The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  As for Walbert and Quidler, their work was done for to−night. Hawkeye and Cliff could still watch them, however, in hope of chance developments. The future boded well for The Shadow. Only some wild freak of chance could hinder his present quest.

  So reasoned The Shadow; and he reasoned wisely. For even while he waited in the lobby of the Hotel Halcyon, bad luck was on its way. Before this night had ended, The Shadow would have his share of trouble.

  CHAPTER XII. TWO DICKS TALK.

  THE SHADOW had deliberately delayed his departure from 808 to give Quidler time to leave the Hotel Halcyon. The Shadow was positive that Cliff Marsland was waiting outside to take up the dick's trail; and The Shadow had been right.

  Quidler had taken a cab outside the hotel. Another taxi had followed him. The trail had led to a frequented street just north of Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Quidler had alighted to enter an old but popular hotel, the Nayland House.

  Cliff had followed the dick into the thronged lobby. He had watched Quidler enter the taproom. The place had but one entrance; Quidler would have to come out through the lobby. So Cliff sat down and waited.

  The Nayland taproom was crowded and noisy. Cliff had decided that Quidler could not have chosen it for an important meeting; and he was right. In fact, Quidler had simply decided to celebrate. Weed had slipped him a fat roll of cash; the dick had cause to be jubilant.

  It was entirely by chance that Quidler happened to bump into an old acquaintance. Shouldering his way to the jammed bar, the beak−faced dick jostled a long−necked rowdy who was standing there. The fellow swung about with an angry snarl. Quidler recognized a sallow, rattish face.

  “Hello, Jake,” chuckled the dick, with a friendly grin. “Bumped into you, didn't I, huh? How're you, old fellow. Last guy I expected to see here was Jake Thurler.”

  “Hello, Quidler,” rejoined Jake, a leer forming on his leathery lips. “What're you doin' in town? Still in the gumshoe racket?”

  “Sure. It's gravy. Washington's a good spot. What're you doing, though? Running booze down through the dry South?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Out of that racket,” he informed. “Too hot for me. Too hot for any guy that's got brains. I'm working for Stew Luffy, the big shot that's runnin' a classy gamblin' joint across the Potomac. Steerin' suckers down there is my job. Plenty of saps loose; an' I'm the guy to spot 'em.”

  “You're workin' to−night?”

  “Sure. This is a good place to draw from.” Jake was speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Sometimes I fix the squawkers, too. Stew don't like howls about his joint. But say”—the ratty fellow raised his tone—“here's a guy you'd like to know, Quidler. He's in the gumshoe racket, too.”

  JAKE leaned back so Quidler could look past him to see a glum−faced fellow who was wiping foam from a big black mustache. The man was wearing a Derby hat tilted over his forehead; but Quidler could see an angry look in his eyes when Jake nudged him roughly.

  “Snap out of it, Walbert!” snorted Jake. “Wantcha to meet an old pal of mine. He's a Sherlock, too. Shake hands with Quidler over here.”

  Walbert extended a flabby paw and received Quidler's hand grip. Then, the mustached man swung away and began to drink again, while Jake Thurler turned to chat with Quidler.

  “Who is the guy, Jake?” queried Quidler, in an undertone. “Looks like a dumb cluck to me. Who's he working for?”

  “Keep it under your hat.” confided Jake. “I'm the only bird he's mentioned it to. Ever hear of a bozo named Weed? Tyson Weed?”

  “Walbert's working for Weed?”

  “Sure. And it ought to be a good racket. Weed's got dough, they say.”

  “Edge out, Jake. I want to talk to Walbert.”

  Jake consented reluctantly. He whispered a warning as he moved away. Quidler gave him a wise look; then slid in beside Walbert. The mustached dick studied him rather sourly.

  “Ease down to the end of the bar.” remarked Quidler. “I got something to tell you, Walbert. A lot to tell you.”

  Walbert hesitated; then followed instructions. Something in Quidler's manner impressed him. As they reached the deserted spot, Quidler came right to the point.

  “Listen, bozo.” He informed, “A guy that tries to trail me is wasting his time. I'm no palooka. Get me?”

  “Who are you talking about, fellow?” demanded Walbert, with a growl. “You mean me?”

  “I mean that when I'm working on a case, the bird that hires me don't need to check up on what I'm doing.”

  “Yeah? Well, who's been hiring you lately?”

  “A fellow named Tyson Weed.”

  WALBERT'S jaw dropped. For a moment, the mustached dick stared so sharply that his very manner was a giveaway. Quidler chuckled hoarsely.

  “Tyson Weed,” he repeated. “He's the guy that hired me. To keep a lookout on a congressman named Coyd.

  You know all about it, Walbert. You're the guy I've seen out front of Coyd's, parked in a coupé.”

  Quidler's eyes were flashing eagerly. He was not sure about Walbert having been the man in the coupé. But the blink of the eyes beneath the Derby hat made Quidler know that his guess was a good one.

  “All right.” parried Walbert, realizing that he had slipped. “Suppose I was out front of Coyd's? What does that mean? Where were you?”

  “Out back of Coyd's. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing. I was never anywhere but out front. Say, Quidler; it looks like you're the second fiddler.

  Keeping an eye on me, eh?”

  Quidler grinned sourly. Walbert's return thrust had been a good one. He chapped the fellow roundly on the shoulder.

  “Not bad, Walbert,” he approved. “Only you did some tagging once in a while. Hopping cabs to follow the ones I was in. Picking up my trail; then dropping it.”

  “Hopping cabs?” quizzed Walbert. “Say—what do I want with them when I've got my own buggy? Let's get this straight, Quidler: do you really think I've been trailing you?”

  “Somebody has. I told Weed so to−night and he said to forget it.”

  “You were up at Weed's to−night?”

  “Sure. I just came from there.”

  Walbert brought his empty glass down with a thud.

  “The louse!” he ejaculated. “So that's why he told me to vamoose. After he'd said get there early. Didn't want me to know he had another guy working on the same case.”

  “Weed told me just when to get there,” admitted Quidler. “Say, fellow, maybe we're getting somewhere. I'm putting it straight; I never knew that anybody else was supposed to watch Coyd. Did you?”

  “No. That's straight. Quidler.”

  “So Weed took us both for saps.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Quidler chuckled. After all, it was Weed's business to do as he liked. A grin on his peaked face, the dick called for drinks. Walbert indulged in a broad smile. He saw the situation identically with Quidler.

  “Looks like our stunt is to pal up,” decided Walbert. “Hand Weed the ha−ha. Working together, we can do a better job. How does it hit you, Quidler?”

  “Not a bad idea. Well, you didn't know I was watching you; and I thought you were watching me. We were both wrong.”

  “Which makes us both right.”

  Quidler, gulping from a glass, stopped short. He turned to Walbert, with a serious stare.

  “Somebody was watching me,” he declared. “Maybe not at Coyd's; but at other places. Say—there couldn't be a third guy working for Weed?”

  “Not a chance. Finish your drink. The next is on me.”

  Quidler complied; then made another comment:

  “There is a guy, though. He's working for somebody different than Weed. Guess he didn't spot you, Walbert; but he trailed me.”

  “If he trailed you, he's liable to trail me. Especially if we team up on the q.t.”

  “You said it. It's something we ought to find out about.”

  “I'm going to.”r />
  QUIDLER turned and spied Jake. He beckoned to the fellow and Jake came over. Quidler spoke confidentially.

  “There's a guy been trailing me, Jake. How about getting a line on him? Could you help me?”

  “Sure. It's a cinch. Want me to bag him?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Soft. I got everything outside. A phony cab for the saps; a touring car to cover. All you got to do is start out in a cab of your own. The phony will pick up the bird you want.”

  Walbert interposed.

  “You don't need a cab, Quidler,” offered the mustached dick. “Ride with me in my coupé. Which way will we head, Jake?”

  “Over the Potomac bridge. Duck off the road and douse the glims. My man in the hack will do the rest. You can come on back.”

  “What about the mug?” inquired Quidler, “We got nothing against him, you know.”

  “We'll make him squawk,” assured Jake. “It don't take much. Leave that to us.”

  “Sure,” grumbled Walbert. “Jake knows his stuff. He'll handle the bird.”

  “You bet I will.” leered Jake. “Out at Stew Luffy's joint. Wait a couple of minutes, while I fix things. Then go out and get in your buggy.” Jake departed.

  FIVE minutes later, Walbert and Quidler set down their empty glasses. Buzzing as they left the taproom, they went through the lobby and out to the street. Cliff Marsland saw them pass. Calmly, The Shadow's agent followed.

  Walbert's coupé was parked a hundred feet down the street. The dicks boarded it; Walbert started the motor, and the car drew away. Cliff spied it from the curb; as he looked for a taxi, one shot into view from the other side of the street. Cliff boarded the cab and ordered the driver to follow the coupé.

  The two cars crossed the Potomac. Walbert took to a curving boulevard; then found a little−traveled road and chose it. Cliff, crouched forward in the taxi, pointed out the path to the driver. The fellow nodded; but lagged slightly. Up ahead, the coupé swung a curve.

  “Here's a good spot.” said Walbert, to Quidler. He pulled the coupé to the side beneath some trees. “We'll douse the glims and watch what happens.”

  Out went the lights. The dicks watched from darkness. As they did, the top of the rumble seat opened cautiously. A wizened face poked its nose into view. Hawkeye looked about; then gazed toward the road as he heard a car approaching.

  It was Cliff's taxi. Hawkeye watched it pass; he heard the chuckles from the dicks. The cab was slowing, a hundred yards ahead. Then, from around the curve, came a swift touring car. As Hawkeye peered over the rear fender, he saw the larger machine overtake the cab, just as the taxi stopped.

  Watching, Hawkeye saw men pile from the touring car and drag a figure from the taxi. Walbert started the coupé; the car swung about and started back toward Washington. Hawkeye, high out of the rumble seat, could see the taxi turning to come back; the touring car was going on ahead.

  Boldly, the little spotter swung clear of his hiding place. Clinging to the right fender, he pushed his face up toward the open window. He could hear comments despite the rattle of the car. The dicks were chuckling.

  “The guy was trailing you, right enough, Quidler.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for helping get rid of him, Walbert. He'll talk plenty when he gets out to Luffy's joint.”

  “Jake's taximan must have shoved a gun in his face. Covered him unexpected and made it soft for the other guys.”

  The car was near the Potomac bridge. Lights showed a gasoline station. Hawkeye dropped from the running board as the coupé showed. With loping gait, he hurried toward the service station. There, Hawkeye found a telephone.

  THREE minutes later, The Shadow saw the clerk at the Hotel Halcyon look into the box marked 808. Rising from his lobby chair, The Shadow went to a telephone. He called the room. Burbank's quiet voice gave the news.

  “Instructions,” declared The Shadow, in Arnaud's easy tone. “Hawkeye to cover Weed.”

  “Instructions received.” was Burbank's response.

  The Shadow strolled from the lobby. He walked straight to a parking space; there he entered a coupé that was parked there in the name of Henry Arnaud. Behind the wheel, he started the car and slowed at an inconspicuous corner of the lot. Swiftly he donned cloak and hat, from his briefcase.

  Hands thrust automatics beneath the black cloak. Gloves slid over long fingers. A foot pressed the accelerator as hands gripped the wheel. The car roared as it sped along a clear street. The speedy coupé reached the Potomac bridge.

  The car passed a cab on the bridge. Not the one that had carried Cliff; that had already reached Washington.

  This was one that Hawkeye had called from the service station. The shrewd spotter was speeding back, to serve as The Shadow's substitute.

  For The Shadow had given up his plan to follow Tyson Weed in person. His mission was one of emergency; a rescue that had become most pressing. Hawkeye had learned the vital facts by listening to Walbert and Quidler.

  The Shadow knew the location of “Stew” Luffy's notorious gambling dive, an undercover establishment that persisted in defiance of the law. Minister of vengeance, he was speeding thither to aid Cliff Marsland, trapped by men of crime!

  CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S SUBSTITUTE.

  FIVE minutes after The Shadow had left the Hotel Halcyon, Tyson Weed appeared in the lobby. Luck had tricked The Shadow to−night. The chance meeting of Walbert and Quidler had forced an issue that the dicks, individually, would not have pressed. Cliff Marsland's capture had been the result of a cooperative plan.

  Drawn to an immediate quest, The Shadow had been forced to leave an open time period. Chances were that Weed would not choose those few minutes for his trip to the old apartment house that lay somewhere in Washington; but again, the short odds won. Weed was leaving the hotel while Hawkeye was still on his way in from the Potomac bridge.

  Outside the hotel, Weed hailed a cab. About to enter it, the lobbyist paused. A newsboy, coming along the street, was shouting out the headlines as he sold the bulldog editions of a morning journal. Weed paused to buy a newspaper. He fumbled for the change and found it.

  A penny slipped from his hand as he paid the newsboy. The coin rolled across the sidewalk and disappeared through a grating. Snatching the newspaper roughly from the boy's hand, Weed turned toward the cab.

  “Say, mister—”

  The newsboy's plaint was wistful. He had not even touched the coin that the man had dropped. Weed snarled angrily.

  “Fish it out for yourself,” he told the boy, pointing to the grating. “I haven't time to waste.”

  “But it's down the grating—”

  Weed shoved the boy aside; but before he could enter the cab, the driver slammed the door. Leaning from the front seat, the taximan took the boy's part.

  “A hurry, eh?” he barked at Weed. “Not in this cab, you ain't. Pay the kid the cent you owe him, or you don't ride in this hack.”

  “Move along. I'll just take another cab.”

  “Yeah? Not while I'm around. It'll be tough for the hackie that gives you a lift.”

  The cab driver showed a pair of threatening fists. He made a gesture that indicated further pugnacity. For a moment, Weed thought that he intended to step to the street. Huddling back, the lobbyist fished in his pocket; finding no pennies, he tossed the newsboy a nickel and snarled for him to keep the change.

  “Thanks, mister!”

  WEED paid no attention to the newsboy's remark. Expediency, not generosity had forced Weed to the deed.

  The cab door was being opened by the grinning driver. Weed stepped aboard and snapped out his destination, telling the cabby to hurry. The taxi shot away.

  But at that very moment, another cab had swung around the corner. Sharp eyes from its interior had spotted the lanky figure of Weed, hopping spider−like into the waiting cab.

  Hawkeye, just in time, was quick to nudge the driver and tell him to follow Weed's cab. The fuming lobbyist had been in luck; now the situation had
changed. Weed's own stinginess over a dropped penny had delayed him long enough for Hawkeye to snag his trail.

  Unfortunately, the driver of Weed's cab was a man who held no malice. Even though he expected no tip, he drove with speed and precision. Cutting through the web−like maze of Washington's streets, he picked short−cuts and sudden turns that were confusing to Hawkeye's driver.

  It was the little spotter, not the cabby, who managed to keep an eye on the cab ahead. But at last, the game failed. Hawkeye's cab swung a corner, sped a block and crossed Q Street. Hawkeye could see no taxi ahead.

  He knew that the trail had been lost. Telling the driver to stop, he shoved a bill in the fellow's hand and dropped from the cab.

  Hawkeye was going on the theory that perhaps Weed's destination had been near by. If so, the lobbyist had alighted and dismissed his cab. There might still be a chance to trail him. If Weed had gone on, there would be no use trying to pick up his course. Hawkeye was hoping for the only chance.

  Weed's cab had stopped. It had turned down Q Street and had halted before an obscure building, while Hawkeye's cab was crossing the thoroughfare. Weed had scowled as he paid the driver.

  Finding the tip omitted, the driver had laughed and driven on. Weed had turned into the entrance of an old apartment. Both the cab and he were out of sight when Hawkeye's came back to Q Street. The building that Weed entered was actually an old house converted into an apartment. Once it had been well managed; the name board showed push−buttons and bell. But the bell−button bore a scrawled paper that said “Out of Order” and Weed decided that the door might be unlocked. It was.

  Entering, the lobbyist went up one flight. He came to a door marked 2D. He paused there, staring at the lighted transom; then went to the end of the hall where he found an opened window that led to a fire escape.

  Stepping out, Weed found a darkened window that he was sure opened into the apartment that he wanted.

  Again, luck was his. The window was unlocked; evidently the occupant of the apartment feared no intruders.

  It was dark here on the fire escape, with an empty building in back and a little alleyway between.