The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92

by Maxwell Grant

  With that, Stew opened the door opposite the cellar. Frank grinned as he saw the boss depart, en route to the gambling room where gullible players were losing their money on a fixed roulette wheel. Frank's chuckle indicated his admiration for Stew; but the bouncer's gloating was due for a sudden finish.

  Something moved amid the blackness of the back door corridor. Like gruesome tentacles of night, two outstretched arms came forward. Then darkness became a living shape.

  A cloaked figure followed the arms; a silent, living avalanche swooped hard upon Frank, before the big bouncer realized what was arriving.

  IT was The Shadow, swift, noiseless and expert in his overwhelming attack. Frank, gasping, stared bulge−eyed into fiery optics as gloved hands pressed his throat.

  Frantically, the bouncer struggled, clutching at a twisting form that managed to wrench from his grappling arms. All the while, thumbs pressed hard against the big fellow's windpipe.

  Frank slumped. The hands released their grip. The bouncer rallied for a struggle; but arms were clutching him for the final stroke. A lithe, powerful figure snapped backward; the bouncer hurtled head foremost to the floor. His skull cracked the wall. Frank lay half stunned.

  Snapping away the fellow's belt, The Shadow bound Frank's hands behind his back. This was his second swift victory. Entering the back door of the gambling joint, he had clipped “Muggsy” on the chin and left that victim senseless, bound and gagged as well.

  The Shadow finished his job with Frank by gagging the bouncer with the fellow's own handkerchief. That done, The Shadow unlocked the cellar door.

  In the improvised torture chamber, Cliff Marsland had experienced the agony of a second twist. His back was tight against the rear of the chair; the topmost rung was cutting against his spine. The strain upon his shoulders was even worse. His arms felt ready to wrench from their sockets.

  Cliff realized what torture the next twist would bring. He foresaw permanent injury should he be wrenched to a worse position and held there. Yet Cliff was grim in his defiance. He was ready to hold out, despite the fact that rescue seemed hopeless. Cliff did not know that Hawkeye had been a witness of his capture.

  “Spill it, mug,” oathed Jake Thurler, his ugly face close to Cliff's. “Who told you to tag Quidler? What's the trouble? Not comfortable enough? I'll fix that. Go ahead, you guys. Give it another twist—”

  Jake broke off and held up his hand to stop the torturers. Some one was rapping at the door. Jake nodded to the hoodlum stationed there. The fellow pulled back the bolt and swung the barrier inward.

  “It's Stew,” chuckled Jake. “Come to lamp the fun. I thought he'd be back—”

  Jake blinked suddenly. For a moment, he saw only the blackness of the cellar. Then, to his astonishment, the gloom moved inward. A swish, a sudden change of shape. Blackness had become a living being. A whispered laugh echoed through the cell−like room. Jake gasped his recognition:

  “The Shadow!”

  A FIGURE cloaked in black, burning eyes that glared from beneath the brim of a slouch hat. Mammoth automatics, thrust forward by gloved fists. Those were the impressions that held vicious crooks staring.

  Jake stood helpless; so did the cutthroat at the door. Pete and his companion loosed their grip upon the lead pipe; their hands came upward.

  Cliff Marsland grinned weakly as he tugged forward. The bar revolved among the ropes. The strain ended.

  Cliff's muscles responded with more than normal strength. He gave a powerful twist, vainly hoping to break a rope; his success was different than he expected.

  The side of the chair back broke. As the wood crackled, the rope slid from it. Cliff drew one arm free; then used it to tug the other free. Rising, he twisted and pressed down upon the broken chair as he pulled his ankles clear from the lower ropes. That job was easy, once he had gained a standing position.

  There was no need to talk. Jake and his crew had learned who Cliff's chief was. Their realization that they were faced by The Shadow had been a stunning blow. But Cliff's regaining of freedom was to produce a change.

  Jake was maddened at the thought of the captive being clear to demand vengeance. Insanely, the rat−faced rogue made a wild leap for The Shadow.

  The move would have been suicidal but for the actions of the others. As maddened as Jake, they, too, went berserk. The hoodlum at the door snatched out a gun. So did the torturers behind the chair. Cliff was between them and The Shadow; he was their shield, and knowing it, they leaped for the released prisoner.

  The Shadow had caught the moves in a twinkling. Instead of blazing a shot at Jake, he wheeled suddenly from the wild crook's path. He shot one hand upward and pressed the trigger of its automatic. Flame spurted toward the single light in the ceiling; the bullet shattered the huge incandescent.

  While glass was clattering amid the sudden darkness, an automatic blazed in the direction of the door. A cry—a groan— The Shadow had clipped the guard who had been posted at the barrier. He had picked the rowdy's exact position in the dark.

  Cliff parried the swing of wild arms in the dark. Free from the broken chair, he dived across the room, heading for the door. He knew that The Shadow wanted him clear of the fray. He was responding to that wish. The Shadow heard Cliff stumble over the prone form of the wounded crook.

  Revolvers were barking wildly; in response came automatics, their blaze from an unexpected inner corner.

  Jake and his two pals saw the spurts; wildly, they fired in that direction, forgetting the door in their effort to down The Shadow. Cliff, stumbling through, gained the stairway.

  AUTOMATICS spat in earnest. His unarmed agent clear, The Shadow had no longer need to tarry. Ever shifting, he had moved away from telltale spots where his guns had flashed; but crooks, with their spurting revolvers, had forgotten the need for motion in the dark.

  Ripping bursts were thunderous in the stone−walled room as The Shadow dispatched scorching slugs toward living targets.

  His laugh, triumphant, quivered mockingly through the torture chamber as The Shadow whisked through the doorway and followed Cliff's path. Groans and oaths, belated shots—those alone pursued the master of darkness. The Shadow had felled every member of Jake's crew, including the rat−faced ruffian himself.

  Cliff had reached the upper hallway to find Frank's outsprawled figure. A revolver was bulging from the bouncer's pocket. Cliff snatched the weapon; and none too soon.

  Cries came from the end of the hallway. Stew's door crew had come around the building, to find Muggsy bound and helpless. Entering, they had spotted Cliff.

  The Shadow's agent opened fire. As he did, the cellar door swung outward. From the crack between the door and the frame, a fresh automatic blasted quick shots down the hall.

  Cliff heard a hissed order; he dived for the door that led into the gambling rooms. He was no longer a target when the men at the back door found the range.

  The cover−up crew was advancing; the progress stopped as the invaders met The Shadow's withering cannonade. Under that barrage, they faltered. As the foremost ruffians staggered, those behind them turned and scrambled for the safety of outdoors. The Shadow, swishing out from behind the door, delivered final bullets. The corridor cleared, he followed Cliff's path.

  Straight into the gambling room. There, Cliff had stopped short. Tuxedoed men and gowned women had heard the gunplay; they were scurrying for side rooms, while frightened croupiers were gathering up money from the roulette table.

  Stew Luffy, revolver in hand, was standing in the center of the room. Alone, he was ready to shoot it out with any comer.

  HURTLING in from a passage, Cliff took the challenge. As Stew blazed hasty shots, Cliff answered with bullets that skimmed the gambler's coat sleeves. Recognizing the prisoner whom he had failed to favor, Stew feared further quarrel.

  As croupiers burrowed their way behind slot machines along the wall, Stew dived past the roulette table.

  Behind its bulk, he popped up with his gun.

&n
bsp; Cliff, taking a short−cut, had reached the near side of the table. Dropping as Stew came up, Cliff hoisted the table with a mighty heave and toppled its entire bulk upon his foe. Stew, scrambling back, was too late.

  The table flattened him; his revolver clattered across the carpet as his head thudded the floor. Money scattered everywhere; the roulette wheel jolted loose and rolled to a stop, exposing the wiring of the electrical equipment that had been used to gyp the customers.

  A shot blazed from the front door., A bullet sizzled past Cliff's ear and shattered the glass front of a slot machine. Cliff swung to respond; he saw two bouncers aiming from the door. Then came roared flashes from the passage by which Cliff had entered. The Shadow had arrived; his timely bullets clipped those aiming gun arms.

  The staggered bouncers dived shrieking from the exit. The Shadow swept after them; and Cliff dashed forward behind his cloaked chief. They gained the outside air; there, The Shadow clamped Cliff's arm and dragged the rescued man through the darkness. Across the driveway, they reached The Shadow's coupé, parked among other cars.

  The coupé shot along a curving drive. Shouts arose, as Stew's reserves, rounding the building, spied the fast−moving car. Revolvers spoke wildly; then their users dived for cover as The Shadow leaned from the window and blazed answering bullets from the muzzle of a .45.

  As they skirted the side of the old mansion that Stew had converted into a gambling hall, Cliff caught the sound of bedlam. Cheated customers had peered out from the side rooms to see the ruined roulette layout.

  The fixed wheel had raised their wrath. The patrons of Stew's joint were scrambling to grab money from the floor, overwhelming the resisting croupiers who tried to stop them.

  Horns were honking; a siren was wailing from the distance. Local authorities had been summoned. They would find the crippled rowdies whom The Shadow had left amid the wreckage. Stew Luffy's gambling racket was ended. The Shadow's laugh, weird from the blackness beside Cliff Marsland, was a tone of parting triumph.

  HALF an hour later, a cloaked figure emerged from the coupé, in an obscure corner of the parking lot beside the Hotel Halcyon. Cliff Marsland followed The Shadow to the ground; he saw no sign of his chief after he alighted. Grinning, despite his weariness, Cliff strolled away. He was going to join Hawkeye, in their own quarters.

  The Shadow, reaching a deserted doorway below the hotel, had undergone a transformation. When he stepped into view, he was again Henry Arnaud, carrying a briefcase. Entering the Hotel Halcyon, The Shadow traveled up to Room 808.

  Burbank was ready with reports amid the darkness. The contact man had heard from Hawkeye, in detail. That report given, Burbank had one of his own. It concerned Tyson Weed.

  “Nine minutes after Hawkeye reported,” informed the contact man, “Weed arrived in 1012. He put in a long−distance call to New York. Informed some one there that he had fixed everything.

  “Three minutes afterward, Weed turned on the radio. He kept it loud for about five minutes; then turned it down. It is still tuned in on Station WIT, which has not yet finished its half−hour orchestra program.”

  The Shadow took the earphones. The only sound that he could hear from 1012 was that of the radio orchestra.

  It was tuned very faintly; yet the melody contained a variety of instruments, indicating that at full strength, the sound must have been deafening.

  With a significant whisper to Burbank, The Shadow again donned his cloak and hat. He raised the window and swung out into the darkness of the night. Swinging precariously along the wall, The Shadow followed that angled route that he had used on his first visit to the Hotel Halcyon.

  He reached Weed's balcony; there, he forced open the window and carefully lifted the lowered shade. A moment later, The Shadow eased into the room. A spectral figure, he stood amid the mellow light from a table lamp, gazing toward the floor.

  FOUR feet from the softly tuned radio lay Tyson Weed. The lobbyist was staring face upward; his body, fully clad, was sprawled in grotesque pose. Weed's vest was opened; blood stained his shirt front. The lobbyist was dead; shot through the heart.

  The Shadow entered the opened door of the bedroom. Through darkness, he made his way to a door that opened into the hall. That barrier was unlocked; it swung lazily inward as The Shadow pulled it. The door had been pried open with a jimmy.

  Returning to the living room, The Shadow reconstructed the scene. Calculating the time element, he knew that a call must have been made from that old apartment that Weed had visited. Some one had come here while the chauffeur was on his way to the hideout that Hawkeye had later visited.

  The unknown intruder had arrived before Weed. He had hurriedly cracked the door from hall to bedroom.

  Burbank had not heard it; a proof that the connecting door between the bedroom and living room had been closed. Nor had Weed noticed it; for the bedroom entrance was farther down the passage than the door which Weed would logically use; namely, the entrance from hall to living room.

  Weed had made his telephone call. When he had finished talking to New York, he must have turned to find an intruder who had silently entered the living room from the bedroom. Weed had made no outcry; he must have simply stared at sight of a leveled gun. The intruder, covering Weed, had turned on the radio.

  Burbank had heard the ear−splitting cadence of the loud orchestra. Hence he had failed to hear the shot that must have come while the radio was blaring loudly. Weed had fallen; one bullet had killed him. The murderer himself had toned down the radio, then departed.

  A cool, calculated crime; yet every detail was plain to The Shadow, thanks to Hawkeye's report and Burbank's vigil at the earphones. Hawkeye had reported two men at the apartment on Q Street; Coyd and a chauffeur. Neither of these could have come to the Hotel Halcyon in time to deliver death.

  Some one else had performed lone murder. The killer had disposed of Weed because the lobbyist had learned too much. There had been thievery at Releston's; The Shadow had encountered hand−to−hand fighting at Rydel's; there had been gunplay at Stew Luffy's place this very night.

  WEED'S death, however, marked the first stroke of outright murder. The Shadow, himself hidden, had challenged hidden crime; luck, alone, had blocked his narrowing quest. Here, in defiance of The Shadow, lay the corpse of a murdered victim.

  Crime's fangs were fully bared. Those behind it had shown their willingness to stop at nothing. New efforts by The Shadow would be urgent. Calm in the face of this confirmed knowledge, the master of blackness moved out to the little balcony. Locking the window as he had done before, he swung back down the trail to 808.

  Burbank was seated with dead earphones. Coiled wire fell to the floor; with it the microphone, for The Shadow had brought the instrument from Weed's room. No longer needed, that tiny device would be a bad clue to leave in a place where murder would soon be discovered by the law.

  Doffing the useless earphones, Burbank heard a sound amid the darkness. It was a whispered laugh, suppressed but sinister; a restrained mirth that came with grimness. Burbank had heard that tone before; he knew its meaning. The Shadow's laugh boded ill for those fiends who dealt in heinous crime.

  CHAPTER XV. BEFORE THE STORM.

  THREE days had passed. Bright afternoon pervaded Washington. The sunlight was pleasant in Layton Coyd's upstairs living room. Seated in the comfortable warmth, the congressman showed healthy cheerfulness as he chatted with two visitors: Senator Ross Releston and Foster Crozan.

  Doctor Pierre Borneau was smiling as he noted the improved health of his patient. Harry Vincent, here with Releston and Crozan, was also impressed by the change which had come over Coyd. Jurrick and Tabbert, moving in and out of the room, seemed to have forgotten their old grudges.

  “Three days of complete relaxation,” commented Coyd, driving his hands against his swelled chest. “A tonic, gentlemen, that I recommend to any one whose nerves have been bad. Of course, I must still give some credit to Doctor Borneau's medicine. I took my kit of bottle
s with me; my daughter saw to it that I missed no doses.

  But it was sunshine, freedom from worry, that brought about my full recovery.”

  “You have our congratulations, Mr. Coyd,” assured Releston. “Let us hope that you will not plunge into overwork. That is one thing to be avoided.”

  “I can't promise you that,” remarked Coyd. “I have work to do and I intend to do it. If I tire, I shall take another rest. But I promise you this, senator. I shall give no interviews to the press.”

  “You have decided definitely to make no public statements regarding committee procedures?”

  “Not exactly, senator. Two days from now, I intend to speak before the National Progress Society, at their semiannual banquet. My speech will be broadcasted over a national network. However, I shall give you a full copy of it beforehand and—”

  “Do not be too optimistic, Mr. Coyd,” put in Doctor Borneau. “Remember, sir, what I told you. Starting once again at the hard work may mean a strain. It is for me to say if you can go to the banquet.”

  “Of course, doctor,” nodded Coyd. “Of course, if I am not well, I shall not attend the banquet. In that case, I shall broadcast from here. Those at the banquet will hear my speech over the loud−speaker. That can all be arranged, doctor.”

  “You have a good physician, Mr. Coyd,” stated Releston. “Doctor Borneau and I met at dinner last Wednesday night.”

  “Where, senator?”

  “At the French Embassy. We were together all evening, in fact until long after midnight. Incidentally, doctor, I have not forgotten all those facts that you mentioned regarding nervous ailments. I was greatly impressed by the tremendous scope of your knowledge and experience.”

  “Thank you, senator,” observed Borneau, with a bow; then, twisting the points of his mustache, he added: “I must return the compliment, m'sieu'; your knowledge of the government exceeds that knowledge which I have of medicine and—”