The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  Weed opened the window and slid into the room. He was breathing tensely as he felt his way through darkness, toward the crack of a lighted door.

  Arriving at the barrier, Weed paused; then, with a jolt, he shoved the door open and plunged into the room.

  He grabbed the door and closed it behind him. Looking across the room, he saw a man rise excitedly from a chair. Weed grinned as the fellow threw a newspaper aside.

  The lobbyist was staring at the glowering face of Congressman Layton Coyd.

  ATTIRED in smoking jacket, the surprised occupant of the apartment was too perturbed to make a move.

  Weed saw his lips twitch; that fact gave the lobbyist confidence. He motioned toward the chair and bowed with sarcasm.

  “Sit down, congressman,” he urged, in wheedling fashion. “Excuse my unannounced arrival. Since I am here, we may as well be friendly.”

  “Who are you?” The question was hoarse−toned. “Why have you come here?”

  “You don't remember me, Mr. Coyd?” Weed smiled meanly as he remembered statements in Quidler's first report. “Well, well, I had forgotten that your mind was troubled. Loss of memory, perhaps.”

  All of Coyd's dignity became apparent as the shock−haired man drew himself erect and pressed his hand against his scarred chin. Then came a shake of the shaggy head.

  “What?” quizzed Weed. “You don't remember Tyson Weed? Your pet lobbyist? The prize pest, as you used to call me?”

  Coyd's figure relaxed. The expression that came over his face was partly one of anger; at the same time, it showed relief. It was like the dawn of recognition, followed by a nod.

  “I remember you now, Mr. Weed. Sit down. Tell me the purpose of your visit. I am rather surprised that you learned I was here.”

  “No wonder.” Weed grinned as he took a chair. “The newspapers stated that you had gone to Virginia.”

  “Yes, they did.” Coyd's words came reluctantly as the unwilling host resumed his chair. “Tell me, you possess this information exclusively as your own.”

  “Yes,” replied Weed, blandly, “and that fact, Mr. Coyd, leaves us clear to form a friendly agreement.”

  Twitching fingers pushed their way through shaggy, black hair, that glistened in the lamplight. Weed watched the expression on the tight−skinned face.

  “An agreement,” came Coyd's ponderous tone. “Just what do you mean by an agreement, Mr. Weed?”

  “Just this.” Weed was on his feet; his hissed tone lacked its whine. “I represent various interests, Mr. Coyd. I have been paid to see that their rights are given fair consideration by Congress; that needed appropriations are made for them.”

  “And you are even empowered to use bribery to obtain votes. Am I right, Mr. Weed?”

  “I have never attempted bribery.”

  “Because you knew that you were dealing with honest men. You want the government to purchase worthless timber lands; to grant money for the reopening of useless canals. You are ready to advocate the draining of marsh lands, to further speculative real estate developments.”

  “What of it? Such things have been done before.”

  “I have never been party to them.”

  WEED watched a change come over Coyd's expression. The shaggy−haired man came to his feet; he was pompous as he thrust one hand beneath his smoking jacket in Napoleonic pose.

  “You have proven yourself a nuisance, Weed,” came the accusing tones. “In the past, I have refused to see you. Your visit here is uncalled for. There is the door. Go.”

  “Not yet.” Weed grinned wisely as he faced his challenger. “I have a purpose here, Mr. Coyd. Tell me: why did you make that statement regarding munitions? Why were you responsible for an attempt to aid speculators?”

  “A whim on my part. A mistake. One that I rectified after I realized it.”

  “You take the credit? Come, Coyd— I am too wise to fool. Senator Releston forced the issue.”

  “You are wrong, Weed. Read the newspapers—”

  “I have read them. Between the lines. I know that your scheme went sour. You fooled Releston; but not me. I know what's coming. Something bigger than munitions.”

  There was no reply. Coyd's features were purple; but Weed noted that clenched fists were twitching helplessly. The lobbyist thrust a pointing finger beneath the congressman's flattish nose.

  “Here are my terms,” affirmed Weed. “You back the things I want; in turn, I'll keep my mouth shut. I won't visit your house; instead, I'll see you here, by appointment. While you're pulling your own big deals, you can slip mine by in the rush.”

  “Impossible,” Coyd's head shook emphatically. “After all, Weed, why should I listen to your preposterous requests? Why do I need your silence?”

  “Why? Because it would do you no good if it were known that you, the self−styled paragon of justice, had chosen to live in a hide−out here in Washington.”

  “A hide−out? Absurd! My physician has ordered a rest. I chose this apartment for that purpose. It is quiet here.”

  WEED licked his lips. His face was gloating, his chuckle deep in his throat. He had found his chance; he used it.

  “Suppose, Mr. Coyd”—the lobbyist was sarcastic as he pronounced the name—“suppose that I should inform Senator Releston of your present whereabouts? Suppose I told him that Congressman Layton Coyd so requires rest that he has chosen to take it in two places simultaneously?

  “What if I told him that you were living in this apartment and also dwelling in your comfortable lodge, some seventy miles away, in Virginia? What would Senator Releston think of such miraculous eccentricity?”

  “I'm not at the hunting lodge, Weed. I'm right here, in Washington.”

  “Certain persons, if promptly quizzed, might swear that you were at the lodge. For instance: Miss Evelyn Coyd; and also Miss Beatrice Rydel. If Senator Releston should call the lodge, by long distance, this very evening—”

  “One moment, Weed. You actually intend to see Releston?”

  “I do. And if he requires a counter witness, there is a man named Mullard—one of Dunwood Rydel's chauffeurs, I believe—”

  “You know more than I thought you did, Weed. Say nothing further. I am ready to talk terms.”

  The blatant tone had ended. Weed smiled as he saw the look of resignation that had come over the tight−skinned face. His point was won; he listened for his victim's next statement.

  “Go back to your hotel,” came the slow pronouncement. “Say nothing of your visit here. I have a conference tonight with a certain man—one whose name you have probably guessed—and I shall tell him that I intend to support your enterprises.

  “After all, such a course may be advisable. It will carry attention away from other matters. Since I am deemed eccentric, it is preferable that I should play the role in full. On second thought, Weed, I believe that your visit here has been a fortunate one.

  “You will hear from me to−morrow.” Advancing, the speaker clamped a friendly hand on Weed's shoulder.

  “I shall call by telephone and arrange a definite appointment. Meanwhile”—he was drawing Weed to the door while speaking—“you can prepare your own plans. Use wisdom. Arrange a systematic campaign whereby your requests will come at intervals. We must cooperate in this game, Weed.”

  The lobbyist nodded. His shaggy−haired host opened the door and urged him into the hall. Weed thrust out a hand and received the firm shake that was characteristic of Congressman Coyd. The door closed; the lobbyist strolled toward the stairs.

  Inside the room, a vast change had come over the countenance of Congressman Layton Coyd. The apartment dweller was listening to the departure of Weed's footsteps. Satisfied that the lobbyist was gone, he wheeled about and hurried to the telephone. Hastily, he dialed a number; when a voice responded, he spoke in quick, abrupt terms:

  “Weed was here... Tyson Weed, the lobbyist... Yes, he's wise... Yes, I handled him. He's gone back to his hotel... Expects to hear from me to−morrow.

&nb
sp; “You'll handle it? Good! That's best. In person; then no one will know... What's that? The other hideout? Yes, you're right... I'll start there at once... Yes, I can call Mullard myself, at the F Street garage...”

  A look of elation showed on the tight features of Congressman Coyd. A quick hand hung up the receiver; a rapid finger dialed a number. In disguised tone, the speaker asked for Mullard; when the chauffeur answered, he gave abrupt orders to come at once.

  OUTSIDE the old apartment building, Tyson Weed had paused to light a cigarette. The match showed his grin; then, as he puffed his smoke, the lobbyist strode along Q Street. His lanky figure was moving at its customary gait. Weed came beneath a lamplight; his leering figures showed.

  Eyes spotted him from across the street. A watcher saw Weed turn the corner. A hunched form edged toward the old apartment building. It was Hawkeye. The Shadow's agent had seen the tall man come from the house; upon recognizing Weed, Hawkeye knew where the lobbyist had been.

  Crossing the street, Hawkeye entered the converted apartment house. He looked about the first floor; then sneaked up to the second. Staring along the passage, he saw the opened window to the fire escape. Hawkeye went in that direction. Peering from the window, he saw the opened window of apartment 2D.

  Hawkeye eased out to the fire escape. He slipped into the window of the bedroom. He saw the glimmer that edged the farther door. Imitating Weed, Hawkeye did a sneak in that direction. He reached the door; just as he laid his hand upon the knob, the barrier was yanked open. Hawkeye stopped short; he found himself staring into the livid countenance of Congressman Layton Coyd.

  This time, it was the intruder who was surprised; moreover, Hawkeye was of a different ilk than Weed.

  Before The Shadow's substitute could make a move, a fierce oath came from Coyd's spread lips. Strong hands shot for Hawkeye's throat.

  The grapple that followed was a swift one. Hawkeye was gripped by an antagonist to whom fury had lent unexpected strength; at the same time, The Shadow's agent was as slippery as an eel. He twisted to the living room; there, they banged about, upsetting furniture in the struggle. As they bowled against a table, Hawkeye twisted free.

  Dropping back to a corner near the bedroom door, Hawkeye yanked a revolver from his pocket. He covered his foe with the weapon; he heard a snarl, then saw the look of terror that flashed upon his enemy's dried countenance. Hawkeye grinned, more wisely than had Weed. It was the spotter's turn to talk terms with Congressman Layton Coyd.

  As Hawkeye puffed for breath, a sound made him turn. He was just in time to see the door from the hall swing open. On the threshold was a man in chauffeur's uniform: Mullard.

  The fellow's face was set in an ugly grimace. Mullard had arrived to hear the crash of conflict; he had opened the door with a duplicate key. He had yanked a revolver, to deal with the intruder.

  Covered by Mullard's gun, Hawkeye had only one course: self−preservation. He did not lose an instant in taking it. With a quick spring, Hawkeye dived for the bedroom. Mullard fired viciously, but too late. The chauffeur's bullet whistled wide of The Shadow's substitute.

  LOPING through the bedroom, Hawkeye gained the window and dived for the fire escape. He was just in time. Mullard had reached the bedroom; two shots stabbed from the chauffeur's gun.

  Hawkeye twisted through the rail and clung there to take aim; but Mullard had reached the window. The chauffeur saw the whiteness of Hawkeye's wizened face and jabbed shots at the fugitive.

  As the first bullet whistled past the tip of Hawkeye's ear, the spotter dropped from the fire escape. Wise was his move; for Mullard's second shot zizzed past the very spot where the little trailer had been.

  Gasping a wild cry as he fell, Hawkeye plopped to the mud of the alleyway and rolled beneath the hinged ladder of the fire escape.

  Mullard had heard Hawkeye's gasp. The chauffeur thought that he had crippled his quarry. Windows were banging upward in the apartments on other floors.

  Mullard swung about, snatched a big suitcase from the floor and dashed through the living room. He saw his companion waiting; whiteness registered on Coyd's tight features.

  “I bagged him,” growled Mullard “Let's get away, in a hurry. Who was he?”

  “Some thief,” was the reply. “Weed was here; the fellow must have found the window that he opened.”

  Footsteps clattered as the two men dashed down the front stairs. Outside, they leaped into the limousine which Mullard had parked a few doors below. As yet, excitement had not reached the front of the building.

  Coyd shot the big car from the curb.

  Just as the limousine wheeled away, a wizened face poked from a corner of the old house. Hawkeye's sharp eyes saw the departure; the spotter knew that pursuit was hopeless. No vehicle was handy to take up the chase. Sidling away, Hawkeye scurried along Q Street, anxious to get away from this terrain before police arrived.

  The Shadow's substitute had done his best; but the breaks had been against him. Too late to spot Weed's entry, Hawkeye had reached the hide−out only to encounter trouble. Instead of gaining a triumph for The Shadow, the little substitute had been lucky to save his own hide.

  To−night, success had been in the balance. Had The Shadow; himself, been present to trail Tyson Weed, the schemes that involved Congressman Coyd would have been nipped in the bud. Had The Shadow witnessed that interview, evil purposes would have been revealed.

  Fate had decreed otherwise. The game was still on; and with it, crime was due. The flash of opportunity had passed. New tasks would confront The Shadow.

  CHAPTER XIV. MURDER BY NIGHT.

  HAWKEYE'S experience had been a rough one; but the little spotter had twisted free from his trap. In that, Hawkeye had been fortunate—much luckier than another of The Shadow's agents. For while Hawkeye, free and unhurt by his drop to the muddy alley, was sidling away from Q Street, Cliff Marsland was experiencing the tight close of a trap from which he could see no escape.

  Bound to a chair, his arms crossed behind his back, Cliff was blinking at the single light of an underground room. Windowless, whitewashed walls surrounded him; between Cliff and the only door stood the quartette of ruffians who had brought him here. Chief of the four was Jake Thurler, a venomous, snarling inquisitor.

  “Not squawking, eh?” came Jake's quiz. It was a reference to the stolidness that Cliff had maintained. “Well, that ain't going to last forever. Get that hunk of lead pipe, Pete. Shove it in them ropes behind this mug's back.”

  Pete complied. Jake, glaring, was about to issue another threat when a sharp rap sounded at the door. Jake gestured to another rowdy. The fellow pulled back the bolt and admitted a squatty man in evening clothes.

  “Hello, Stew,” laughed Jake. “Want to see me put the heat on this bozo?”

  “What are you going to do?” queried Stew. “Maul him?”

  “Not yet,” leered Jake. “Too many taps on the konk makes a mug goofy. Sometimes they ain't able to squawk even when they want to. I got a better way.”

  “What's the lay, Jake? When you brought this bird in the back way, I said use your bean about him. What's he been pulling?”

  “Trailin' a pal of mine, Stew. I said I'd find out what his racket was—who he was workin' for.”

  “And your pal said to give him the heat?”

  “No. But two fellows said to nab him; and they left it up to me. Maybe they'd be soft enough to yap if they saw me workin' on this guy; but they ain't here.”

  STEW looked doubtful. Cliff watched the gambler's calloused face; for a moment he was hopeful. Not that he saw any mercy in Stew Luffy's expression; on the contrary, the gambler's hard countenance was more merciless than Jake Thurler's ratty face.

  Cliff's hope was that Stew might consider it poor policy to make a torture chamber out of this room beneath his gambling joint. For a moment, Stew seemed inclined in that direction. It was Jake who turned the trend.

  “This mug was around the Nayland House,” he informed. “That's the best spot I g
ot, Stew, for snaggin' the saps that I bring out here. Maybe he was watchin' me, too. I gotta find out, don't I?”

  Stew nodded.

  “Better make him talk,” decided the gambler. “The place is yours, Jake.”

  Jake grinned as the gambler turned about and went to the door. Stew had decided to wash his hands of the cutthroat crew. Jake and his ruffians had proven useful at times.

  “Coming down later, Stew?”

  “Maybe,” returned the gambler, in response to Jake's question. “If the guy's got anything to spill, I'd like to hear it.”

  As soon as the door was closed, Jake spoke to Pete. The underling had shoved the lead pipe into the ropes.

  Another hoodlum took the opposite end of the bar. Together, they twisted. Cliff winced as the tightening ropes jerked back his shoulders. He felt as if he were in a strait−jacket.

  “Hold it that way,” rasped Jake. “Let him get used to it. Slap another turn when I give the word.”

  Stew Luffy, upon leaving the cellar room, had gone up a flight of stairs to reach another door. There, the gambler rapped. The door opened; Stew faced a big, pock−faced rowdy who served as bouncer in the gambling joint. The pair stood in a little hallway, with a door opposite. Stew gestured down the darkened corridor.

  “Anybody on the back door, Frank?”

  “Yeah,” returned the bouncer. “Muggsy is out there. He let Jake and them other guys come in.”

  “I'll send some of the boys around from the front,” decided Stew. “We need more than one man there. If there's a raid, we'll need time to tip off Jake. He's putting the heat on a guy. Wanted me to come back and watch.”

  “Going down again, boss?”

  “Me? Not a chance. I'm going in and watch the suckers lose their wads. Say—there'll be a fifty−grand take to−night. No sap has a chance in this joint.”

  “Not with that gaffed roulette wheel. Say, boss—you've fixed this racket great.”

  “It's just started. If it stays quiet for a couple of weeks, we'll all be sitting pretty. That's why I'm letting Jake put the heat on the guy he grabbed. Maybe the bird knows too much. It's best to find out.”