The Case of Congressman Coyd by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
ISBN: 9781608770373
Amazon: 1608770370
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1935-12-15T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. TWO DICKS TALK.

THE SHADOW had deliberately delayed his departure from 808 to give Quidler time to leave the Hotel Halcyon. The Shadow was positive that Cliff Marsland was waiting outside to take up the dick's trail; and The Shadow had been right.

Quidler had taken a cab outside the hotel. Another taxi had followed him. The trail had led to a frequented street just north of Pennsylvania Avenue. There, Quidler had alighted to enter an old but popular hotel, the Nayland House.

Cliff had followed the dick into the thronged lobby. He had watched Quidler enter the taproom. The place had but one entrance; Quidler would have to come out through the lobby. So Cliff sat down and waited.

The Nayland taproom was crowded and noisy. Cliff had decided that Quidler could not have chosen it for an important meeting; and he was right. In fact, Quidler had simply decided to celebrate. Weed had slipped him a fat roll of cash; the dick had cause to be jubilant.

It was entirely by chance that Quidler happened to bump into an old acquaintance. Shouldering his way to the jammed bar, the beak-faced dick jostled a long-necked rowdy who was standing there. The fellow swung about with an angry snarl. Quidler recognized a sallow, rattish face.

“Hello, Jake,” chuckled the dick, with a friendly grin. “Bumped into you, didn't I, huh? How're you, old fellow. Last guy I expected to see here was Jake Thurler.”

“Hello, Quidler,” rejoined Jake, a leer forming on his leathery lips. “What're you doin' in town? Still in the gumshoe racket?”

“Sure. It's gravy. Washington's a good spot. What're you doing, though? Running booze down through the dry South?”

Jake shook his head.

“Out of that racket,” he informed. “Too hot for me. Too hot for any guy that's got brains. I'm working for Stew Luffy, the big shot that's runnin' a classy gamblin' joint across the Potomac. Steerin' suckers down there is my job. Plenty of saps loose; an' I'm the guy to spot 'em.”

“You're workin' to-night?”

“Sure. This is a good place to draw from.” Jake was speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Sometimes I fix the squawkers, too. Stew don't like howls about his joint. But say”–the ratty fellow raised his tone–“here's a guy you'd like to know, Quidler. He's in the gumshoe racket, too.”

JAKE leaned back so Quidler could look past him to see a glum-faced fellow who was wiping foam from a big black mustache. The man was wearing a Derby hat tilted over his forehead; but Quidler could see an angry look in his eyes when Jake nudged him roughly.

“Snap out of it, Walbert!” snorted Jake. “Wantcha to meet an old pal of mine. He's a Sherlock, too. Shake hands with Quidler over here.”

Walbert extended a flabby paw and received Quidler's hand grip. Then, the mustached man swung away and began to drink again, while Jake Thurler turned to chat with Quidler.

“Who is the guy, Jake?” queried Quidler, in an undertone. “Looks like a dumb cluck to me. Who's he working for?”

“Keep it under your hat.

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