“Wednesday night!” interposed Coyd. “That was the night that some one murdered that fellow Weed. I am sorry that he met with such sudden death; but I must also express gratification that there is one less lobbyist in Washington. He pestered you, senator, just as he did me.”
“I HAVE not seen Weed for several weeks,” recalled Releston. “The last time was before you arrived, Crozan. Let me see—Weed was never about since you have been stopping at the Barlingham.”
“No,” returned Crozan. “Not unless it was during that short interval that I went home to obtain those documents on the mining investigation. I arrived back here just after the robbery at your apartment.”
“Yes. Of course, Weed was not about at that time. If he had been, I would have blamed him definitely for the theft of those duplicate papers. Do you know, Crozan, this murder makes me wonder about that matter.”
“You mean that Weed might have been slain because he had the papers.”
“Yes. It is quite a possible theory. I have not mentioned it to the police, however, as I did not want to stir up new comment.”
“Of course not. You told the press that the papers were of little consequence. Incidentally, the newspapers said that Weed's suite showed no signs of having been rifled.”
“The murderer might have known where he had the papers.”
“Yes. That is true—”
Crozan paused as Jurrick entered. The secretary had been downstairs. He was coming in to announce a visitor. Something in his expression indicated surprising news. Jurrick spoke to Coyd:
“Mr. Rydel is here, sir.”
“What!” exclaimed the congressman. “Dunwood Rydel? What does he want?”
“He did not say, sir.”
“Show him up.”
EXPECTANT silence still held the group when Dunwood Rydel entered. The dyspeptic magnate was as sour−faced as usual. He nodded curtly when he saw Releston; glowered as he looked at Crozan. Then he advanced and spoke directly to Coyd.
“Sorry to annoy you with this visit,” declared Rydel, gruffly. “It is paternal duty, not friendship that brought me here. I came to ask about my daughter.”
“Ah, yes,” nodded Coyd. “Your daughter Beatrice is still in Virginia, with Evelyn. I saw both of them this morning, before I left.”
“I suppose that Beatrice was all broken up when she received that letter yesterday?”
“What letter? She did not speak of it to me.”
“I wrote her from New York, telling her about that fiancé of hers. I saw a report that the bounder had eloped with some French actress in London. At least that was the rumor.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Coyd, chuckling as he rose to his feet. “I remember it now, Mr. Rydel. It was Evelyn who told me about the matter; not Beatrice. Your daughter, it appears, was indignant, rather than broken−hearted. But I did not know that she had learned the news through a letter from you.”
“Allow me, Mr. Rydel.” Coyd paused, chuckling, and extended his hand, which the magnate received half hesitating. “Allow me, sir, to extend my full congratulations. You have been freed from the menace of a most undesirable son−in−law.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coyd,” acknowledged Rydel, ending the handshake. He was smiling in spite of himself. “Of all the conceited dolts I ever encountered, that actor was the worst. Montgomery Hadwil! Bah! I would sooner have my daughter marry one of my chauffeurs!”
Turning about, Rydel looked at Releston. His smile faded as he addressed the senator.
“Well, sir,” said the magnate, “I have finished my brief business with Mr. Coyd. Since you are present, senator, I take this opportunity to inform you that I have just arrived back in Washington. Should you wish to see me at any time, I shall be at my home.”
“You have been in New York all this while, Mr. Rydel?”
Rydel swung about. The question had come from Foster Crozan. This interference in Rydel's affairs apparently enraged the magnate.
“I said,” he repeated, “that I arrived back in Washington this morning. Where I have been during the interim is my business. Not yours, Crozan.”
Abruptly, Rydel turned on his heel and strode stormily from the room. Coyd, head tilted to one side, watched the magnate's departure rather curiously; then signaled to Tabbert to descend and usher Rydel from the house.
Jurrick went over to the medicine chest and began to take out bottles. Doctor Borneau spoke to the secretary.
“Mr. Coyd has taken his prescription,” stated the physician. “Tabbert prepared it. He will need no more medicine until to−morrow.”
Coyd had seated himself heavily. He looked weary as he beckoned to Jurrick. Doctor Borneau showed an expression of sudden anxiety.
“Prepare those reports, Jurrick,” ordered Coyd. Then, to his visitors: “Gentlemen, I am weary. My mind is befogged again; probably through over−effort. Bah! Rydel coming in here like a wild beast! I tried to humor the man; to show him some consideration. He is impossible!”
DOCTOR BORNEAU motioned to Senator Releston. The gray−haired solon nodded and spoke to Crozan and Harry. The two followed him downstairs; they encountered Tabbert on the way and the secretary conducted them to the front door. They entered Releston's sedan; this time there was no coupé parked opposite.
“What do you think of Rydel?” Releston asked Crozan as Harry drove them back toward the Barlingham.
“Do you think he had some purpose in visiting Coyd? Do you believe that he saw my car outside? That he made a pretext for entering?”
“It would not surprise me,” answered Crozan. “That was why I challenged him. Did you notice how abruptly he treated me?”
“Of course, Crozan, your question was rather pointed.”
“I meant it to be. Here was my reason, senator. Rydel went to New York the morning after Coyd's statement to the press. That was significant. It meant, logically, that Rydel wanted to be on hand for the rise in the stock market.”
“Good reasoning, Crozan.”
“But the rise was spiked. Accordingly, Rydel had no further purpose in New York. Logically, he would have come back to Washington.”
“Quite logically.”
“So I intimated as much, senator, to see what his reaction would be. Rydel guessed what I was driving at; he had to parry my thrust. He took the tack of pretending that he had really stayed in New York.”
“He did not say so, outright.”
“I take it he was afraid to do so. Afraid that one of us might have seen him here in Washington.”
“Have you seen him here, Crozan?”
“No. I seldom leave my rooms at the Barlingham; but Rydel does not know that fact. That is why he hedged—as I expected he would.”
REACHING the Barlingham, Harry parked the car and went up to Releston's apartment. The senator instructed him to keep in close touch with Congressman Coyd, in reference to the speech which Coyd intended to deliver. Harry found other duties; it was almost evening before he managed an opportunity to leave the senator's apartment.
Dusk had obscured the Hotel Halcyon. In Suite 808, a figure was seated in front of the writing table. It was The Shadow, in his guise as Arnaud; Burbank was off duty, asleep in the other room. The telephone buzzed; The Shadow answered it. He spoke in a quiet, methodical tone, a perfect imitation of Burbank's voice. Harry Vincent reported.
Five minutes later came a report from Clyde Burke; the reporter was keeping tabs on the police investigation of Weed's murder. Twenty minutes later, Cliff Marsland called in, reporting for himself and Hawkeye. They had picked up no facts concerning Walbert and Quidler, except that the dicks had checked out of their respective hotels.
It was obvious that the sleuths had decided to decamp after hearing of the raid at Stew's gambling joint; and the news of Weed's death had doubtless spurred them to an immediate departure.
The Shadow was no longer concerned with Walbert and Quidler. They were harmless; it had been Jake's idea, not theirs, to torture Cliff. The Shadow had ass
igned Cliff and Hawkeye to more important duty. Cliff was watching Dunwood Rydel's home; Hawkeye was covering the F Street garage, where Mullard frequently took the big limousine.
Tyson Weed's death was a mystery to the police. The Shadow was content that it should remain so. With Weed eliminated, the plans of crooks would proceed. That suited The Shadow; for he knew that their chief purpose was the gaining of wealth, not the taking of human life.
Men of crime would work as they had before; through Congressman Layton Coyd. The Shadow had gained an insight into their procedure; fitted facts showed him the answer that he had sought. When crooks chose to move, The Shadow would do likewise. Already he had guessed when their new stroke would come.
For in the facts that Harry Vincent had reported in detail were clues that The Shadow needed. He saw the approach of opportunity for men of evil to thrust in quest of wealth. One failure had not balked them; another chance was due.
A chance for greater wealth; a cleanup that would surpass the attempt to build up munitions stocks. That chance which crooks were prepared to seize would be a chance for The Shadow to counteract their superstroke.
CHAPTER XVI. TWO DAYS LATER.
TWO nights had passed. It was noon in Washington, the sidewalks an inferno from the heat of the sun. Mild weather had been followed by an unexpected heat wave—if such an occurrence could ever be called unexpected in Washington.
Coming from the Hotel Barlingham, Harry Vincent entered a drug store and put in a telephone call. The voice that answered him was Burbank's. Harry reported tersely.
“Coyd's this morning,” he stated. “Doctor's order final... Coyd to speak from his home... Radio electricians have completed installation... Coyd's speech denouncing utility profits approved by Releston... Returning to Coyd's with copy. Will remain there...”
His report ended, Harry entered the parked sedan and drove to Coyd's. Mose admitted him, and Jurrick met him on the stairs. The secretary shook his head solemnly; the indication was that Coyd had felt the heat severely.
When Harry arrived in the second−story living room, he found the congressman slumped in his chair.
Looking up, Coyd smiled weakly as he saw the copy of his speech in Harry's hand.
“Releston likes it?” he inquired.
“The senator is highly pleased,” responded Harry. “In fact, he feels that you have gone further than essential.
Those utilities that you mention—”
“I understand,” interrupted Coyd. “My speech almost condemns them. Why not? Their rates have been excessive, Vincent. To state that they will be placed under permanent regulation is a wise step.”
“Senator Releston knows that,” assured Harry. “But he told me to remind you that the committees intend to fix the rates definitely. Once regulation is made, the government's part will be done.”
“Do you know what that means, Vincent?” demanded Coyd, sitting upright, despite the protest of Tabbert, who was present. “Once the rates are settled, they will make economies that will enable them to build new profits.
“They will grasp!” Coyd extended his hands and clutched the air. “They will grasp, like octopuses—or octopi—drat it! Hand me that copy of my speech so I can see which is correct: octopuses or octopi.
“No—never mind! I'll read it correctly when I come to it. Anyway, those utilities will grasp. They always grasp, the lot of them. I shall defy them—”
Coyd slumped back, gasping. His eyes closed wearily. Harry spoke quietly.
“ACCORDING to Senator Releston,” declared Harry, “the danger does not lie in the future. Once the utilities are properly regulated, their profits cannot be too great. At least those of certain utilities, the ones which the committees have specifically named.
“The danger, sir, is in the present. Should a false statement be made by either you or Senator Releston, the prices of stocks would leap. Huge profits would be made by present holders; and there is every reason to suppose that a hidden group has invested heavily in those securities.”
“I know it,” said Coyd, with a weak chuckle. “I know it, Vincent, and that is why I have worded my speech accordingly. I want to make those stocks go down; I want my revenge upon the scalawags who tried to clean up on munitions.
“I was nearly the goat for that game. Even yet, I cannot understand how or why I made such strange statements. My worried brain must have tricked me to do the very thing that I would not normally have done.
“That is why I have gone to the other extreme. I have made my speech so strong, so full of adverse inference, that small stockholders will unload at the present price, which is a fair one, and leave the swindlers holding the bag, unable to sell except at a great loss. Why does Releston object?”
“He does not object,” replied Harry, tactfully. “At the same time, he showed reluctance in finally approving statements which tended to exaggeration. He told me to mention that fact, Mr. Coyd. However, he said that he would have disapproved any statements that might have aided speculation.”
“I have placed none in my speech,” remarked Coyd. “So the matter is settled, Vincent. Sit down, if you intend to remain here. Let me rest a while. I expect to rehearse my speech after Doctor Borneau arrives.”
HALF an hour passed while Harry lolled in a chair. Tabbert and Jurrick stole in and out at intervals. It was Tabbert, finally, who approached and spoke quietly to Coyd, napping in his chair by the window.
“A radio technician is here, Mr. Coyd,” said the red−haired secretary. “He wants to install some apparatus.
Some sort of device to increase the intensity of the sound.”
“Tell him to proceed, Tabbert.”
The secretary went out. He came back, lugging one end of a large box, the size of a typewriter desk. Jurrick was at the other end; with them was a stooped man in overalls, whose back was toward Harry. The box was shoved into a corner. The man in overalls squatted in front of it and began to make connections.
Both secretaries had gone out when the man arose to survey his job. Even then, Harry had not seen the fellow's face. He saw the man pull an order book from his hip pocket. Coyd, his eyes open, spoke to Harry.
“You sign it, Vincent,” ordered the congressman, wearily. “Neither of my secretaries are here.”
Harry met the man in overalls; he scrawled his name on a line which a finger indicated. The radio man tore off a sheet of paper from beneath and thrust it into Harry's hand with the quiet statement:
“The receipt slip. Read it carefully.”
The man in overalls had walked through the doorway before the meaning of his words struck Harry. Looking after him, The Shadow's agent saw only his back disappearing at the head of the stairs. That quiet tone, however, had impressed itself. Harry knew the identity of the man whose face he had failed to see. It was Burbank!
Glancing quickly at the receipt slip, Harry saw coded lines inscribed in bluish ink. He read them rapidly; the import of their message impressed itself upon him. Then the writing faded, word by word—a trick of messages that came in The Shadow's disappearing ink.
SOME thirty minutes after Burbank's departure, Doctor Borneau arrived. He examined his patient solemnly; then called for the prescription and gave Coyd a double dose. The weary congressman perked up a bit; he decided to rehearse his speech at once. This was a procedure which Coyd never varied.
Jurrick and Tabbert joined the audience. Harry took his place in the corner, leaning against the big box that Burbank had installed. He watched Coyd prepare; then, when the speaker had taken his stand in the center of the room, Harry quietly shifted the top of the big contrivance.
A click sounded; Harry was the only person who heard it. Coyd was loudly clearing his throat; after that preliminary, he adjusted his tortoise−shell spectacles and proceeded to read aloud from the copy that he gripped in his hands.
Coyd's manner was mild at first. His introductory words were addressed to the members of the National Progress Society. Gradually, Coyd worked
into his theme, the future of the nation. He spoke wisely of utilities, their value to the public; his words showed good will and appreciation of those who had served the people.
Suddenly, his tone became bombastic. His papers in his left hand, Coyd gestured with his right. He denounced graspers, grafters and their ilk. Head tilted sidewise while he read from his typewritten notes, he continued his gestures, wagging his right forefinger as he named certain companies, one by one.
The “rogues roll call,” Coyd termed it. He denounced these special companies; he declared that they had deceived the public by deliberately refusing to make possible economies that would produce lower rates. He added that their game was known; that its doom was near.
Congressional measures, Coyd prophesied, would force the creation of a control board that would base rates upon those of sincere utilities that had already found ways of giving maximum service at minimum cost.
Harry had read Coyd's speech; it had struck him as chaffy; but when Coyd delivered it, The Shadow's agent became lost in admiration. With all his bombastic force, Coyd could be both eloquent and effective.
When the congressman slumped to his chair, exhausted, the room still seemed to hold the ring of his powerful speech. It was a quarter of a minute before Harry remembered a duty; with a quick pull of his hand, he shifted the top of the cabinet back to its original place.
COYD'S face was flushed. Somehow, despite his exhaustion, he had retained his high pitch. Doctor Borneau felt the patient's pulse and ordered an immediate rest. Tabbert and Jurrick came up to aid Coyd; the congressman pushed them aside. Rising from his chair, he walked to the door of the bedroom. Standing there, he turned and spoke to Harry.
“You heard it, Vincent,” chuckled the congressman. “Go back and tell Releston about it. Invite him here to−night, to hear it for himself.”
“Sorry, Mr. Coyd,” said Harry. “Senator Releston has a previous engagement. Of course, he will hear your speech over the air, at the dinner which he is attending in Baltimore. But—”
The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92 Page 11
