Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 092 - Case of Congressman Croyd

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THE CASE OF CONGRESSMAN COYD
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. AT THE CAPITOL.
? CHAPTER II. THIEVES THRUST.
? CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PREPARES.
? CHAPTER IV. HARRY REPORTS.
? CHAPTER V. TWO CAMPS.
? CHAPTER VI. THE DOUBLE DEAL.
? CHAPTER VII. COYD'S SECRET.
? CHAPTER VIII. THE INTERVIEW.
? CHAPTER IX. THE ANTIDOTE.
? CHAPTER X. COYD AGREES.
? CHAPTER XI. WEED GAINS FACTS.
? CHAPTER XII. TWO DICKS TALK.
? CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW'S SUBSTITUTE.
? CHAPTER XIV. MURDER BY NIGHT.
? CHAPTER XV. BEFORE THE STORM.
? CHAPTER XVI. TWO DAYS LATER.
? CHAPTER XVII. FIGURES IN THE DARK.
? CHAPTER XVIII. DECISIONS CHANGE.
? CHAPTER XIX. THE SHADOW SPEAKS.
? CHAPTER XX. CRIME'S END.
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 the 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!”
THEY hurried from the office. In a taxicab, en route to the senator's home, Garvey gave more details,
also supplying facts that he had meant previously to mention.
“Foster Crozan just arrived in town,” stated Garvey. “He's a man with a lot of money, mostly inherited,
who's gone in for politics. He's taken the best way to do it; going in for investigations that will help the
congressional committees.”
“Didn't Crozan help to uncover those lumber contracts?” inquired Clyde. “It seems to me he was
mentioned prominently.”
“He did,” acknowledged Garvey, “and he's handed more good dope to the right people since. He's due
to run for the Senate from his home State; and he's done plenty to talk about in his campaign. He's a
friend of Releston's. Crozan has visited Releston before; and he's on again to learn things that will make
him useful when he gets elected.”
The cab had pulled up in front of the Hotel Barlingham, an old but conservative edifice which Senator
Releston had chosen for his Washington residence. Garvey kept quiet as he and Clyde sauntered through
the lobby, then entered the elevator.
They alighted at the sixth floor and went to a corner suite. There they entered a lounge room; a secretary
ushered them through a hallway and into an office. They found half a dozen newspaper men facing
Senator Releston, who sat behind a large desk.
THE senator was a man of somewhat rugged features but his face was mild in expression. Gray hair
added to the dignity of his appearance; and Releston's eyes were kindly, almost curious, as they surveyed
the new arrival. Recognizing that Burke and Clyde were new representatives of the press, Releston
proceeded with the statement that he had been about to read.
“Early this afternoon,” stated Releston, quietly, “one of my secretaries, Donald Lanson, went into my
room to discover two men rifling the drawers in my filing cabinet. The thieves locked Lanson in a closet,
and it was twenty minutes later that he managed to get free.
“None of these documents, however, were originals. They were merely duplicates. So, gentlemen, the
theft, while indicating real villainy, was of no serious consequence.”
With that, the senator arose. It was plain that he intended to make no further pronouncement. The
reporters helped themselves to copies of the statement from a ready stack on the desk. Then they filed
from the office, Clyde and Garvey among them.
“What do you make of it?” queried Clyde, as they rode away in a taxi. “Sounds like a straight statement,
doesn't it?”
“Releston always talks straight,” returned Garvey, absently. “I'm wondering though—just wondering
about when it happened. It may have been earlier than Releston said.”
A pause; then Garvey added:
“Foster Crozan came in this morning. The senator probably met him. If crooks were watching, that's the
time they would have picked to step into the place.”
“What about Crozan?” asked Clyde. “Where was he when we were there?”
“Somewhere in the apartment, probably. Releston didn't want him to be bothered with an interview.”
“You don't think this burglary was more serious than Releston indicated?”
“No. Chances are that the papers were duplicates, just as the senator said. The intent was bad; but the
results nil.”
GARVEY dropped off before they reached the Wallingford Building; but Clyde kept on to his office. At
his desk, The Shadow's agent found a pad of telegraph blanks and began to prepare a wire. That
dispatch was to carry a secret to The Shadow, in New York.
In response to this wire, The Shadow would come to Washington. His presence here was needed; a rift
had come into the serenity of the scene. Completing the message, with its hidden plea for his chief to visit
the Capitol. Clyde reached for the telephone. As he did, the bell began to ring.
Impatient at the delaying call, Clyde snatched up the receiver, intending to be as abrupt as possible. He
snapped his opening words into the mouthpiece:
“Clyde Burke speaking.”
A change came over Clyde's countenance as a voice responded. Strange, whispered tones, commanding
words that held Clyde speechless. His telegram had been anticipated; the speaker on the line was The
Shadow.
But Clyde's chief was not calling from New York; by The Shadow's own statement, Clyde understood
that these instructions were being given from a local telephone in Washington.
Clyde hung up, baffled. The Shadow knew about the theft at Releston's. How had he learned of it? How
had he arrived in Washington so soon?
Then truth dawned; and with it, Clyde gained full realization of how consequential the crime at Releston's
might prove to be.
The summons that had brought The Shadow had been dispatched to him direct. Its sender, though not an
agent of The Shadow, had reason to know the value of The Shadow's prowess. The man who had sent
the important request was Senator Ross Releston himself!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PREPARES.
HALF an hour after Clyde had received his call from The Shadow, a taxi driver pulled up in front of the
Hotel Barlingham. The driver glanced askance into the rear of his vehicle, wondering whether or not he
still had his passenger.
The driver grunted his relief as the rear door opened and a tall figure came into the light of the hotel front.
The first inkling of his presence in the cab had been when the driver had heard a voice order him to go to
the Hotel Barlingham.
The tall stranger did not appear formidable when he entered the hotel lobby. He was dressed in a dark
suit. His face was of chiseled mold. Masklike features, dominated by a hawkish nose; thin, inflexible lips;
eyes that were steady—these were elements of physiognomy that made the arrival's visage bear a
masklike, unemotional expression.
On the sixth floor, the stranger entered the lounge of Senator Releston's apartment. Lanson was in charge
there; the secretary was wan-faced and suspicious-eyed. The visitor gave him a card; Lanson nodded
and smiled.
“Go right in, Mr. Cranston,” said the secretary. “Senator Releston told me not to keep you waiting.”
PASSING through to the office, the tall visitor found Senator Releston at his desk; opposite the
gray-haired solon was a tall, middle-aged man who had the physique of an athlete. Sharp-eyed and alert,
this individual turned a frank, square-jawed face toward the new arrival.
“Ah Cranston!” Senator Releston spoke in hearty welcome as he came to his feet and extended his hand.
“It is good to see you. Meet Foster Crozan, who arrived to-day. Crozan, this is Lamont Cranston.”
Crozan delivered a strong handshake that brought the semblance of a wince from Cranston. On his feet,
Crozan was tall and well-built; a powerful man who seemed much younger than his gray-streaked hair
would indicate. Crozan watched Cranston seat himself leisurely in a convenient chair; then sat down
himself.
“I did not mean to summon you to Washington, Cranston,” apologized Releston. “My wire merely
requested you to communicate with me by long distance. I was surprised when you wired back that you
were coming here.”
“Purely a coincidence, senator,” remarked Cranston, his voice a level tone that held a slight drawl. “I had
intended to leave for Florida to-morrow. My luggage was all ready for shipment; so I came ahead
to-day.”
“You will leave to-morrow then?”
“Yes. A few weeks in Miami; then on to Havana. After that, Brazil and the Amazon country. A
six-months sojourn on this expedition.”
Releston nodded.
“Cranston is a globe-trotter,” he explained to Crozan. “He has been everywhere. I was fortunate to
locate him at his club in New York.”
Crozan looked puzzled as he watched the visitor. He saw Cranston extracting a cigarette from a
gold-and-platinum case. He watched the visitor lazily insert the cigarette into a holder; then produce a
lighter in lackadaisical fashion. Crozan could not withhold comment.
“You go in for big-game hunting, Mr. Cranston?” he asked.
“Certainly,” drawled the visitor, pausing to puff at his cigarette. “A pursuit of yours, also, Mr. Crozan?”
“No. I was simply wondering—”
“At my lack of energy? I thought that puzzled you, Mr. Crozan. Well, I am often quite as deliberate in
aiming at an elephant as I am at lighting a cigarette. Leisurely action, Mr. Crozan, is quite different from
hesitancy. I make it a policy to never become excited—”
“Exactly what I told you, Crozan,” put in the senator, with a nod. “That is why I felt that Cranston's
opinion would be a useful one to us in this critical situation that we are facing.”
CROZAN nodded his agreement. He was beginning to be impressed by Cranston's lack of energy. A
pleased smile showed upon his open features.
“Cranston,” declared Releston, “today, thieves rifled my filing cabinet. They stole important papers that
pertained to committee investigations. Those papers were only duplicates; nevertheless, their loss may be
serious.”
“Because of the information which they contain?”
“Exactly. Some of them were old data, such as the lumber statistics which Crozan gathered some months
ago. But others concerned unfinished subjects: mining, manufactures, utilities which we are investigating.
Except, fortunately, some recent material which Crozan was to send me; but brought with him instead.
That data had not as yet been filed.”
“And just how serious is their loss?”
“Very serious. Because they will tell the new owners exactly how far we have progressed with our
investigations.”
Releston paused emphatically. He leaned upon the desk and added this explanation:
“You see, Cranston, the great value of these committee investigations lies in keeping certain interests in a
state of quandary. If they knew that they were going to be regulated; if they knew that they were to be
given a clean bill of health—in either case they would act accordingly and—”
“And defeat the investigations,” put in Crozan. “They could sell or buy, according to the future that they
knew was coming; and in that manner show huge profits that they could not otherwise gain.”
“So serious is it, Cranston,” affirmed Releston, “that if Congress were still in session, I would move the
dismissal of the committees as a better course than keeping them. Nevertheless, we still have one strong
hope.”
CRANSTON'S face looked inquiring. Releston raised a solemn finger and drove home his point.
“Washington is filled with rumors,” declared the senator. “So many, in fact, that no credence will be given
to any statement unless it comes from an authoritative source. Unless I, for instance, made some
statement that would bolster the facts that these thieves have learned, the investing public would not rally
to support the rogues”
“Then your course, senator,” came the quiet response, “is to avoid all statements that might serve as
indicators.”
“A policy which I intend to maintain,” assured Releston. “Unfortunately, I am not the only authority
concerned. Every iota of information that I possess is owned in duplicate by Congressman Layton
Coyd.”
“Our new Daniel Webster,” added Crozan. “A golden-throated orator who likes to be heard. A windbag
on most occasions; but one whose warbles would gain listeners now that certain information is at large.”
“It is no jesting matter, Crozan,” rebuked Releston. Then, in a solemn tone: “You see, Cranston, Coyd is
an individualist. He takes orders from no one. He has the right to speak if he chooses; just as I have the
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THECASEOFCONGRESSMANCOYDMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ATTHECAPITOL.?CHAPTERII.THIEVESTHRUST.?CHAPTERIII.THESHADOWPREPARES.?CHAPTERIV.HARRYREPORTS.?CHAPTERV.TWOCAMPS.?CHAPTERVI.THEDOUBLEDEAL.?CHAPTERVII.COYD'SSECRET.?CHAPTERVIII.THEINTERVIEW.?CHAP...

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