Sourly, Tabbert followed Jurrick through the dim passage. Jurrick knocked at the study door; a response coming, he and Tabbert entered. They found Coyd seated behind a large desk; he was wearing an old smoking jacket and was puffing at a rank−odored stogie, his favorite type of cigar.
Coyd, quite alert, noted Tabbert's expression and rapped severely upon the desk.
“Come, come!” he exclaimed. “This is no time for petty jealousies. This afternoon is important; I have an interview to grant when the reporters arrive. Jurrick, type these notes”—Coyd picked up a sheet of pencil−scrawled paper—“and you, Tabbert, be ready to receive the reporters. Leave the door open so I can call you.”
Jurrick took the penciled notes to a typewriter in the corner. Tabbert went out into the hall and loafed there, listening to the click of the machine. Soon the doorbell rang. Mose appeared to open it; he admitted a bevy of rain−coated reporters. Tabbert conducted the news hawks into the study.
As the reporters began to take their chairs, others arrived. Soon there were ten in all, among them, two who had been present yesterday for the first time. These were Clyde Burke and Garvey.
Another ring at the doorbell; Tabbert followed Mose to answer it. Harry Vincent stepped into the hall, shaking the rain from his hat and poncho. He hung the garments on a hat rack, along with the dripping coats of the reporters; then followed Tabbert into the study. Meanwhile, Jurrick had finished typing the notes. The handwritten ones he tore up and put them into the basket.
“Gentlemen”—Coyd looked over the top of his spectacles to note the last arrival, then reverted to his notes—“I have a statement that is both definite and important. It concerns munitions and their regulation.”
An audible buzz came from the reporters. It stifled as Coyd shot an annoyed glance toward the group.
“Munitions have been regulated,” announced Coyd, “and the rulings will stand. The committee of investigation came unanimously to that decision. Present embargoes that concern warring countries will be maintained; the same will apply to new conflicts and to nations wherein revolution threatens.”
HARRY VINCENT shifted uneasily. So far, the congressman's statement was merely one of generalities; but Harry feared that more drastic expressions were coming. Harry's dread was justified.
“In making appropriations for munitions and armament,” continued Coyd, pounding his fist upon the desk,
“we have decided to take the profit out of war. No American manufacturer”—Coyd was on his feet, his voice rising to the forced oratory that Clyde Burke had heard him use before—“no countryman of ours shall ever again gain fortune through sales of war supplies to our government.
“Congress will set the price; Congress will also force a refund should any profits result. The supplying of materials for war will be made a patriotic duty; not a business enterprise. That, gentlemen, is final.”
Coyd paused. But the congressman's statement was not finished. A bombshell was coming.
“A patriotic duty,” repeated Coyd, his voice lowered, his clenched fist half loosened and wagging slowly.
“Patriotism, gentlemen, concerns one's duty to his own country; not to others. Should American manufacturers choose to supply war materials to foreign governments that are under no embargo, they will be free to do so.
“Such sales will not be subject to congressional price regulation. We do not consider them—for the present—to be within our sphere of attention. Later, a new committee will be formed to deal directly with that subject. The appointment of that committee, however, will not be discussed until the next session of Congress.”
Voice modulated, the speaker seemed spent in effort. Watching Coyd, Clyde Burke saw him slump into his chair, exactly as he had sagged after his speech in the Hall of Representatives. There was something dramatic in the action; it was difficult to guess whether the weariness was genuine or feigned.
Then Coyd removed his spectacles and faced his audience, with head tilted to the right.
“That is all, gentlemen,” he announced, quietly. “You may go and print this interview.”
Reporters came to their feet. Some were buzzing; the wiser ones were nudging them for silence. They moved from the study in a pack, Tabbert following, to usher them out.
BACK in the study, Harry Vincent was staring at Coyd's slumped figure.
“I am sorry, Mr. Coyd,” stated Harry, “that you did not tell me of your intention to give this interview. You had opportunity to do so when I called up at noon. Because of your calmness, I assured Senator Releston that you would make no special statements to the gentlemen of the press—”
“I changed my mind,” snapped Coyd, angrily. “Confound Releston—and you, too, Vincent!” With these words, Coyd's fist smashed against the desk. “Who am I that I should toady to Releston? The Senate committees are his business; those of the House are mine!”
“But their interests are identical—”
“They are not! They run parallel; but each is independent. I have never told Releston what he should or should not say.”
“You might at least have called him. But since you did not, I shall.”
Harry was on his feet, reaching for the telephone that stood on Coyd's desk. An arm shot forward; quick fingers clamped Harry's wrist; The Shadow's agent found himself staring into glaring eyes that were fierce beneath Coyd's heavy brows.
“You will make no call from here,” Coyd's lips hissed furiously. “If you wish to talk to Senator Releston, go and see him. Remember your place, Vincent!”
Jurrick stepped over and gripped Harry's arm in friendly fashion. At that moment, Tabbert arrived at the door; his eyes narrowed, glowering, as he saw Coyd rise to his feet and shake a heavy fist in Harry's face.
“'Get out!” stormed Coyd. “Out, I tell you! Go back to Releston! Tell him what you wish!”
“I'll tell him plenty,” assured Harry, grimly, as he let Jurrick draw him toward the door.
“You'll tell him lies!” Coyd's voice was a wild scream, his gestures frantic. “Lies! I shall need a witness to them. Go with this fellow, Tabbert. Hear what he says to Releston. Bring back what the senator tells you!”
Tabbert nodded; roughly, he gripped Harry's other arm and dragged The Shadow's agent from the room while Jurrick was aiding with mild pressure on the other side.
“Keep steady, old man,” suggested Jurrick, as they marched through the hall. “You couldn't help breaking loose the way you did. I understand.”
“What's that, Jurrick?” demanded Tabbert, savagely, his face enraged. “You are turning against Mr. Coyd?
Against our employer? Against the one whom we should admire and respect?”
“Lay off, Tabbert,” pleaded Jurrick. “I'm just seeing Harry Vincent's viewpoint—”
“You lack loyalty. You—you traitor! A scummy traitor, Jurrick, that's what you are! When Miss Evelyn hears that you—”
“Do not bring Miss Coyd's name into this, Tabbert. Remember, you are going along with Vincent. It would be best for you to realize that he has a duty to Senator Releston, as important to him as yours to Mr. Coyd.”
TABBERT subsided. They had reached the front door; the enraged secretary followed Harry to don hat and poncho. Sullenly, Tabbert picked up garments of his own. A voice spoke from the hallway; Tabbert and Harry turned with Jurrick to see Congressman Coyd standing wearily at the stairway.
“I am going to my bedroom,” announced the congressman, wearily. “I am going to rest. My effort is spent; I did not expect so much confusion.
“Jurrick, see Tabbert and Vincent off. Then station yourself in the library. If there are any callers, have Mose bring them to you. I want you to talk to them, Jurrick. I shall rest until dinner time.”