Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 055 - The Key

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THE KEY
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. HALF A MILLION
? CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW ENTERS
? CHAPTER III. THE LAST GASP
? CHAPTER IV. FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER V. AT PERNAMBUCO
? CHAPTER VI. OUTSIDE THE HARBOR
? CHAPTER VII. NEW DEATH ARRIVES
? CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN WHO FEARED
? CHAPTER IX. THE KEY
? CHAPTER X. SWIFT DEATH
? CHAPTER XI. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER XII. A CLIENT ADVISES
? CHAPTER XIII. CLUES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIV. MOVES TO A FINISH
? CHAPTER XV. CROOKS UNITE
? CHAPTER XVI. CARDONA MAKES A CALL
? CHAPTER XVII. THE BAIT
? CHAPTER XVIII. DORRINGTON RESPONDS
? CHAPTER XIX. DEATH FAILS
? CHAPTER XX. ATTORNEYS SPEAK
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
CHAPTER I. HALF A MILLION
"HALF a million dollars!"
The speaker, a bluff-faced man with angry eyes, brought his fist upon the table with an emphatic stroke.
The action brought solemn looks from the others gathered in the conference room. Silence followed.
"A paltry half million!" With this surprising modification of his first statement, the bluff-faced man arose to
tower above his companions at the table. "Upon that sum depends the success of our entire enterprise.
Mind you, gentlemen, investments of more than fifty millions are at stake unless we can acquire that
money!"
New silence. Perplexed, troubled looks appeared upon the faces of the executives who were gathered at
the table. The bluff-faced man studied his companions. He noted that certain latecomers to the
conference were looking for an explanation. He gave it.
"Let me repeat the situation," declared the speaker. "I, Charles Curshing, am president of the Dilgin
Refining Corporation. Our company and its subsidiaries are engaged in destructive competition with the
Crux Oil Company. If this fight keeps on, one concern is bound to fail; and the finish of the conflict will
inevitably draw the other into bankruptcy with it.
"There is only one hope of avoiding this catastrophe. That is for us, the directors of the Dilgin
Corporation, to acquire a controlling interest in the Crux Company within the next sixty days. Such action
will preserve both concerns; but we must not sacrifice any of our present holdings.
"We require a total of ten million dollars to swing the deal. By pressing every available spring, I have
arranged to obtain to within a half million dollars of that sum. The limit has been reached. Unless we can
manipulate the half million, my efforts will be to no avail. We will be unable to negotiate for Crux control
before the deadline has been reached."
"How about Torrence Dilgin?"
The inquiry came from a man near the foot of the conference table. It brought a grim smile from Charles
Curshing. Leaning forward on the table, the president spoke in a confidential tone.
"Torrence Dilgin," he stated, "is a wealthy man. He was the founder of our corporation. Retired, he is
living in Rio de Janeiro. It would be logical to suppose that Torrence Dilgin would aid us in this crisis. It is
also natural that I would have looked to him for such assistance.
"I communicated with Torrence Dilgin. I did not over-emphasize the present situation, because I did not
choose to alarm him. Torrence Dilgin is past eighty, gentlemen. He is enjoying the twilight of his career.
This grand old man responded to my cautious inquiry. His letter told me that his estate is in the keeping of
a New York attorney, who is with us here to-night. Let me introduce him: Lester Dorrington."
DIRECTORS shifted in their chairs as a tall, cadaverous man arose at the side of the table. Lester
Dorrington was a prominent New York attorney; one noted for his skill in handling criminal cases. It was
something of a surprise to learn that Dorrington, who specialized in defending men charged with heavy
crimes, was the attorney whom old Torrence Dilgin had chosen as manager of his estate.
There was magnetism in Dorrington's personality. Keen eyes gave light to a face that was almost
expressionless. A man of fifty odd years, Dorrington had gained the steady persuasion that characterizes
the successful criminal lawyer. Though his manner was quiet, it brought a dominating effect. The
conference room was hushed as this pallid, cold-lipped attorney bowed in response to the chairman's
introduction.
"Upon his retirement from active business," announced Dorrington, "Torrence Dilgin conferred upon me
the honor and trust of handling his affairs. I have followed his instructions to the full. His will is in my
keeping.
"This crisis in the affairs of the Dilgin Corporation has brought an inquiry regarding the total amount of
Torrence Dilgin's holdings. Despite the fact that your president, Charles Curshing, has summoned me
here at Torrence Dilgin's order, there are certain privileges which I must exert as custodian of Torrence
Dilgin's private possessions.
"I cannot, for instance, announce the size of Torrence Dilgin's estate. That would be unfair to my client. I
can, however, state the nature of his assets. Gentlemen, Torrence Dilgin's estate consists entirely of stock
in Dilgin Corporation and associated enterprises, with the exception of certain trust funds that cannot be
touched.
"Mr. Curshing has stated that it would be unwise to utilize any Dilgin Corporation securities in the
acquisition of the needed half million. His point is well chosen: any use of such stocks would injure the
standing of your enterprises. Mr. Curshing's own decision automatically makes it impossible for Torrence
Dilgin to aid you with half a million dollars."
Pained hush resumed sway when Dorrington ceased speaking. The tall lawyer sat down, his face
expressionless as before. The last ray of hope had flickered. It was Curshing, however, who revived it.
"One possibility remains," stated the corporation president. "Mr. Dorrington has given us a clear
statement of Torrence Dilgin's holdings. We know that Torrence Dilgin is living upon the interest from his
investments in Dilgin Corporation.
"Torrence Dilgin, therefore, has as much to lose as any of us— more in fact—should Dilgin Corporation
fail. If he is properly informed of this crisis, he will certainly rally to our aid, if possible."
"But his holdings are frozen," came an objection. "According to Mr. Dorrington—"
"Mr. Dorrington," interposed Curshing, "has spoken only of Torrence Dilgin's known assets. Why should
we presume that the grand old man now in Rio de Janeiro has placed all of his holdings in Mr.
Dorrington's keeping? Torrence Dilgin was a financial genius. It was never his policy to carry eggs in a
single basket—"
Curshing paused. A buzz of acknowledgment was coming from the directors. The corporation president
had hit home. All could visualize the possibility. Torrence Dilgin—multimillionaire—might well have some
large amount of money tucked aside for old-age emergency.
The buzz subsided as Curshing raised his hands for silence. Dorrington, his own statement ended, was
sitting like a statue. On the opposite side of the table, however, was a keen-faced, middle-aged man
whose dark eyes were staring toward Curshing from beneath close-knot brows. It was to this individual
that Curshing turned.
"Gentlemen," suggested the president, "let us hear from our own attorney, Edwin Berlett."
THE heavy-browed man arose. Stocky, of middle height, his face square and dark-skinned, Edwin
Berlett was a man of action. As a lawyer, he formed a marked contrast to Lester Dorrington, whom he
faced. There was a tinge of irony in his voice.
"Gentlemen," said Berlett, firmly, "I represent the Dilgin Corporation. I owe much to Torrence Dilgin. He
and I were close friends. Mr. Curshing is right. Torrence Dilgin did not carry his eggs in one basket.
"For instance: he raised me to the position of attorney for the Dilgin Corporation. But when he came to
arrange his private affairs, he chose a man whose selection came as a surprise to me, namely: Lester
Dorrington.
"Such was always Torrence Dilgin's way, so far as people were concerned. But Torrence Dilgin has
another peculiarity. When he trusts any person, he does so to the full extent. Having chosen Dorrington
as his own attorney, he would give him entire capacity to act. Therefore, I feel positive that Dorrington
has given us a statement of all the assets which Torrence Dilgin possesses. In my opinion, it would be
useless to approach Torrence Dilgin for aid."
"You're wrong, Berlett!" The challenge came from Curshing. "The very fact that Dorrington was chosen
out of a clear sky to handle Torrence Dilgin's estate shows that there may be more to this matter.
"You, Berlett, are going to Rio. You are to see Torrence Dilgin. You are to state our case. As president
of the Dilgin Corporation, I impose this duty upon you."
"The trip will be useless."
"Not in my opinion."
"It will mean a large fee if I go."
"We shall pay it."
Berlett shrugged his shoulders as he resumed his chair. He seemed to take Curshing's words at discount.
The president, however had won the support of the directors.
"I have cabled Torrence Dilgin," declared Curshing, in a decisive tone. "In my message, I told him that
you are on your way to Rio. You will leave today, Berlett, by plane."
"At what time?" questioned the lawyer, indignantly.
"Two o'clock this afternoon," returned Curshing. "I sent the cable two days ago. Remember, Berlett, this
corporation holds the privilege of calling upon your entire services at any time. We are exerting that
privilege right now."
Approval came from the directors. Hearing their audible expression of unanimous agreement with
Curshing, Berlett submitted. He smiled sourly as he arose from his chair.
"Very well, gentlemen," he declared. "I must leave you and return to my office. I shall have to hurry to
arrange my own affairs and prepare for my trip —"
"You will meet me here at half past twelve," ordered Charles Curshing, as the lawyer started for the
door. "It is ten o'clock now, Mr. Berlett."
As Berlett passed out through the door, Curshing waved his arms as a signal for adjournment.
Approaching Lester Dorrington, Curshing shook hands with the cadaverous lawyer and thanked him for
his statement. He ushered Dorrington out through the offices of the Dilgin Refining Corporation.
AS soon as he had left Curshing, Dorrington permitted himself to smile. The twist that appeared upon his
pale lips was a knowing one. It still existed, half an hour later, when Dorrington appeared in his own
offices.
Standing in a private room, amid heavy, expensive furnishings of mahogany, Lester Dorrington stared
from the window as he surveyed the steplike skyline of Manhattan. He was thinking of the events that
had taken place at the directors' meeting.
Moving to a corner of his office, Dorrington brought a telephone from a little cabinet. This was a private
line—one that was not connected with the switchboard in Dorrington's suite. The lawyer dialed. He
heard a whiny voice across the wire.
"Hello, Squeezer," began the cadaverous man, in a cautious tone. "This is Mr. Dorrington... Yes. From
my office in the Bylend Building... Yes, a job for you... Go to 918 Hopewell Building. Trail Edwin
Berlett, the lawyer... He's going out from Newark airport at two o'clock... Right..."
Dorrington hung up the receiver. He paused thoughtfully, smiled in dry fashion, then decided to call
another number. It was plain that Lester Dorrington was deeply interested in the affairs of Edwin Berlett.
THE situation, however, was mutual. While Dorrington was telephoning from his office in the Bylend
Building, Edwin Berlett, seated at his desk in room 918, Hopewell Building, was also busy on the wire.
Berlett had arrived at his office fifteen minutes earlier.
"Hello..." Berlett's tone was keen. "Yes... You'll take care of everything... That's right... Through the
proper parties. Be sure that the messages are sent. Very good, Morgan.
"When everything is done, keep an eye on Lester Dorrington, 2416 Bylend Building... That's right...
No... Nothing more. I'm all finished. Ready to leave..."
Berlett's lips wore a hard smile as the receiver clattered on the hook. The stocky attorney was ready to
leave for Rio. He had placed his affairs in order. He was starting upon a mission that Charles Curshing
believed would involve half a million dollars.
Why did Lester Dorrington mistrust Edwin Berlett? Why, in turn, did the corporation attorney decide that
the criminal lawyer would bear watching? What sinister factors were involved in the affairs of Torrence
Dilgin?
No one could have gained an inkling of the actual suspicions from either of those poker faces. Dorrington
and Berlett were cagey men, of long experience. Each had preserved complete composure during the
directors' meeting. Only when alone and apart, outside the conference room, had they shown their
individual craftiness.
Half a million dollars seemed the sum at stake. It had loomed as probably the issue of Edwin Berlett's
coming trip to Rio. But the actions of the two crafty lawyers indicated that more lay in the balance.
Hidden schemes; vast sums; the lives of unsuspecting men—such were the factors in the coming game.
Charles Curshing, honest president of Dilgin Corporation, had unwittingly touched the spark that was to
loose a blast of evil!
CHAPTER II. THE SHADOW ENTERS
NIGHT in Manhattan. The glare of the metropolis cast a flickering glow upon the walls of massive
buildings. Light, reflected from the sullen sky, gave artificial dusk to silent offices that would otherwise
have been filled with inky blackness.
A blackened figure was moving through the gloom of a long corridor. Like a phantom of darkness, the
mysterious shape approached a door and paused, crouching. Dully, words showed upon the glass panel
of the barrier:
INTERNATIONAL
IMPORT COMPANY
A soft laugh shuddered in the corridor. The phantom shade came close to the door. Soft clicks sounded
as a blackened hand worked upon the lock. The barrier gave. Entering the office of the International
Import Company, the gliding figure straightened as it neared the window. Momentarily, it was revealed as
a form clad in flowing cloak, with head topped by a dark slouch hat.
The Shadow!
Weird prowler of the night, strange adventurer whose paths were those of danger, this sinister visitor had
come with some known purpose to the office of the International Import Company. He had picked the
lock of the door; his next design would soon be evident.
For The Shadow was a master who battled crime. A lone wolf amid the towers of Manhattan, a
traveling, living phantom who could fade into unseen hiding places, a fierce, ready warrior who could
spring into view with the same startling rapidity, The Shadow had chosen a career that meant death to
crooks.
His presence in this office could mean but one thing. The Shadow had come to forestall crime. A master
investigator, aided by capable agents who did his bidding, The Shadow had a remarkable ability for
ferreting out the truth in evil schemes. Crookery was afoot tonight. The Shadow was ahead of it.
Gliding from the window, The Shadow reached a corner where the heavy door of a vault showed dimly
in the gloom. While distant electric signs brought dull flickers to the office, The Shadow's flashlight
directed a steady beam upon the combination. His right hand held the torch; his left, ungloved, was
working with a knob. A sparkling gem—The Shadow's girasol—glittered changing hues amid the light.
THE SHADOW'S touch was uncanny. A soft laugh came from above the flashlight. The left hand slipped
into its thin black glove. The same hand drew open the door of the vault. In the space of half a dozen
minutes, The Shadow had solved the combination.
A locked gate showed within. The Shadow made short work of it. He found the combination of this
second barrier. He stepped into the vault. The flashlight glimmered upon metal drawers set in the wall.
Suddenly, the light clicked out.
Swishing toward the front of the vault, The Shadow drew the outer door shut. This done, he softly closed
the metal gate. Dropping to the rear of the vault, he crouched in Stygian darkness. His keen ears had told
him of approaching footsteps in the outer corridor.
The Shadow had acted with swift precision. Less than five seconds after the big door of the vault had
closed, a key clicked in the office door. Two men entered. One crossed the room and drew the shades.
The other then turned on the office light.
"Open the vault, Hurnor," ordered the man who had gone to the windows.
"All right, Frenchy," replied the other, in a cautious tone. He strode across the room, turned the
combination and drew back the heavy door. He paused, with hand upon the inner gate.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," returned "Frenchy." "Just wanted to make sure your vault was locked. We'll wait for Lapone."
The interior of the vault was blackened, hence The Shadow was invisible to the men in the office. They,
however, were plainly in view to The Shadow. Keen eyes that stared from beneath the hat brim were
studying the waiting men.
One, a bald-headed man of portly build; was Cyrus Hurnor, who owned the International Import
Company. The other was Frenchy Duprez, a crook known in Europe as well as America; a man who
had cunningly evaded the law by scampering from one continent to the other when places became too
hot for him.
"Worried, Hurnor?" Frenchy laughed in grating tone. "You don't need to be. Lapone and I have been
behaving. We're supposed to be has-beens so far as crooked work is concerned."
"But both of you were in wrong—"
"A year ago. They thought we had a lot of stolen rocks on us. That's when we unloaded the swag to you
for safe keeping. Don't worry about Lapone and me. We're ace high right now. I've got a clean bill of
health in Europe; he has the same in South America. We're going back where we belong. You'll get your
cut when we fence the stuff. It's cold now—those jewels have been forgotten in a year."
Hurnor nodded. His doubts were fading. His face, however, showed one last qualm.
"But you come here at night," he protested. "That means that you think some one may know—"
"I'm taking no chances," interposed Frenchy, "and neither is Lapone. I don't think any one is on my trail;
neither does Lapone. I called him at noon to-day."
"Was that necessary? I thought you arranged this meeting last night."
"We did. I called Lapone on another matter—"
A soft tap was sounding at the outer door. Hurnor shivered. Frenchy smiled and nodded.
"It's Lapone," he stated. "Let him in."
HURNOR went to the door to admit a tall, dark-faced fellow who looked like a Spaniard. Lapone
waved a greeting to Frenchy. With Hurnor, he approached the vault.
"I'll open the gate," said Hurnor, nervously. "Are you ready?"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Frenchy. Then, to Lapone: "Did you send that cable?"
"Sure," grinned the dark-skinned man. "Here's the copy of it."
Frenchy took the paper. He nodded as he read the message; then tore the sheet in quarters and threw
the pieces in the wastebasket.
"You're sure your friend in Rio will understand it?" questioned Frenchy.
"Positive," replied Lapone.
"He'll be sure to find Warren Sigler?" came the next inquiry.
"Why not?" demanded Lapone. "You said Sigler's at the Hotel Nacional. That's the first place my friend
will pick."
"All right."
"What's this about?" The question came nervously from Hurnor. The fake importer wanted an
explanation from Duprez. "I thought you fellows were keeping clear of complications. You weren't to
unload the swag yet—"
"Easy, Hurnor," interposed Frenchy. "This has nothing to do with the jewels."
"What is it then?"
"Lapone has contacts in South American cities. Friends, like I have in Europe. What's more, we've both
got friends in New York. This morning, I received a call from a man whom I know. He wanted a job
done—an important one —down in Rio. It was something that he had anticipated. I had already told
Lapone to notify his contact in Rio, should a message be going through. Well— the message came to
me—I called Lapone and he sent it. That's all."
"But why didn't this man send the message himself?"
"You were never cut out for real work, Hurnor," returned Frenchy, sadly. "My friend did handle his own
communications until this one was necessary. Then he wanted something that couldn't be traced. He had
a job, I tell you. A job to be done. That's why the word was to be passed by Lapone.
"It's got nothing to do with jewels. So keep your shirt on. Let's get busy. Open that gate. Lapone and I
will each take half of what's inside."
"We'll let Hurnor make the division," suggested Lapone.
"No need," decided Frenchy. "We'll get it fifty-fifty, in a rough way. In a hurry, too; there'll be no time for
argument."
The gate had swung open under Hurnor's pull. The portly man had pressed a light switch. His bulky form
obscured the view of the others. Suddenly, Hurnor emitted a gasping cry. He came staggering backward
from the lighted vault.
"Get him!" he screamed. "Get him! Quick!"
Frenchy and Lapone had thrust hands to pockets even before Hurnor shouted. As the stout man cleared
the opening by his backward motion, both crooks aimed for the vault, knowing that an enemy must be
within. As Hurnor's words rang in their ears, they saw their rising foeman.
THE SHADOW was in the center of the vault. A blackened outline, his shape made a perfect silhouette
target for the upcoming guns. Snarling vicious oaths, Frenchy and Lapone sought to fire.
One revolver spoke. It was Frenchy's. The crook loosed his first shot too quickly. A bullet winged the
side of the vault. Lapone, determined upon perfect aim, pressed finger to trigger a half second after
Frenchy's futile shot.
To The Shadow, half seconds were long intervals. Between Frenchy's shot and Lapone's attempt, The
Shadow acted.
Long tongues of flame spat from his extended hands. The roars of twin automatics came cannonlike from
the echoing hollow of the vault.
Lapone's finger wavered. Frenchy lost his hold upon his gun. Side by side, these crooked pals went
slumping to the floor. They had shared the spoils of crime in life. They had gained their reward—
death—together.
Frenchy and Lapone had found the contents of the vault. They had split fifty-fifty, in a hurry, and in a
rough way that they had not expected. Each, instead of stolen jewels, had received a hot bullet from an
automatic.
It was Hurnor, roused by the shots, who provided the most startling opposition. Wildly, the false
importer leaped forward as his companions fell. Lunging through the door of the vault he hurled his huge
bulk upon The Shadow.
As Hurnor grappled for an automatic, his adversary whirled in his grip. Together, The Shadow and his
bulky antagonist came spinning from the vault. Gloved fists opened. Automatics clattered to the floor.
Hurnor screamed in triumph as The Shadow's form sank beneath him.
Then came a wild gasp from the big man's lips as the black-garbed form shot upward like a massive
spring of steel. The Shadow's hands gained their grip. Hurnor rose struggling toward the ceiling. His body
did a cartwheel as snapping shoulders acted beneath the black cloak.
Landing flat on his back, Cyrus Hurnor lay stunned. He did not hear the ring of a distant alarm; the
response of a whistle from the streets. But The Shadow heard. He knew that a watchman in the building
had caught the sounds of the fray.
Whirling toward the wastebasket, The Shadow stooped and gained the pieces of the cable message.
Yellowed paper disappeared beneath the black cloak. Swiftly, the black-clad figure, clearly outlined in
the lighted office, moved toward the outer door.
THREE minutes passed. Cyrus Hurnor moved. He came up to a seated position and rubbed the back of
his neck. He stared at the prone forms of Frenchy and Lapone. Footsteps were pounding along the
corridor. Wildly, Hurnor looked about him. He saw that The Shadow was gone. These were human
enemies who were arriving!
Gaining his feet, Hurnor grabbed Frenchy's revolver. Hurnor knew that the police investigation would
uncover the wealth in stolen gems that lay within the opened vault. Caught with the goods, Hurnor swung
to the door just as a policeman hurled the barrier open.
Hurnor fired. The excited shot went wide. The policeman responded. Hurnor fired again, but he was
slumping. The bluecoat, pumping lead into the big target before him, had gained the edge in the fight.
Hurnor's spasmodic, dying shots were useless.
The Shadow had broken the jewel ring. He had dropped two enemies who had sought his life. He had
left the third to meet the law. His hand remained unseen. By the cards, to-night should have ended The
Shadow's work.
CROSSING trails, however, had changed the story. While the police were studying the scene of death in
the import office, The Shadow was studying the clue to other crime. A bluish light was burning in a
black-walled room. Its rays, focused upon a table, showed hands that held torn sheets of paper.
The Shadow was in his sanctum—a hidden abode which he alone could enter. Before him, on the table,
his hands placed the fragments of Lapone's cable to Rio de Janeiro. The message read as follows:
GUYON, RIO:
DISCHARGE EXECUTIVE BEFORE REPRESENTATIVE ARRIVES.
LAPONE.
To The Shadow, this cable, apparently addressed to a concern in Rio de Janeiro, was the tip to crime.
"Executive" meant some one to be eliminated; "representative" signified a person en route to Brazil.
The Shadow recalled words uttered by Duprez, in questioning Lapone. Frenchy had made it plain that
the instructions were not for the man to whom the message had been sent—Guyon—but for another
whom Frenchy had named.
Upon a blank sheet of paper, The Shadow inscribed the name that he had heard Frenchy mention; with
that name, the address:
Warren Sigler
Hotel Nacional
Rio de Janeiro
A soft laugh whispered through the sanctum. The writing faded from the paper—a peculiar phenomenon
due to the special ink that The Shadow used in transcribing written thoughts.
Hands stretched forward and gained earphones. A little light glowed on the wall. A quiet voice came
over the wire:
"Burbank speaking."
In a weird, clear whisper, The Shadow began to speak. To Burbank, his contact agent, he was
announcing his intended plans. Danger— joined with crime —lured The Shadow. He was responding to
the beck.
The Shadow was setting out for Rio de Janeiro. On the morrow, a swift plane would be carrying him en
voyage to the Brazilian capital. The master who hounded men of crime was ready to take the course that
Edwin Berlett had already begun.
Twenty-four hours behind the corporation lawyer, The Shadow would be on the trail of crime! The
Shadow had entered the field where insidious evil lurked.
CHAPTER III. THE LAST GASP
"I DID not expect you so soon, Mr. Berlett."
The speaker was a crafty faced man who was seated in an armchair in the corner of a small but luxurious
living room. He was looking toward Edwin Berlett who was standing by the curtained window.
The lawyer did not reply. He was staring from the window, out into the night. From this suite in the Hotel
Nacional, he could view the brilliant lights of Rio de Janeiro. Beyond a balcony outside the window, he
spied the long, curving twinkle of the crescent waterfront that seemed to dwindle endlessly in each
direction.
"I supposed," said the man in the chair, "that you were coming by boat. Mr. Curshing, when he sent his
cable, announced that you were on your way. I did not expect you, Mr. Berlett, for a few days to come."
"Quite right." Berlett was terse as he swung from the window to face the man who was hunched in the
chair. "I would have come by steamship, Sigler. It was Curshing who insisted that I come by plane. I
thought that he would send a second cable. Evidently he decided it was unnecessary."
There was a tinge of annoyance in Berlett's tone. It brought a response from a third man who was seated
in another corner. This man was a gray-haired Brazilian. He spoke in English, with barely a trace of
Portuguese accent.
"It is well, Senhor Berlett," he announced, "that you did come by air. The doctor does not think that
Senhor Dilgin will live past midnight. His sudden illness is most unfortunate."
"It is," agreed Berlett. Then, swinging to Sigler, he ordered, brusquely: "Give me the exact
circumstances."
"The cable came from Curshing," explained Sigler. "Mr. Dilgin had not been well; nevertheless, I showed
him the message. I have been his secretary for seven years; I did not expect that so simple a cable could
produce a shock.
"Mr. Dilgin began to worry. He said, sir, that the message meant trouble with the corporation. He wanted
me to cable to New York. I restrained him, assuring him that you were on the way."
摘要：

THEKEYMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.HALFAMILLION?CHAPTERII.THESHADOWENTERS?CHAPTERIII.THELASTGASP?CHAPTERIV.FROMTHEDARK?CHAPTERV.ATPERNAMBUCO?CHAPTERVI.OUTSIDETHEHARBOR?CHAPTERVII.NEWDEATHARRIVES?CHAPTERVIII.THEMANWHOFEARED?CHAPTERIX.THEKEY?CHAPT...

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