Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 062 - The Garaucan Swindle

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THE GARAUCAN SWINDLE
by Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. DEATH IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER II. THE LAW IS BALKED
? CHAPTER III. CLUES TO DEATH
? CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER V. THE MONEY MASTER
? CHAPTER VI. BANKERS MEET
? CHAPTER VII. MINIONS MOVE
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH RIDES BY RAIL
? CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND TRAIL
? CHAPTER X. CRIME BREAKS
? CHAPTER XI. FIGHT AND FLIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. THE CONFERENCE
? CHAPTER XIII. BARTH GETS ADVICE
? CHAPTER XIV. CARDONA REPORTS
? CHAPTER XV. SUSPICIONS ARE STATED
? CHAPTER XVI. AFTER MIDNIGHT
? CHAPTER XVII. MOVES FROM THE DARK
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH TRAVELS AHEAD
? CHAPTER XIX. THE LAW MOVES
? CHAPTER XX. MEN OF MURDER
? CHAPTER XXI. THE SHADOW SPEAKS
CHAPTER I. DEATH IN THE DARK
DUSK had settled on Manhattan. Mammoth office buildings were pouring forth their human throngs.
Sidewalks were jammed with crowds that bunched at subway entrances. The streets were filled with
hooting taxicabs that tried to jam their way through the crush of slow-moving traffic.
The press was thickest in front of the Halbar Building. This colossal edifice—one of New York's newest
skyscrapers—towered like a mighty monolith above the structure of an elevated line. A taxi, trying to pull
up in front of the huge arched entrance, was stalled by a truck that swung in from a pillar of the elevated.
"Near enough, driver," came an irritable voice. "Here's my fare. Keep the change."
With these words, a passenger stepped from the cab. He slammed the door behind him, dived in front of
another taxi, and reached the curb in safety. He began to fight his way against the human press that was
coming from the Halbar Building. Edging toward the wall, he made his way into the spacious lobby.
The light revealed this arrival as a tall, crafty-faced individual, whose eyes seemed restless and uneasy.
His derby hat was tilted at a slight angle; his gray overcoat was of sporty pattern. Under his arm, he was
carrying a bundle of newspapers that he had evidently been reading in the cab. Spying a later edition on a
news stand in the lobby, the man pulled coins from his pocket and bought a copy. He was reading the
headlines as he walked hastily toward an elevator.
People were pouring from the crowded car. When the elevator became empty, the man in the derby
stepped aboard. The operator slammed the doors and began an upward trip, carrying this lone
passenger.
"What floor, please?"
No reply. The passenger was intent in his reading. His lips were twitching nervously. The operator
repeated the question. The man looked up, almost startled.
"My floor? Oh, yes. Thirty-five."
"Very well, sir."
AS the operator stopped at the thirty-fifth floor, the man with the derby had shoved the later newspaper
under his arm, along with the others. Though his eyes were blinking with a far-away stare, the rider
realized that he had reached his floor. He stepped from the car and paced along a corridor to the door of
Room 3520. Here, letters on the glass panel bore the legend:
SIGBY RUND AND ASSOCIATES SECURITIES
The man entered the outer office. A stenographer was seated behind a desk. She was the only one
remaining of a fair-sized office staff, for there were half a dozen desks in this one room. The girl looked
up to recognize the arrival.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rund," she said. "Mr. Tyson Curwood is waiting in your private office."
"I know it," barked Rund, as he headed for an inner door. "Please remain here, Miss Saylor, until I tell
you to leave. I may have to dictate some letters after I have talked with Curwood."
"Very well, Mr. Rund."
In his abrupt, nervous fashion, Sigby Rund opened the door to his private office. Stepping in, he closed
the door behind him, then faced the man who was awaiting him. Tyson Curwood, mild mannered and
middle-aged, was standing by the window. He frowned in alarm as he noted the expression on Rund's
face.
"What is the matter, Rund?" questioned Curwood. "You appear quite distressed. Have you encountered
trouble?"
"Not yet," growled Rund, "but it's coming. That's why I left word for you to come here, Curwood. I may
need you as my lawyer."
"In what connection, Rund?"
"This." Rund yanked the latest newspaper from his bundle. He pointed to the banner that ran across its
front page. "Read that, Curwood."
"My word!" exclaimed the lawyer. "So Police Commissioner Ralph Weston is going to South America. I
did not believe that he would take that appointment offered him by the government of Garauca."
"Why not?"
"The country is unsettled, Rund. The cabinet members have taken over the government since the flight of
President Birafel. Conditions there may seem stable on the surface; but discontent is surely seething."
"That's why they need Weston."
"Of course. As Chief of the National Police, he should certainly capture the acclaim of the populace. It
was his exposure of the bond swindle—here in New York—that caused President Birafel to run from
Garauca. Why—why— what's the matter, Rund?"
Sigby Rund had slumped in the chair behind his desk. Tyson Curwood, genuine apprehension on his
kindly face, was springing to the man's side. A sour, sickly expression had replaced Rund's nervousness.
"You don't mean"—Curwood shook the newspaper that Rund had given him— "that—that you are
implicated? In this matter of the Garaucan bonds?"
"Yes." Rund moaned as he nodded. "I was in it, Curwood. That's why I sent for you. I need your
advice."
CURWOOD took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He faced the man who had become his
unexpected client. There was something reassuring in the lawyer's gaze. Rund twitched; then began to
speak.
"I went to Garauca six months ago," he explained. "I represented— well, certain interests. I made a deal
with President Birafel. When I came back here, I began to peddle the Garaucan bonds."
"But you were not one of the brokers whom Weston quizzed. You were not in the scandal that began
here and caused Birafel to flee his country."
"Of course not. I sold the bonds to big buyers. I did it quietly."
"Then how -"
"Some of the purchasers wised up that the bonds were bad. They got rid of them by proxy. A lot of
small-fry brokers began to peddle the stuff. Then Weston butted in."
With this statement, Rund arose and paced toward the window. He stood there, staring out upon the
sparkling vista of Manhattan. Twinkling lights; toy trains on the elevated; microscopic humans dashing in
front of pygmy automobiles. These formed the scene below; but Sigby Rund stared blankly. His own
affairs seemed to loom above the miniature world below.
"Has Weston traced you?" questioned Curwood, anxiously. "Is that why you are troubled?"
"Yes," admitted Rund, as he turned to face the lawyer. "It all happened in a hurry, Curwood. First,
Weston landed on the local brokers. They squealed like stuck pigs; but they couldn't tell anything. But
when the news reached Garauca, old President Birafel packed. He was a crooked old codger, as wise
as any racketeer. So he took it on the lam."
"Then Weston communicated with the new government, formed by the cabinet members."
"Yes. He wanted to find out who brought those bonds to New York. I felt safe, in a way, for Birafel was
the only man with whom I had dealt in Garauca. But when the new government sent this fellow Marinez
Corlaza to see Weston— when Corlaza wanted Weston to come to Garauca - when Weston announced
that he would take the job—well, Curwood, the jig is up."
"It does look bad, Rund," admitted Curwood. "You made a great mistake in mixing in that matter. At the
same time, you can hardly be held responsible. You did not issue the Garaucan bonds—Birafel did that.
Obviously, you could not be the man who financed them."
"But I was his agent," exclaimed Rund. "I'm the key to the whole mess— don't you see that, Curwood? I
went to Garauca as the representative of—well, of American financial interests. If Weston can make me
talk—make me tell the name of the man who put up the millions for the Garaucan bond issue and -"
"Be calm, Rund," interposed Curwood. "As an attorney, I can assure you that you will not have to
divulge any names if Weston questions you. Unless he has actual proof against you; unless he knows
positively that you acted as agent between an American financier and President Birafel -"
"But he may know that already!"
"Then why is he going to Garauca?"
Sigby Rund stood momentarily silent. His fists were clenched; his lips were twitching. He seemed to be
weighing Curwood's question, grasping its significance.
"I see." Rund nodded slowly. "You think there is a chance that Weston is in the dark about me. You
think that he may be going to Garauca to pick up evidence there."
"Precisely."
"You may be right, Curwood. In that case, I can sit tight for the present. Days—weeks will pass before
Weston can lay his finger on me."
"Yes."
"I hope you're right, Curwood. Just the same, I am worried, particularly since this fellow Corlaza arrived
in New York. Look here, Curwood. Weston is going to Garauca; but the newspapers don't say just how
soon. Suppose he has gained more information already. Suppose he is ready to quiz me now. If such is
the case, he will land on me before he starts. He will try to get the name of the big boy who sent me to
Garauca. Learning that name, he will rip things wide in New York. When he arrives in Garauca, he will
be a hero."
"You have pictured a possibility, Rund," declared Curwood, slowly. "If it is fact, your position will be
most unfortunate. At the same time, the odds are in your favor. It is not likely that Weston will question
you before he leaves for Garauca."
"Then you advise me to sit tight?"
"Yes. Should Weston summon you or arrest you, refer to me as your attorney. That is the best advice
that I can give at present."
Rund nodded. He motioned toward the door. Curwood arose and walked with him into the outer office.
Rund spoke to the stenographer.
"There will be no letters, Miss Saylor," he said. "You may go." Then, to Curwood: "I shall stay here in the
office for a while. I want to think matters over. Should I decide to call you again -"
"I shall be at my home," put in Curwood. "Here let me write the telephone number for you."
The lawyer drew one of his cards from his pocket. He scrawled his home number. Rund took the card.
He stepped aside to let Curwood and the stenographer pass to the hall. Then, as an afterthought, he
strolled with them to the elevator, talking to Curwood in a nonchalant tone.
The lawyer and the stenographer entered an elevator. The doors clanged. Rund walked back to his
offices. He entered the outer door and closed it; but he failed to press the latch. He turned out the light;
then went into his private office and left the door ajar.
STANDING by the window, Rund stared downward. A white cornice projected outward, two floors
below. Staring beyond the cornice, Rund watched the moving lights in the tiny streets. His thoughts
became detached. Minutes passed before a slight noise made him turn and walk to his desk.
Rund listened. He heard no new sound. Rubbing his forehead nervously, he shoved Curwood's card
under a corner of the blotter; then went to a small safe in the corner of the room. He opened the steel
door and drew out a packet of letters. He carried these to the desk, laid them on the blotter and rubbed
his chin.
This stack of correspondence contained envelopes that bore the picturesque postage stamps of Garauca.
It was plain that there were papers here that could prove incriminating. Rund was considering whether he
should destroy them or place them in Curwood's possession.
There was a pad of paper beyond the blotter. Rund reached out, tore off a sheet and brought it toward
him. He performed this action with his left hand. With his right, he then drew a fountain pen from his vest
pocket.
Nervously, Rund began to scrawl a note on the sheet of paper. He stopped at the end of a sentence. Pen
in hand, he looked up toward the door of his private office. Staring, he saw two men—one half way to
the desk, the other by the door.
AS Sigby Rund was transfixed by alarm, the lights went out. The man at the door had pressed the switch.
Simultaneously, the second intruder reached the desk with a long, swift leap.
Rund dropped his fountain pen as he thrust his chair back from the desk. Coming to his feet, he raised his
hands to grapple, while his lips voiced a sudden outcry. Both were futile. Clutching hands caught Rund's
throat. They ended his scream while they choked away his strength.
The second invader arrived. He, too, fell upon the unfortunate victim. Rund's body sagged limply.
Whispered growls sounded in the darkness. One man was urging the other to drag Rund's form to the
window. Together, they drew their victim to that objective.
Then, lifting the half-choked man between them, the powerful assassins moved backward. Rund's eyes,
bulging as they stared, saw blackness ahead, with distant lights far beyond. His lips emitted a gargling
protest.
"Go."
The command came as Rund tried to gasp a call for help. Brawny arms swung forward. They catapulted
the victim's body head foremost through the broad, opened window. Arms and legs clawing and kicking,
Rund's form cleared the cornice two floors below.
Lessening in size as it whirled on its mad downward flight, Rund's body sped from the view of the men
who had launched it on the death plunge. Unable to see the finish of the fall, because of the cornice which
Rund had passed, the assassins stepped back from the window.
Flashlights glimmered in the darkness of the private office. Papers crinkled; the door of the safe thudded
shut. Then came departing footsteps. The outer door closed to bring silence to the suite where no one
remained.
CHAPTER II. THE LAW IS BALKED
WHILE death was in the making, high in the Halbar Building, two men were engaged in a conversation
that involved the name of Sigby Rund. These men were Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Marinez
Corlaza, representative of the Garaucan government. They were holding their discussion in the little office
of the commissioner's apartment.
Weston and Corlaza formed a contrast. The police commissioner, bulky behind his flat-topped desk,
was a man of military appearance. His steady face, with its short-clipped mustache, gave him a firm
expression. His attitude was dynamic; every gesture denoted him as a man of action.
The emissary from Garauca was of a different type. Marinez Corlaza was a South American who had
gained the poise of a European diplomat. Smooth-faced and shrewd-eyed, he was both suave and
courteous. When he spoke, his manner denoted reservation. His statements dealt with suppositions rather
than with facts.
"To my country," asserted Corlaza, "there will come much honor when you have arrived there, senor.
The people of Garauca have felt a great debt to you. When you have come to take command of the new
National Police, they will know that security can be their gain."
"I am counting upon the support of the public," responded Weston. "It is your assurance that has made
me form my decision. I have long considered a leave of absence from my post as police commissioner of
New York. It was the matter of the bond swindles that made me delay my departure.
"Even now, I would not feel entitled to a vacation. Frankly, I have reached the limit of my investigation
here in New York. I have accepted the post as National Police Chief in Garauca only because I feel that
I can accomplish more in Garauca than in New York. But before I leave here, I must make a final
endeavor to uncover the financial interests that backed the Garaucan bond issue. It was my hope, Senor
Corlaza, that you might have brought me useful information."
"Such was impossible." Corlaza shook his head. "In our country, senor, we were governed by a virtual
dictatorship. President Birafel controlled the entire country. Offenders against his regime were sentenced
to imprisonment or death. He forced the members of his cabinet to do his bidding."
"But the bond issue -"
"Was entirely handled by Birafel. No one—not even the Secretary of Finance—knew the amount of
issue. There were rumors that all was not well. But rumors, senor, could not go far in Garauca while
Birafel was president."
"So I understood," nodded Weston. "But here in America, we do not suppress rumors. We investigate
them. That is how I happened to uncover the scandal of the bond issue. I learned that Garaucan bonds
were being sold by brokers of doubtful status. I discovered that they were selling under par.
"I came to the conclusion that the financial interests that had backed the Garaucan bond issue must have
been guilty of some conspiracy. Although I could not determine the amount of the bond issue, it seemed
apparent that President Birafel, in return for a loan of say ten million dollars, had turned over bonds that
totaled double that sum."
"That is our opinion, senor," agreed Corlaza. "But there was no way to make Birafel admit his guilt."
"I can understand that," stated Weston. "In fact, I did not count upon any aid from your country. Then
came the break. Birafel lost his nerve. He fled. Your cabinet took over the government and sought my
aid. I have granted it; yet in all our negotiations, I have not received any information that can assist the
investigation of New York bond sales."
"Certainly not, senor," asserted Corlaza. "President Birafel destroyed all records upon his flight from
Garauca. We found a rifled treasury. No member of the new government dared make a drastic step; for
all were under suspicion of being Birafel adherents. We moved with caution, senor, until some one
suggested that we seek your aid."
"And you are sure that my presence will curb political unrest?"
"Most certainly, senor. All factions will know that you are impartial. You will be free from the criticism
that hovers over every other official, namely that he may be a secret agent of the tyrant, Birafel."
Weston nodded. He strummed thoughtfully upon the top of the desk. The fingers of his firm hand seemed
ready to grip the loose reins of Garaucan affairs.
UPON the desk lay an evening paper with the same screaming headlines that had brought terror to Sigby
Rund. Weston eyed the huge type. He heard Corlaza speak.
"To-morrow, senor," came the South American's tones, "the newspapers in Garauca City will proclaim
the news brought by the cables. There, the populace will be asking how soon you will come to Garauca
-"
"I am thinking of New York," interposed Weston. "I knew that this story would result, when I announced
to the press that I had accepted the appointment which you offered. These headlines have been read by
the very men whom I seek— the ones who were responsible for the deal with Birafel."
"They will fear you now," assured Corlaza. "You are going to Garauca, senor. With the power that you
will gain there, you may trace these men. When you return from Garauca -"
"When I return?" Weston smiled. "I am thinking of the present, Senor Corlaza, not of the future."
Opening a desk drawer, the commissioner brought out a small batch of reports. He thumbed these while
Corlaza watched. Finding the name he wanted, Weston put a question.
"You have heard of a man named Sigby Rund?" he asked. "An American, who was in Garauca some six
months ago?"
"Yes," nodded Corlaza.
"Rund conducted negotiations with Birafel," announced Weston. "Rund is also a stock promoter. It is
possible that he was the agent for the financial interests that backed the stuffed bond issue."
"I know that, senor. Yet we have been unable to learn the truth concerning Rund. But you, senor -"
"I have avoided questioning him. I knew that he would be too smart to talk."
"But could you not have forced him to -"
"There was no charge upon which I could legally arrest him, or detain him for a sufficient period. Rund
has been the key. He has been within my grasp."
"It is too bad, Senor Weston." The words came in a purr from Corlaza's throat. "Too bad that this is not
Garauca. There you could make Senor Rund— this key—speak."
"I can make him speak here," returned Weston, as he tapped his forefinger on the newspaper. "Right
here in New York, now that the press has informed the public regarding my acceptance of your post."
"Ah! Because you are going to Garauca?"
"Because Rund has learned that I am going there. He has covered his tracks here in New York. But he
must surely know that my power as National Police Chief in Garauca will enable me to gain proof against
him."
"Certainly, senor. After you arrive in Garauca. You are right. This man Rund will be very worried."
"And that," proclaimed Weston, with a thump of his fist, "is why I intend to question him to-night. He will
be ready to weaken. If he proves stubborn, I shall detain him."
"Ah—and leave for Garauca at once!"
"Precisely. In fact, Senor Corlaza, the chief reason why I accepted your offer so willingly was because I
saw that it would enable me to trap Rund. The man's morale will sag from the moment he sees these
headlines."
"Marvelous, senor! It is like the move of a master. To deliver a stroke close by, you first appear to move
far away. Yet by so doing, you gain sure victory!"
Corlaza's teeth were gleaming between thin, curving lips. The glisten of his eyes was indicative of his
admiration for Weston's strategy. The police commissioner was lifting a desk telephone from its hook.
His finger was turning the dial.
"I am calling Rund," he remarked quietly. "When he answers, I shall pass it off as a wrong number. He
will not know my voice. I want to see if he is still in his office."
BOTH men remained silent while the sound of a ring came over the wire. Weston hung up.
"Gone," he remarked. "That is good."
"Good?" questioned Corlaza, in surprise. "But senor, if you are anxious to detain him -"
"He will be going to his apartment. I have men stationed there. Rund is walking into a trap that I arranged
during his absence."
"Ah, senor! You are clever. Once you are in charge of our National Police, there will be trouble for those
who have brought evil to Garauca."
As Corlaza completed this brief acclaim, raps sounded at the door of the little office. Weston called for
entry. His man appeared to announce that Mr. Lamont Cranston was calling.
"Show him in!" exclaimed Weston. "At once!" Then, to Corlaza: "This gentleman will interest you, senor.
He has traveled everywhere. I believe he knows your country, Garauca."
Weston arose. Corlaza followed suit. They turned toward the door as a tall, steady-faced arrival
appeared in view. Weston extended a hand; then introduced Lamont Cranston to Marinez Corlaza.
THE tall visitor gazed squarely into the countenance of Marinez Corlaza. He saw every detail of the
South American's smooth physiognomy. One glance gave him a lasting impression of the curling
smile—of the dark eyes, that peered from between sallow cheeks and blackened brows.
Corlaza, on his part, was swift in his impression of Lamont Cranston. The man from Garauca was
amazed. He found himself staring into a visage so immobile that it seemed masklike; into burning eyes that
bored from the sides of a hawklike nose. Cranston's handshake was a viselike grip.
As Commissioner Weston resumed his seat behind the desk, Cranston stepped to a chair. Corlaza
suddenly awoke to the fact that he was standing alone in the center of the room, still staring at this
remarkable arrival. Rather uneasily, Corlaza returned to his own chair.
"You will dine with us, Cranston?" questioned Weston. "I should like to have you talk with Senor
Corlaza. You have probably visited his country— Garauca—and I suppose you will have much to chat
about."
"I can be with you for about an hour and a half," returned Cranston. "After that, I have an appointment."
"Too bad," observed Weston, in a disappointed tone. "However, there will be time for a brief
conversation. Since I am going to Garauca shortly, I should like to listen in on a discussion between you
two. It might give me a more varied view of what lies ahead.
" Suppose we talk here for a few minutes longer. I am expecting a police call. It should come at any
minute. In the meantime, I shall prepare to leave with you."
Stepping to a closet, the commissioner appeared with hat, coat and cane. He set the walking stick against
the side of the desk. It slipped and fell; Cranston stooped and replaced it, in its standing position.
It was a Malacca cane, with hooked handle that ended in a gold tip. The wood, though solid, had the
appearance of being made in telescopic sections. Cranston still eyed the cane as he stepped back to his
chair. He seemed to be admiring its workmanship.
Corlaza was watching Cranston. Weston's friend was attired in evening clothes; his seated form made a
blotched outline against the dull background of the chair. The form cast a long stretch of blackness that
ended in a perfect duplication of the silhouette that Corlaza noted.
Upon the wall, that hawklike outline showed as distinctly as if it had been a living presence of its own. It
was almost an enshrouding pall, a semblance so real that Corlaza paused, expecting to see it move clear
of the wall.
While the South American stared, a ring came from the desk. It was the telephone. Weston turned to
answer the call. Corlaza shifted his gaze in that direction. It was then that Cranston's keen eyes moved to
watch Corlaza.
"Hello... Yes..." Weston was speaking eagerly. "At the apartment... What's that? You're not there?... I
told you... When?... Ten minutes ago? Yes... Yes... Expect me at once.
"Yes. I am leaving right away..."
DROPPING the telephone in place, Weston stood leaning on the desk. He looked at Lamont Cranston,
who met his eyes with a quiet gaze. Then the commissioner turned suddenly to Marinez Corlaza.
"What is it?" questioned the Garaucan. "Have they found the man you wanted? Did they arrest Sigby
Rund?"
"They have found him," returned Weston, soberly, "but they did not arrest him. They were too late."
"You mean that he has done something you did not expect?"
"Yes. Sigby Rund has committed suicide."
"At his apartment?"
"No. He plunged from the window of his office. A drop of thirty-five stories."
As he made this announcement, Weston reached for hat and coat and motioned for the others to do the
same. When he picked up his Malacca cane, the commissioner stepped to the door and opened it.
"I should like both of you to accompany me to the Halbar Building," he suggested. "The inspector called
from Rund's office. We may find much of interest there—much that pertains to the Garaucan bond
swindle."
The visitors preceded the commissioner. They reached the street and stepped to a limousine where a
uniformed man was saluting. The trio formed a cluster before the opening door. The light from the front of
Weston's apartment house produced strange splotches of darkness as the group was momentarily
motionless.
Across the sidewalk stretched the same odd streak of blackness that had shown on the wall in the
commissioner's little office. The profile of a hawklike silhouette showed in weird outline, once more the
symbol of a personality.
For that silhouette represented a being other than Lamont Cranston, globe-trotting friend of Police
Commissioner Ralph Weston. A sinister outline, etched like a fragment of night itself, the blackened
profile symbolized the master of darkness: The Shadow.
Supersleuth, mysterious thwarter of crime, The Shadow was traveling with Ralph Weston and Marinez
Corlaza on their way to investigate the affairs of Sigby Rund.
CHAPTER III. CLUES TO DEATH
WHEN Commissioner Weston and his companions reached Sigby Rund's office, they found a swarthy,
stocky man in charge. This was Detective Joe Cardona, to whom Weston had assigned the capture of
Sigby Rund.
The meeting took place in the outer office. Cardona pointed to the door of the inner room when Weston
requested details of Rund's death.
"Rund jumped from a window of his private office," explained the detective. "Looked limp as a caterpillar
when they found him. Envelopes in his pockets, telling who he was. Markham got the report at
headquarters and sent word up to me."
"At the apartment house?" queried Weston.
"Yeah," returned Cardona. "I headed here, commissioner. Called you the minute I arrived. The traffic
men that identified Rund's body didn't know anything about him, except that he had an office in this
building. The letters told them that.
"That's why I wanted to get here in a hurry. So nothing would be disturbed. Well, I was in time all right.
Take a look in here, commissioner. Everything is just as it was when Rund took the dive."
Weston and the others followed Cardona into the private office. The commissioner walked with the
摘要：

THEGARAUCANSWINDLEbyMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.DEATHINTHEDARK?CHAPTERII.THELAWISBALKED?CHAPTERIII.CLUESTODEATH?CHAPTERIV.THESHADOW'SMESSAGE?CHAPTERV.THEMONEYMASTER?CHAPTERVI.BANKERSMEET?CHAPTERVII.MINIONSMOVE?CHAPTERVIII.DEATHRIDESBYRAIL?CHAPT...

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