The Case of Congressman Coyd s-92 Read online

  The Case of Congressman Coyd

  ( Shadow - 92 )

  Maxwell Grant

  "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" The Knight of Darkness investigates supercrime.

  Lamont Cranston is called in to investigate "The Case of Congressman Coyd". What is behind the bizarre turnaround of a veteran lawmaker whose new deregulation proposals will profit unscrupulous business interests?

  THE CASE OF CONGRESSMAN COYD

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. AT THE CAPITOL.

  A COLD drizzle had settled upon Washington. The massive bulk of the Capitol building showed hazy in the dulled afternoon light. The high dome of the great building was barely discernible against the foggy sky.

  Atop the dome, the resplendent statue of Armed Victory formed a shrouded figure amid the swirl of mist.

  A taxicab was rolling in from the Union Depot. Arriving at the Capitol grounds, the cab pulled up at the east entrance. A wiry passenger alighted, bundling the folds of his raincoat about his chin. Paying the driver, this arrival turned toward the many steps that led into the Capitol.

  Huddled visitors were coming down those steps, anxious to regain their cars and escape the increasing rain.

  Swinging in out of the rain, head down and in a hurry, the wiry man bumped squarely into a chap of larger build. The jostled man grunted angrily; then stopped short and clamped a heavy but friendly hand upon the wiry fellow's shoulder.

  “Burke!” exclaimed the man who had been jolted. “Clyde Burke! When did you breeze into town?”

  “Hello, Garvey,” grinned the wiry man, as he pulled down the collar of his raincoat and thrust out a greeting hand. “Glad I bumped into you. I just landed in town and intended to look you up later.”

  “Opening the news bureau again?”

  “I expect to. I'd like to get the old office in the Wallingford Building if it's still empty.”

  Garvey nodded, then, in an impetuous fashion he drew Clyde Burke toward the inner wall of the portico. It was plain that Garvey had something to talk about; and Clyde showed every indication of being interested.

  This fact was not surprising. Both men were journalists; Clyde, a New York reporter—Garvey a freelance news hawk who preferred Washington. A few years ago, Clyde Burke had opened a bureau of his own, called the National City News Association; Garvey had coined welcome cash supplying him with stories.

  The very success of the bureau had made it short−lived. Clyde Burke, as a news gatherer, had figured in the exposé of a criminal ring in Washington. The New York Classic, his old sheet, had offered him a fat salary increase because of his exploit. Clyde had returned to Manhattan; and many of his Washington friends had regretted his departure. Chief among them, Garvey.

  “You've picked a ripe time to come down here, Burke,” informed Garvey, as the two went into conference.

  “This burg is hot with news. Congress is just winding up its session, but that's only the beginning of it.

  Special reports, investigations, committee meetings—they're all in the making. Boy! I'm glad you blew in!”

  “Any special low−down, Garvey?”

  “Sure. Remember that recent story—the cancellation of lumber contracts?”

  “Of course. The government found them phony and ended them. Going to use their own lumber, instead, from the national forest surplus.”

  “That's it. Well, Burke, there were millions of dollars involved in that clean−up; but it's just the first. Smart gyps are finding it tough to shove any new rackets past these legislators. The committees are on the job.”

  GARVEY paused to consult a watch that he drew from his vest pocket. He uttered a grunt of satisfaction; then clamped Clyde's elbow.

  “Come along,” suggested Garvey. “There's still time for a look−in. See things for yourself, Burke.”

  “Going up to the Senate chamber?” queried Clyde, as his companion led him through a door beneath the portico.

  “No,” responded Garvey, turning toward a corridor that led beneath the rotunda. “We're heading for the south wing. Nothing doing in the Senate today. We'll take a look at the monkey house.”

  Clyde smiled slightly at Garvey's slang term for the House of Representatives. Then he voiced a question.

  “Galleries are apt to be jammed, aren't they?” asked Clyde.

  “They would be,” chuckled Garvey, “if it wasn't for the rain. That kept most of the gawks away. We'll find plenty of space; and you'll get a chance to see the Honorable Layton Coyd in action.”

  “That's something,” nodded Clyde, as they stopped at a south wing elevator. “Congressman Coyd is supposed to be a real orator, isn't he?”

  “A windjammer, if you ask me,” confided Garvey. “But what's more, despite all his bluster and eccentricity, he's capable. Individualistic—takes orders from nobody—but he lines up followers on all the best measures.”

  Garvey's talk came during the elevator ride. Reaching an upper corridor, the two journalists entered a swinging door and arrived in the gallery of the representatives. Garvey nudged Clyde as they took their seats.

  Clyde nodded; below, a man was speaking. The ringing tones of a strong, oratorical voice indicated that Congressman Layton Coyd held the floor.

  Peering down, Clyde made a mental study of Coyd. The famed congressman was a man of sixty, who stood with erect shoulders and high−tilted head. Coyd's grayish face was smooth as parchment; but his profile showed a ruggedness.

  A huge shock of jet−black hair topped his straight forehead. His nose was wide and somewhat flattened. His chin was rounded; and Clyde could discern a curved scar, conspicuous because of the tight flesh.

  As Coyd turned, the bushiness of his eyebrows was more apparent; also a peculiar squint that seemed to be Coyd's permanent expression. Gesturing as he spoke, raising both hands with fists half clenched, Coyd showed a tendency to tilt his head toward one shoulder, an oddity that contrasted with his erect bearing.

  CLYDE had never seen the House of Representatives so quiet. But as he caught the import of the congressman's words, Clyde realized the reason for the spell that the man had cast.

  “Tyranny shall end!” Coyd paused, with one fist uplifted, as he delivered his tirade. Then, his voice dropping to a deep pitch: “Yes, tyranny. Deep, insidious tyranny, worse than that of ancient autocrats who openly enslaved their people.

  “The tyranny that we have to−day is masked. It is cloaked by pretended beneficence!” Coyd's tone had boomed; suddenly it quieted and the orator spoke with sarcasm as he spread forth his hands. “A beneficent tyranny, gentlemen, prepared to delude the simple minded.

  “To us, as to little children, come these gift−bearing tyrants.” Coyd paused, his set lips twisted into an ironic smile. “Bell−ringing Kris Kringles, one on every corner, each clamoring for our confidence. Ah, yes, we believe in Santa Claus. We believe in fifty of him.”

  A buzz of laughter sounded in the gallery. It subsided suddenly as Coyd, half hunched and bending forward, straightened and thrust forth a commanding fist.

  “These tyrants have ruled!” boomed the orator. “Ruled because we failed to look for jokers in their contracts!

  But we are gullible no longer! The schemes of speculators; the falsified books of money grabbers; the exorbitant profits of swindlers who pretend that they are working for the common weal— these will be ended! Ended for us and for posterity!”

  Coyd was dynamic, all his energy thrown into one titanic gesture. Watching, Clyde saw a tremendous relaxation seize the man. Coyd's whole body shrank; he subsided into his seat and huddled there, running long fingers through his tousled hair.

  APPLAUSE roared
from the house. The gallery echoed it while representatives scrambled forward to clap Coyd on the back and shake his hand. The black−haired man was lost amid a flood of congressmen.

  “How did you like that diatribe, Burke?” queried Garvey. “Coyd means that stuff—and he sells it. What's more, he's right. If you doubt me, take a look at that guy over on the other side of the gallery.”

  Clyde looked to see a long−faced man who was seated just in back of the rail. There was something of the rascal in the fellow's gaunt features. His lanky figure reminded Clyde of a spidery creature. The man was glaring as he chewed his distorted lips.

  “Who is he?” queried Clyde.

  “Tyson Weed,” returned Garvey. “The most persistent lobbyist in Washington. A bird that still hopes to sell the government a carload of gold bricks.”

  Weed was rising as Garvey spoke. Clyde saw the lobbyist move dejectedly from the gallery. He was about to speak to Garvey when the free lance grabbed his arm and pointed out another man who was preparing to leave.

  This individual had an imposing air; his face, though somewhat flabby, showed distinction. His bearing was one of self−importance; there was something dramatic in his manner as he picked up a gray hat, a cane with a huge gold head, and a sporty overcoat that resembled a cape.

  Below his full chin, the man was wearing a piccadilly collar, adorned with a flowing artist's necktie. The oddity of his attire was ludicrous; it indicated the conceited type of person who sought to attract attention.

  “Montgomery Hadwil,” informed Garvey. “Think he's the greatest character actor in the profession. A swell−head, if ever there was one. Come along—we'll head him off.”

  “What for?” queried Clyde, as he followed Garvey from the gallery. “Why does a ham actor rate important?”

  “Because,” chuckled Garvey, as they made for a stairway, “Montgomery Hadwil is the fiancé of Miss Beatrice Rydel, who, in turn, is the daughter of Dunwood Rydel, who is a steel, coal, lumber magnate—and a dozen other things.”

  “So Montgomery Hadwil is going to marry into the Rydel millions?”

  “Into the Rydel family—not into the dough. Old Dunwood Rydel has promised to disinherit his only daughter the moment she becomes Mrs. Montgomery Hadwil.”

  Garvey was hurrying toward a stairway to reach the rotunda.

  “What's Hadwil around here for?” Clyde queried. “Will that get him in right with the old man?”

  “The answer is simple,” returned Garvey. “Coyd is in the limelight, and whenever there's a glare, Montgomery Hadwil wants to bask in it, too. The fellow's a ham, I tell you. Wait until you hear me rib him!”

  THEY came to the rotunda and spotted Hadwil crossing to leave by the east exit. They overtook the actor on the drizzly steps. Hadwil looked annoyed as he recognized Garvey. He did not slow his long, stalking pace.

  “Statement for the press, Mr. Hadwil,” suggested Garvey. “What about your coming plans for matrimony?

  Can you give me an idea when the day will be?”

  Hadwil stopped at the bottom of the steps. He tilted back his head in conceited fashion, tapped the sidewalk with his cane.

  “I leave for Europe, shortly,” he announced. “There I shall devote myself to further study of the drama.

  Despite the envy with which my fellow Thespians regard me, I still feel that I have not yet attained perfection.

  “After my return, I shall consider the plan for my marriage to Miss Rydel; all arrangements, however, will remain with her. As for my voyage—I shall be absent from America for at least six months.”

  A huge limousine rolled up while Hadwil was speaking. A square−faced chauffeur opened the door; the actor entered and the car rolled away, leaving Clyde and Garvey standing in the drizzle.

  “That limousine,” informed Garvey, “is one of half a dozen cars owned by Dunwood Rydel. I suppose his daughter Beatrice inveigled papa to let her sweetie ride about in it while he is in Washington. Well, Burke, let's hop a cab and go down to locate that office of yours.”

  The reporters hailed a taxi; the driver took a course for Pennsylvania Avenue. Speeding along, he passed the limousine in which Hadwil was riding. Neither Clyde nor Garvey gave that car notice. The actor, however, was keen−eyed enough to spot the reporters in their cab.

  Reaching for the speaking tube, Montgomery Hadwil spoke to the chauffeur. There was an odd tone in the actor's voice, a strange, venomous snarl that seemed at variance with his pose.

  “Don't forget, Mullard,” Hadwil informed the chauffeur. “Tell the chief about my meeting those news hounds. So he will know that I've spilled the story.”

  A nod from the chauffeur. Montgomery Hadwil's lips showed a twisted leer as the pompous actor settled back on the cushions. Up ahead, Mullard's face showed a hard, knowing grin. Both occupants of the limousine had registered deep malice.

  Evil was afoot in Washington. There had been purpose in Hadwil's visits to the Capitol. Yet neither Clyde Burke nor his old pal Garvey, both on the trail of news, had suspected any motive beneath the surface of Montgomery Hadwil's self−conceit.

  CHAPTER II. THIEVES THRUST.

  NEARLY two weeks had elapsed since Clyde Burke's arrival in Washington. Congress had ended its session, yet tension existed at the Capitol. As Garvey had predicted, there would be news. Clyde sensed it in the air.

  For Clyde Burke was in Washington with a mission. His reopened National City News Association was a blind. Actually, his purpose was to report doings at the Capitol to a hidden chief located in New York. For Clyde Burke was an agent of The Shadow.

  It was common knowledge that certain interests had lost millions of ill−gotten dollars because of the alertness of a competent Congress. Personal investigations and cooperative committee work had disclosed many ills.

  Other evils were soon to be corrected. If crooks could block or counteract such measures, they would surely do so. That was a fact which The Shadow recognized.

  Clyde Burke, summarizing his own findings, was forced to admit that he had accomplished but little.

  In two weeks Clyde had learned but little more than he had gained on his first day. Congress had closed; Coyd was busy with committee reports, to be arranged for the next session. It was obvious, to Clyde's observation, that Coyd represented the right.

  There was another man in Washington who rated even more importantly than Layton Coyd. That was Senator Ross Releston, chairman of various committees in the upper legislative body. Releston was a great factor in the Senate; and Coyd was aping Releston's example. That policy had won him favor; for Releston was so greatly esteemed that any one who adhered closely to the senator's beliefs was due to gain ready followers.

  But Coyd had been wise enough to act in an independent fashion. Hence he was regarded as a power in his own right, a sort of Releston in a lesser field.

  Looking for opposition to these men, Clyde could see it coming from two quarters. First, the lobbyists, who were in Washington to get all they could. Chief in this ilk was Tyson Weed, whom Clyde had seen off and on since that first day at the Capitol. Second, those men who had interests to protect. Towering from this group was Dunwood Rydel, magnate of many interests. Clyde had seen Rydel twice; the man was big and portly, gruff−voiced and glowering. There had been no interview. Rydel had refused to make any statement to the press. He and his daughter lived in a large house with a group of servants and kept to themselves.

  AT that point, Clyde's speculation ceased. Had it gone further, he might have made a surprising discovery.

  But Clyde had eliminated as a nonentity one man whom he had actually seen and should have watched: Montgomery Hadwil, the character actor whom Rydel—so people said—did not want as a son−in−law.

  On Clyde's very desk were clippings that pertained to Hadwil. The reporter was actually fingering them as he stared absentmindedly from the window. The clippings showed Hadwil's saggy features and stated that the middle−aged actor had gone abroad to gain new appreciation of t
he drama. They added that Hadwil's marriage to Beatrice Rydel had been postponed until after his return.

  So Clyde let the clippings drop to the desk as he continued to wrinkle his brow and ponder. It was not until the door opened that Clyde's reverie ended. Swinging about, Clyde saw Garvey grinning from the opened barrier that bore the title National City News Association.

  “Hello, Burke,” greeted Garvey. “How's the old N.C.N.A. coming along? Any chance to sell you anything?”

  “What have you got?”

  “Nothing—except guesses. The market's good for them, I know, but these are bum ones.”

  “I can't use them then.”

  Garvey came in and stretched himself in a chair. He helped himself to one of the Clyde's cigarettes and began a résumé.

  “Regarding Mr. Coyd,” he remarked. “I should say the Honorable Mr. Coyd. Well, he's overworked. Jittery, contradictory, blunt with his best of friends—the reporters. I saw him two days ago and I saw him yesterday.

  The first time he was haggard and worn out. The second time he was purple and angry. Never twice alike.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “Nothing much. He gave some halfway interviews last week; but none this week. His daughter is coming on to Washington to visit him. His two secretaries are up to their necks in work. That's all.”

  “Have you seen Senator Releston?”

  “No. He gives no interviews, except by occasional appointment. Don't ask me if I've seen Dunwood Rydel. I haven't—that is, not to talk to. Nobody sees him. He's a sulker.”

  “What about Weed?”

  “Say—there's something, Burke. That guy's been bobbing in and out of town like a jack−in−the−box. Seeing the people he's lobbying for, I guess. You can't figure Weed—”

  Garvey paused as the telephone rang. Clyde answered the call; a voice asked for Garvey. Clyde handed over the instrument; Garvey talked abruptly, then hung up.

  “Come on!” he exclaimed. “That was Tuft, of the Interstate Press, giving me a hot tip. Senator Releston has reported a burglary up at his place. He's ready with an interview for all reporters. Let's go!”