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.