet, and it was twenty minutes later that he managed to get free.

  “None of these documents, however, were originals. They were merely duplicates. So, gentlemen, the theft, while indicating real villainy, was of no serious consequence.”

  With that, the senator arose. It was plain that he intended to make no further pronouncement. The reporters helped themselves to copies of the statement from a ready stack on the desk. Then they filed from the office, Clyde and Garvey among them.

  “What do you make of it?” queried Clyde, as they rode away in a taxi. “Sounds like a straight statement, doesn't it?”

  “Releston always talks straight,” returned Garvey, absently. “I'm wondering though—just wondering about when it happened. It may have been earlier than Releston said.”

  A pause; then Garvey added:

  “Foster Crozan came in this morning. The senator probably met him. If crooks were watching, that's the time they would have picked to step into the place.”

  “What about Crozan?” asked Clyde. “Where was he when we were there?”

  “Somewhere in the apartment, probably. Releston didn't want him to be bothered with an interview.”

  “You don't think this burglary was more serious than Releston indicated?”

  “No. Chances are that the papers were duplicates, just as the senator said. The intent was bad; but the results nil.”

  GARVEY dropped off before they reached the Wallingford Building; but Clyde kept on to his office. At his desk, The Shadow's agent found a pad of telegraph blanks and began to prepare a wire. That dispatch was to carry a secret to The Shadow, in New York.

  In response to this wire, The Shadow would come to Washington. His presence here was needed; a rift had come into the serenity of the scene. Completing the message, with its hidden plea for his chief to visit the Capitol. Clyde reached for the telephone. As he did, the bell began to ring.

  Impatient at the delaying call, Clyde snatched up the receiver, intending to be as abrupt as possible. He snapped his opening words into the mouthpiece:

  “Clyde Burke speaking.”

  A change came over Clyde's countenance as a voice responded. Strange, whispered tones, commanding words that held Clyde speechless. His telegram had been anticipated; the speaker on the line was The Shadow.

  But Clyde's chief was not calling from New York; by The Shadow's own statement, Clyde understood that these instructions were being given from a local telephone in Washington.

  Clyde hung up, baffled. The Shadow knew about the theft at Releston's. How had he learned of it? How had he arrived in Washington so soon?

  Then truth dawned; and with it, Clyde gained full realization of how consequential the crime at Releston's might prove to be.

  The summons that had brought The Shadow had been dispatched to him direct. Its sender, though not an agent of The Shadow, had reason to know the value of The Shadow's prowess. The man who had sent the important request was Senator Ross Releston himself!

  CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PREPARES.

  HALF an hour after Clyde had received his call from The Shadow, a taxi driver pulled up in front of the Hotel Barlingham. The driver glanced askance into the rear of his vehicle, wondering whether or not he still had his passenger.

  The driver grunted his relief as the rear door opened and a tall figure came into the light of the hotel front.

  The first inkling of his presence in the cab had been when the driver had heard a voice order him to go to the Hotel Barlingham.

  The tall stranger did not appear formidable when he entered the hotel lobby. He was dressed in a dark suit.

  His face was of chiseled mold. Masklike features, dominated by a hawkish nose; thin, inflexible lips; eyes that were steady—these were elements of physiognomy that made the arrival's visage bear a masklike, unemotional expression.

  On the sixth floor, the stranger entered the lounge of Senator Releston's apartment. Lanson was in charge there; the secretary was wan−faced and suspicious−eyed. The visitor gave him a card; Lanson nodded and smiled.

  “Go right in, Mr. Cranston,” said the secretary. “Senator Releston told me not to keep you waiting.”

  PASSING through to the office, the tall visitor found Senator Releston at his desk; opposite the gray−haired solon was a tall, middle−aged man who had the physique of an athlete. Sharp−eyed and alert, this individual turned a frank, square−jawed face toward the new arrival.

  “Ah Cranston!” Senator Releston spoke in hearty welcome as he came to his feet and extended his hand. “It is good to see you. Meet Foster Crozan, who arrived to−day. Crozan, this is Lamont Cranston.”

  Crozan delivered a strong handshake that brought the semblance of a wince from Cranston. On his feet, Crozan was tall and well−built; a powerful man who seemed much younger than his gray−streaked hair would indicate. Crozan watched Cranston seat himself leisurely in a convenient chair; then sat down himself.

  “I did not mean to summon you to Washington, Cranston,” apologized Releston. “My wire merely requested you to communicate with me by long distance. I was surprised when you wired back that you were coming here.”

  “Purely a coincidence, senator,” remarked Cranston, his voice a level tone that held a slight drawl. “I had intended to leave for Florida to−morrow. My luggage was all ready for shipment; so I came ahead to−day.”

  “You will leave to−morrow then?”

  “Yes. A few weeks in Miami; then on to Havana. After that, Brazil and the Amazon country. A six−months sojourn on this expedition.”

  Releston nodded.

  “Cranston is a globe−trotter,” he explained to Crozan. “He has been everywhere. I was fortunate to locate him at his club in New York.”

  Crozan looked puzzled as he watched the visitor. He saw Cranston extracting a cigarette from a gold−and−platinum case. He watched the visitor lazily insert the cigarette into a holder; then produce a lighter in lackadaisical fashion. Crozan could not withhold comment.

  “You go in for big−game hunting, Mr. Cranston?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” drawled the visitor, pausing to puff at his
cigarette. “A pursuit of yours, also, Mr. Crozan?”

  “No. I was simply wondering—”

  “At my lack of energy? I thought that puzzled you, Mr. Crozan. Well, I am often quite as deliberate in aiming at an elephant as I am at lighting a cigarette. Leisurely action, Mr. Crozan, is quite different from hesitancy. I make it a policy to never become excited—”

  “Exactly what I told you, Crozan,” put in the senator, with a nod. “That is why I felt that Cranston's opinion would be a useful one to us in this critical situation that we are facing.”

  CROZAN nodded his agreement. He was beginning to be impressed by Cranston's lack of energy. A pleased smile showed upon his open features.

  “Cranston,” declared Releston, “today, thieves rifled my filing cabinet. They stole important papers that pertained to committee investigations. Those papers were only duplicates; nevertheless, their loss may be serious.”

  “Because of the information which they contain?”

  “Exactly. Some of them were old data, such as the lumber statistics which Crozan gathered some months ago.

  But others concerned unfinished subjects: mining, manufactures, utilities which we are investigating. Except, fortunately, some recent material which Crozan was to send me; but brought with him instead. That data had not as yet been filed.”

  “And just how serious is their loss?”

  “Very serious. Because they will tell the new owners exactly how far we have progressed with our investigations.”

  Releston paused emphatically. He leaned upon the desk and added this explanation:

  “You see, Cranston, the great value of these committee investigations lies in keeping certain interests in a state of quandary. If they knew that they were going to be regulated; if they knew that they were to be given a clean bill of health—in either case they would act accordingly and—”

  “And defeat the investigations,” put in Crozan. “They could sell or buy, according to the future that they knew was coming; and in that manner show huge profits that they could not otherwise gain.”

  “So serious is it, Cranston,” affirmed Releston, “that if Congress were still in session, I would move the dismissal of the committees as a better course than keeping them. Nevertheless, we still have one strong hope.”

  CRANSTON'S face looked inquiring. Releston raised a solemn finger and drove home his point.

  “Washington is filled with rumors,” declared the senator. “So many, in fact, that no credence will be given to any statement unless it comes from an authoritative source. Unless I, for instance, made some statement that would bolster the facts that these thieves have learned, the investing public would not rally to support the rogues”

  “Then your course, senator,” came the quiet response, “is to avoid all statements that might serve as indicators.”

  “A policy which I intend to maintain,” assured Releston. “Unfortunately, I am not the only authority concerned. Every iota of information that I possess is owned in duplicate by Congressman Layton Coyd.”

  “Our new Daniel Webster,” added Crozan. “A golden−throated orator who likes to be heard. A windbag on most occasions; but one whose warbles would gain listeners now that certain information is at large.”

  “It is no jesting matter, Crozan,” rebuked Releston. Then, in a solemn tone: “You see, Cranston, Coyd is an individualist. He takes orders from no one. He has the right to speak if he chooses; just as I have the right to preserve silence.

  “Moreover, he is eccentric. His efforts during the past session threw him into a high pitch of nervousness. He is really ill, under a physician's care. Yet he persists in further effort. If I could only see him, I might handle him tactfully; but he will not keep his appointment.

  “That is why I wished to speak to you. I need some man to serve as intermediary. A special secretary, appointed by myself to deal directly with Coyd. To wait on him, to suit his convenience. A man who can bring back information. One who can be trusted. You can supply that man.”

  “I presume that you mean Vincent.”

  “I do. Harry Vincent, whom you once recommended to me in the past and who served me with intelligence and loyalty. I knew of no way to reach Vincent except through you. My hope, Cranston, is that he may be available.”

  “He is. I shall wire him in Michigan to−night, senator. You may expect him within forty−eight hours.”

  Leisurely, Lamont Cranston arose. Senator Releston was smiling with relief. He raised his hand, however, to restrain his guest. Taking pad and pencil, the senator scrawled a note and folded it. He passed the message to his visitor.

  “Send that telegram, Cranston,” he suggested. “In my name, so that Vincent can come here direct. Unless you prefer to wire him yourself. It is optional. Well, Crozan”—Releston was turning as he spoke—“this may enable us to bolster our own forces. Our one worry from now on will be to single out our foe.”

  “We have done that already,” asserted Crozan. “Dunwood Rydel is the rogue with whom we have to deal. He wants to recoup his losses from those lumber contracts. What is more, he may have interests in half a dozen of the enterprises which were named in your stolen papers.”

  “I am not so sure that Rydel is the culprit, Crozan,” stated Releston. “He is on the defensive, not likely to deliver such an open thrust as thievery. I am inclined to suspect Tyson Weed.”

  “'Weed is a mere lobbyist. Capable of sneaky measures and tactics. Not nearly so dangerous as Rydel, senator.”

  “He is a schemer, Crozan. We must not underrate him. He has money; he maintains sumptuous quarters at the Hotel Halcyon.”

  “Quite true, senator. But do not underrate Rydel. He has millions; and much of his wealth is at stake.”

  Releston nodded as he considered this suggestion. The senator's face was troubled; Crozan looked serious.

  Cranston, however, seemed to have lost interest. He shook hands in blasé fashion and strolled out through the lounge, where he obtained his suitcase from Lanson and made a departure.

  “What did you think of Cranston, Crozan?” inquired Releston, after the visitor had gone.

  “A weary fellow.” responded Crozan. “Frankly, senator, I feel that you hold an exaggerated impression of his capacities. All I can hope is that Vincent will represent the picture you have painted of him.”

  “Cranston does seem to have slipped,” acknowledged Releston, in a troubled tone. “But I feel confident that Vincent will be as alert as usual. After all, he is the man for whom we must depend on contact with Coyd.”

  WHILE Releston and his guest were discoursing thus, the subject of their conversation was riding in a taxicab, through secluded cross streets. His suitcase was open in his lap. An electric light was throwing its glare upon a metal mirror.

  The cover of the case was toward the driver; he could not see the face of Lamont Cranston as it bent down into the suitcase. Long fingers were at work upon that face; they were molding it, changing its contours, applying dabs of puttylike make−up.

  The transformation ended. A hawkish visage remained; but it was not the physiognomy of Lamont Cranston.

  A soft laugh whispered from above the mirror; the light went out as the lid of the suitcase dropped shut.

  Five minutes later, the cab stopped in front of the pretentious Hotel Halcyon. The transformed passenger alighted, paid the driver and handed his bag to the doorman. Entering the hotel, he registered; but not under the name of Lamont Cranston. Instead, he signed as Henry Arnaud.

  Casually, the new guest inquired for Tyson Weed, only to learn that Weed was away. Being a resident of the hotel, however, Weed would be back within a few days. His suite number, for Mr. Arnaud's information, was 1012. The suite to which the clerk assigned Henry Arnaud chanced to be 808.

  After establishing himself in his new quarters, Henry Arnaud turned out the lights in the little parlor of his two−room suite. He opened his suitcase; this time no light blinked. That bulb belonged only in the special mak
e−up tray. Arnaud had opened the tray along with the lid.

  Cloth swished in the darkness. The folds of a cloak settled over shoulders. A slouch hat pressed upon a head; hands drew on black gloves. A soft laugh sounded as a figure approached the window. Another transformation had taken place. Henry Arnaud had become The Shadow.

  A spectral figure, this cloaked shape swung across the sill. A gloved hand adjusted a square box that The Shadow had taken from the suitcase, clamping the container safely beneath the cloak. Strong fingers—their grip would have amazed Foster Crozan—were firm as they clutched a projecting cornice.

  Beetlelike, yet indiscernible against the brick side wall of the high hotel, The Shadow poised above space.

  With a calm precision—a worthy tribute to the deliberate calculation of which he had boasted when guised as Cranston—The Shadow swung his body to the right and coolly caught a neighboring cornice with one freed hand.

  Another swing enabled The Shadow to thrust his hand farther upward and grip the iron posts of a projecting balcony, one of a dozen ornamental contrivances that graced the broad wall of the Hotel Halcyon.

  ONE minute later, The Shadow swung across the rail. His gloved hands pressed the pane of a blackened window, to discover that the sash was locked. A prying strip of steel clicked its message; The Shadow loosened the catch without leaving any telltale marks. He dropped into the room within. A tiny flashlight flickered.

  The Shadow had entered Suite 1012. He spent a dozen minutes in the rooms reserved for Tyson Weed; then emerged and locked the window behind him. High above the tiny lights of the street, The Shadow swung back along the cornices. He clung with one hand while he hooked a length of threadlike wire above the final cornice. Finally he swung back into the window of 808.

  Gloved fingers clicked a table lamp. Then, into the light, came the folded piece of paper that Senator Releston had given to Lamont Cranston. Unfolded, the paper read: WHILE VINCENT WILL PROVE USEFUL, OTHER AID IS MORE URGENT. IF POSSIBLE, ARRANGE FOR THE SHADOW TO COME TO