“Fish it out for yourself,” he told the boy, pointing to the grating. “I haven't time to waste.”
“But it's down the grating—”
Weed shoved the boy aside; but before he could enter the cab, the driver slammed the door. Leaning from the front seat, the taximan took the boy's part.
“A hurry, eh?” he barked at Weed. “Not in this cab, you ain't. Pay the kid the cent you owe him, or you don't ride in this hack.”
“Move along. I'll just take another cab.”
“Yeah? Not while I'm around. It'll be tough for the hackie that gives you a lift.”
The cab driver showed a pair of threatening fists. He made a gesture that indicated further pugnacity. For a moment, Weed thought that he intended to step to the street. Huddling back, the lobbyist fished in his pocket; finding no pennies, he tossed the newsboy a nickel and snarled for him to keep the change.
“Thanks, mister!”
WEED paid no attention to the newsboy's remark. Expediency, not generosity had forced Weed to the deed.
The cab door was being opened by the grinning driver. Weed stepped aboard and snapped out his destination, telling the cabby to hurry. The taxi shot away.
But at that very moment, another cab had swung around the corner. Sharp eyes from its interior had spotted the lanky figure of Weed, hopping spider?like into the waiting cab.
Hawkeye, just in time, was quick to nudge the driver and tell him to follow Weed's cab. The fuming lobbyist had been in luck; now the situation had changed. Weed's own stinginess over a dropped penny had delayed him long enough for Hawkeye to snag his trail.
Unfortunately, the driver of Weed's cab was a man who held no malice. Even though he expected no tip, he drove with speed and precision. Cutting through the web?like maze of Washington's streets, he picked short?cuts and sudden turns that were confusing to Hawkeye's driver.
It was the little spotter, not the cabby, who managed to keep an eye on the cab ahead. But at last, the game failed. Hawkeye's cab swung a corner, sped a block and crossed Q Street. Hawkeye could see no taxi ahead.
He knew that the trail had been lost. Telling the driver to stop, he shoved a bill in the fellow's hand and dropped from the cab.
Hawkeye was going on the theory that perhaps Weed's destination had been near by. If so, the lobbyist had alighted and dismissed his cab. There might still be a chance to trail him. If Weed had gone on, there would be no use trying to pick up his course. Hawkeye was hoping for the only chance.
Weed's cab had stopped. It had turned down Q Street and had halted before an obscure building, while Hawkeye's cab was crossing the thoroughfare. Weed had scowled as he paid the driver.
Finding the tip omitted, the driver had laughed and driven on. Weed had turned into the entrance of an old apartment. Both the cab and he were out of sight when Hawkeye's came back to Q Street. The building that Weed entered was actually an old house converted into an apartment. Once it had been well managed; the name board showed push?buttons and bell. But the bell?button bore a scrawled paper that said “Out of Order” and Weed decided that the door might be unlocked. It was.
Entering, the lobbyist went up one flight. He came to a door marked 2D. He paused there, staring at the lighted transom; then went to the end of the hall where he found an opened window that led to a fire escape.
Stepping out, Weed found a darkened window that he was sure opened into the apartment that he wanted.
Again, luck was his. The window was unlocked; evidently the occupant of the apartment feared no intruders.
It was dark here on the fire escape, with an empty building in back and a little alleyway between.
Weed opened the window and slid into the room. He was breathing tensely as he felt his way through darkness, toward the crack of a lighted door.
Arriving at the barrier, Weed paused; then, with a jolt, he shoved the door open and plunged into the room.
He grabbed the door and closed it behind him. Looking across the room, he saw a man rise excitedly from a chair. Weed grinned as the fellow threw a newspaper aside.
The lobbyist was staring at the glowering face of Congressman Layton Coyd.
ATTIRED in smoking jacket, the surprised occupant of the apartment was too perturbed to make a move.
Weed saw his lips twitch; that fact gave the lobbyist confidence. He motioned toward the chair and bowed with sarcasm.
“Sit down, congressman,” he urged, in wheedling fashion. “Excuse my unannounced arrival. Since I am here, we may as well be friendly.”
“Who are you?” The question was hoarse?toned. “Why have you come here?”
“You don't remember me, Mr. Coyd?” Weed smiled meanly as he remembered statements in Quidler's first report. “Well, well, I had forgotten that your mind was troubled. Loss of memory, perhaps.”
All of Coyd's dignity became apparent as the shock?haired man drew himself erect and pressed his hand against his scarred chin. Then came a shake of the shaggy head.
“What?” quizzed Weed. “You don't remember Tyson Weed? Your pet lobbyist? The prize pest, as you used to call me?”
Coyd's figure relaxed. The expression that came over his face was partly one of anger; at the same time, it showed relief. It was like the dawn of recognition, followed by a nod.
“I remember you now, Mr. Weed. Sit down. Tell me the purpose of your visit. I am rather surprised that you learned I was here.”
“No wonder.” Weed grinned as he took a chair. “The newspapers stated that you had gone to Virginia.”
“Yes, they did.” Coyd's words came reluctantly as the unwilling host resumed his chair. “Tell me, you possess this information exclusively as your own.”
“Yes,” replied Weed, blandly, “and that fact, Mr. Coyd, leaves us clear to form a friendly agreement.”
Twitching fingers pushed their way through shaggy, black hair, that glistened in the lamplight. Weed watched the expression on the tight?skinned face.
“An agreement,” came Coyd's ponderous tone. “Just what do you mean by an agreement, Mr. Weed?”
“Just this.” Weed was on his feet; his hissed tone lacked its whine. “I represent various interests, Mr. Coyd. I have been paid to see that their rights are given fair consideration by Congress; that needed appropriations are made for them.”
“And you are even empowered to use bribery to obtain votes. Am I right, Mr. Weed?”
“I have never attempted bribery.”
“Because you knew that you were dealing with honest men. You want the government to purchase worthless timber lands; to grant money for the reopening of useless canals. You are ready to advocate the draining of marsh lands, to further speculative real estate developments.”
“What of it? Such things have been done before.”
“I have never been party to them.”
WEED watched a change come over Coyd's expression. The shaggy?haired man came to his feet; he was pompous as he thrust one hand beneath his smoking jacket in Napoleonic pose.
“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—”
