“You have proven yourself a nuisance, Weed,” came the accusing tones. “In the past, I have refused to see you. Your visit here is uncalled for. There is the door. Go.”
“Not yet.” Weed grinned wisely as he faced his challenger. “I have a purpose here, Mr. Coyd. Tell me: why did you make that statement regarding munitions? Why were you responsible for an attempt to aid speculators?”
“A whim on my part. A mistake. One that I rectified after I realized it.”
“You take the credit? Come, Coyd— I am too wise to fool. Senator Releston forced the issue.”
“You are wrong, Weed. Read the newspapers—”
“I have read them. Between the lines. I know that your scheme went sour. You fooled Releston; but not me. I know what's coming. Something bigger than munitions.”
There was no reply. Coyd's features were purple; but Weed noted that clenched fists were twitching helplessly. The lobbyist thrust a pointing finger beneath the congressman's flattish nose.
“Here are my terms,” affirmed Weed. “You back the things I want; in turn, I'll keep my mouth shut. I won't visit your house; instead, I'll see you here, by appointment. While you're pulling your own big deals, you can slip mine by in the rush.”
“Impossible,” Coyd's head shook emphatically. “After all, Weed, why should I listen to your preposterous requests? Why do I need your silence?”
“Why? Because it would do you no good if it were known that you, the self−styled paragon of justice, had chosen to live in a hide−out here in Washington.”
“A hide−out? Absurd! My physician has ordered a rest. I chose this apartment for that purpose. It is quiet here.”
WEED licked his lips. His face was gloating, his chuckle deep in his throat. He had found his chance; he used it.
“Suppose, Mr. Coyd”—the lobbyist was sarcastic as he pronounced the name—“suppose that I should inform Senator Releston of your present whereabouts? Suppose I told him that Congressman Layton Coyd so requires rest that he has chosen to take it in two places simultaneously?
“What if I told him that you were living in this apartment and also dwelling in your comfortable lodge, some seventy miles away, in Virginia? What would Senator Releston think of such miraculous eccentricity?”
“I'm not at the hunting lodge, Weed. I'm right here, in Washington.”
“Certain persons, if promptly quizzed, might swear that you were at the lodge. For instance: Miss Evelyn Coyd; and also Miss Beatrice Rydel. If Senator Releston should call the lodge, by long distance, this very evening—”
“One moment, Weed. You actually intend to see Releston?”
“I do. And if he requires a counter witness, there is a man named Mullard—one of Dunwood Rydel's chauffeurs, I believe—”
“You know more than I thought you did, Weed. Say nothing further. I am ready to talk terms.”
The blatant tone had ended. Weed smiled as he saw the look of resignation that had come over the tight−skinned face. His point was won; he listened for his victim's next statement.
“Go back to your hotel,” came the slow pronouncement. “Say nothing of your visit here. I have a conference tonight with a certain man—one whose name you have probably guessed—and I shall tell him that I intend to support your enterprises.
“After all, such a course may be advisable. It will carry attention away from other matters. Since I am deemed eccentric, it is preferable that I should play the role in full. On second thought, Weed, I believe that your visit here has been a fortunate one.
“You will hear from me to−morrow.” Advancing, the speaker clamped a friendly hand on Weed's shoulder.
“I shall call by telephone and arrange a definite appointment. Meanwhile”—he was drawing Weed to the door while speaking—“you can prepare your own plans. Use wisdom. Arrange a systematic campaign whereby your requests will come at intervals. We must cooperate in this game, Weed.”
The lobbyist nodded. His shaggy−haired host opened the door and urged him into the hall. Weed thrust out a hand and received the firm shake that was characteristic of Congressman Coyd. The door closed; the lobbyist strolled toward the stairs.
Inside the room, a vast change had come over the countenance of Congressman Layton Coyd. The apartment dweller was listening to the departure of Weed's footsteps. Satisfied that the lobbyist was gone, he wheeled about and hurried to the telephone. Hastily, he dialed a number; when a voice responded, he spoke in quick, abrupt terms:
“Weed was here... Tyson Weed, the lobbyist... Yes, he's wise... Yes, I handled him. He's gone back to his hotel... Expects to hear from me to−morrow.
“You'll handle it? Good! That's best. In person; then no one will know... What's that? The other hideout? Yes, you're right... I'll start there at once... Yes, I can call Mullard myself, at the F Street garage...”
A look of elation showed on the tight features of Congressman Coyd. A quick hand hung up the receiver; a rapid finger dialed a number. In disguised tone, the speaker asked for Mullard; when the chauffeur answered, he gave abrupt orders to come at once.
OUTSIDE the old apartment building, Tyson Weed had paused to light a cigarette. The match showed his grin; then, as he puffed his smoke, the lobbyist strode along Q Street. His lanky figure was moving at its customary gait. Weed came beneath a lamplight; his leering figures showed.
Eyes spotted him from across the street. A watcher saw Weed turn the corner. A hunched form edged toward the old apartment building. It was Hawkeye. The Shadow's agent had seen the tall man come from the house; upon recognizing Weed, Hawkeye knew where the lobbyist had been.
Crossing the street, Hawkeye entered the converted apartment house. He looked about the first floor; then sneaked up to the second. Staring along the passage, he saw the opened window to the fire escape. Hawkeye went in that direction. Peering from the window, he saw the opened window of apartment 2D.
Hawkeye eased out to the fire escape. He slipped into the window of the bedroom. He saw the glimmer that edged the farther door. Imitating Weed, Hawkeye did a sneak in that direction. He reached the door; just as he laid his hand upon the knob, the barrier was yanked open. Hawkeye stopped short; he found himself staring into the livid countenance of Congressman Layton Coyd.
This time, it was the intruder who was surprised; moreover, Hawkeye was of a different ilk than Weed.
Before The Shadow's substitute could make a move, a fierce oath came from Coyd's spread lips. Strong hands shot for Hawkeye's throat.
The grapple that followed was a swift one. Hawkeye was gripped by an antagonist to whom fury had lent unexpected strength; at the same time, The Shadow's agent was as slippery as an eel. He twisted to the living room; there, they banged about, upsetting furniture in the struggle. As they bowled against a table, Hawkeye twisted free.
Dropping back to a corner near the bedroom door, Hawkeye yanked a revolver from his pocket. He covered his foe with the weapon; he heard a snarl, then saw the look of terror that flashed upon his enemy's dried countenance. Hawkeye grinned, more wisely than had Weed. It was the spotter's turn to talk terms with Congressman Layton Coyd.
As Hawkeye puffed for breath, a sound made him turn. He was just in time to see the door from the hall swing open. On the threshold was a man in chauffeur's uniform: Mullard.
The fellow's face was set in an ugly grimace. Mullard had arrived to hear the crash of conflict; he had opened the door with a duplicate key. He had yanked a revolver, to deal with the intruder.
Covered by Mullard's gun, Hawkeye had only one course: self−preservation. He did not lose an instant in taking it. With a quick spring, Hawkeye dived for the bedroom. Mullard fired viciously, but too late. The chauffeur's bullet whistled wide of The Shadow's substitute.