Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 260 - The Money Master

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THE MONEY MASTER

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO FEARED

? CHAPTER II. CREATURES OF CRIME

? CHAPTER III. TRAIL TO WEALTH

? CHAPTER IV. THREE MOVES AHEAD

? CHAPTER V. BATTLE OF SHADOWS

? CHAPTER VI. MASTER OF MILLIONS

? CHAPTER VII. LURE OF GREED

? CHAPTER VIII. THE TRAPPERS TRAPPED

? CHAPTER IX. THE VANISHED SHADOW

? CHAPTER X. ALLIES OF JUSTICE

? CHAPTER XI. THREE WAYS OF RESCUE

? CHAPTER XII. THE PLANTED CLUE

? CHAPTER XIII. DIRKS IN THE DARK

? CHAPTER XIV. ZORVA MAKES TERMS

? CHAPTER XV. MASTERS OF WEALTH

? CHAPTER XVI. CROSSED BATTLE

? CHAPTER XVII. DOUBLE DOUBLE

? CHAPTER XVIII. RIGHT MEETS WRONG

? CHAPTER XIX. VERDICT OF DEATH

? CHAPTER XX. BROKEN BARRIERS

? CHAPTER XXI. THE HAND THAT FAILED

CHAPTER I. THE MAN WHO FEARED

INSPECTOR JOE CARDONA sat at his desk and listened. The dwindling light of dusk rendered his

features swarthier and more poker-faced than Bert Cowder had ever seen them, which was saying much,

since Cardona was noted for his dead-pan attitude.

Still, Bert Cowder wasn't worried. He knew that Joe was interested in what he was hearing. It couldn't

be otherwise.

From his side of the desk, Cardona observed that Bert, usually bluff and sometimes glib, was very much

in earnest. Inwardly, Cardona was flattered. Even though he happened to be New York's ace of police

inspectors, Cardona envied Cowder for his fame as a one-man private detective agency.

There were cases Bert handled, things he found out, that brought him large return. He'd turned his ability

into cash, Bert had, through his skill at handling clients. Shrewd though he was, Bert played strictly

honest, because the policy brought him more and bigger business. Often, Cardona had wondered if he,

personally, could enter the field of private investigation and do half as well.

It was small wonder, therefore, that Joe Cardona should feel flattered by Bert Cowder's visit. At last the

clever Mr. Cowder had found a client whose ways nonplused him. Not only did Bert admit it; he was

asking Joe's advice and assistance in the case.

"The whole thing is whacky," Bert was saying in a strained tone. "This guy Elvor Brune is what he says he

is, all right—a refugee who had to dodge out of his own country before the Nazis grabbed it, with

whatever dough he could bring along. Naturally, Nazi agents would like to get him if they could."

Cardona nodded, as a matter of course.

"That should explain it, Bert," said the inspector. "A man like Brune would logically move from place to

place."

"Not as fast as Brune does." Bert's broad face was serious. "He jumps so fast that I can't keep up with

him. That's what I don't understand. Why should he hire me to check on anybody trailing him and then

duck out so I can't follow?"

Cardona almost spoiled his deadpan visage with a smile.

"He's really done it, Bert?"

"Time and again," Cowder acknowledged glumly. "Last night, he was gone again. This afternoon, he calls

me up and tells me where his new apartment is. Wants me to come there same as usual. It doesn't make

sense, Joe!"

Reaching across the desk, Cardona turned on a lamp. The glow showed the anxious lines that were

spreading over Cowder's face. Sensing it, the private detective explained his chief worry.

"Brune is scared," asserted Bert. "Horribly scared, over something worse than he's willing to tell. The

way the F. B. I. is spotting the Nazi bunch, Brune shouldn't be afraid like he is. Now look, Joe. Suppose

this thing catches up with Brune and knocks him off. How am I going to live it down?"

Cardona understood the fine points of the question. It would surely be bad for Cowder's long-built

reputation, should a guarded client meet with disaster through Bert's own shortcomings.

"Maybe Brune still has money," suggested Cardona. "If so, he'd be afraid of local crooks. They've been

picking on refugees lately."

"So why should he lay himself open?" demanded Bert. "That's what he's doing when he gives me the

run-around."

"Why don't you put the question to him, Bert?"

"That's just what I'd like to do," returned Cowder. "But Brune won't listen. I can't make him talk, Joe, but

you could. Suppose you come along with me and when Brune starts to hedge, cut him short. You can do

it officially. I can't. I'm only a guy that Brune hired."

Cardona pondered. The invitation intrigued him, but he couldn't see his way to accept it. Making himself

a party to business that was strictly Cowder's would be beneath Cardona's dignity as a police inspector.

But Joe could see a satisfactory compromise in a case that might prove of importance to the police.

Acting upon it, he reached for the telephone.

"I'll send Gregg Emmart," declared Cardona. "He's a good detective, a five-year man. You've met him,

Bert."

With a nod, Cowder settled back in his chair, a relieved expression replacing his worriment. All of which

proved the very point in Cardona's mind: namely, that Bert could handle the Brune showdown in his own

fashion, providing he had official backing. Bert's invitation to Joe was largely courtesy, for apparently he

felt that Emmart would serve quite as well.

TEN minutes later, Bert Cowder shouldered from the office, a derby hat pulled down over one eye. In

Bert's wake followed Gregg Emmart, a thin, pale-faced individual whose wise face was largely an

attempt to copy Cardona's habitual expression.

From the doorway, Cardona watched their departure, then let his dark eyes flicker as he spied another

witness.

Said witness was Clyde Burke, a newspaper reporter who had been hounding Cardona's office much of

late. When it came to tracking things down, Clyde was an expert in his own right; his interest, however,

was more in news scoops than in crooks, except when the two happened to coincide.

That Clyde saw such a possibility at present, was evident from the way his wise eye followed the

departure of Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart.

Catching Cardona's gaze, Clyde gave a casual nod and turned away.

"Be seeing you later, Joe," the reporter said. "I didn't have anything to talk about, anyway."

A firm hand hooked Clyde's sleeve and hauled him into the office. Pointing the reporter to a chair,

Cardona closed the door and returned to his desk.

"We've got two things to talk about," gruffed the inspector. "Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart. Where

they're going, you wouldn't want to go."

"You mean you wouldn't want me to go," retorted the reporter. "Why else would you give me the

sleeve?"

Cardona decided on another compromise. One had worked in Cowder's case; it was policy to apply the

same rule to Burke. Reaching to the desk, Cardona picked up a folded sheet of paper and waved it

slowly, almost within Clyde's reach.

"Suppose I told you where they went, Burke. You'd stay away from there?"

"Yes," parried Clyde, "provided it wouldn't mean missing out on an exclusive story."

"You're more likely to get one here," stated Cardona. "The fellow Emmart went to see might talk to a

detective, but not to a reporter."

"All right, Joe. I'll stick until Emmart gets back."

Cardona flipped the folded paper across the desk. Clyde opened it and read the name and address of

Elvor Brune. The name itself smacked of refugee. When Clyde lifted his eyebrows, Cardona nodded.

Briefly, the inspector explained the status of the man who feared; how Brune, succumbing to an epidemic

of fright among refugees, had reached the point where he was even dodging Cowder, the man he'd hired

as a protector. Clyde agreed that it was a queer case; then he inquired:

"Mind if I call the Classic office?"

"Not at all," returned Cardona. "Use the phone outside. But stick around until Emmart comes back.

That's our bargain."

There was reason for Inspector Cardona to congratulate himself. Letting Clyde call the newspaper office

was a neat touch. The city editor of the Classic was the last person to whom Clyde would mention the

Brune case. If Clyde did, the "old man" would hand the assignment to some other reporter, since Clyde

was temporarily immobilized.

Knowing the ways of reporters, Cardona recognized that Clyde would play safe. Emmart's return could

mean a sure story to Clyde's own credit. The Brune business wasn't an office assignment; it was

something the reporter had picked up on his own. Newshawks were as jealous with such stories as any

dog with a bone.

Inspector Cardona had more reason for self-congratulation than he supposed.

From the outer phone, Clyde Burke didn't call the Classic office at all. Instead, he dialed a number that

brought a quiet-toned speaker who gave his name as Burbank. Briefly, Clyde undertoned the meager

facts in the case of Elvor Brune. There was a methodical response from Burbank:

"Report received."

A FEW minutes later, a tiny light gleamed from the wall of a mysterious room. Long, thin hands stretched

from beneath the glow of a blue-bulbed lamp and reached for earphones. The hands carried that

attachment to a head above the level of the bluish glow. A whispered voice spoke in response to a

relayed call from Burbank.

Only one living being could voice that strange, sinister whisper. He was the master crime-hunter known

as The Shadow, a black-cloaked fighter who traveled amid the shroud of night itself when trailing men of

evil. This room was The Shadow's sanctum, to which Burbank, his contact man, relayed reports from

secret agents such as Clyde Burke.

To the ears of The Shadow came the curious facts pertaining to Elvor Brune, the man who feared a

menace that he dared not mention even to a trusted hireling like Bert Cowder.

Strange was the laugh that chilled the sanctum after Burbank's call was ended. Deft hands, returning to

the bluish light, stacked little piles of clippings and slid them into a large envelope. That work of a few

moments explained the reason for the satisfaction in The Shadow's low, trailing laugh.

Every clipping in that batch had to do with refugees who had been robbed or swindled by Manhattan

crooks who, so far, had kept their identity covered. In every instance, the victims had complained after

crime was done, and their accounts had been too meager to supply a trail that would serve The Shadow

or the law.

Brune's case promised an exception. The man who feared was obviously living under threat. Where the

slow machinery of the law might fail to help him, the hand of The Shadow could win out. This was the

very sort of opening The Shadow needed to crack a rising wave of crime.

Fading into echoes, the strains of The Shadow's laugh were absorbed by the black walls of the sanctum.

Silence spoke the fact that a mighty avenger had issued forth upon a cause of justice, another routine task

in a long and celebrated career. That, and no more, did the silence tell.

It would take events themselves to prove that the case of Elvor Brune was but the stepping-stone to a

quest as stupendous as any that The Shadow had ever undertaken.

A quest that would pit the crime investigator against a monster who's evil was world-wide, threatening

even the security of generations yet unborn!

CHAPTER II. CREATURES OF CRIME

BERT COWDER gestured toward the small apartment house, and Gregg Emmart made a note of what

he saw. The place wasn't much to look at; it was simply an old brownstone residence that had been

converted into apartments. But Emmart had a habit of listing such things in his notebook. Each one of

those old houses was different, if you checked it far enough.

This one had steps leading up to a vestibule, wherein were mailboxes accompanied by push buttons.

Three of those boxes had no names, so Bert picked the middle one and gave the button a long push, then

three shorts. Nothing happening, Bert buzzed again; a short, then a pause, then two more shorts.

"B. C.," he told Emmart. "My initials in Morse. That's the signal I always give to Brune."

While Emmart was making a note of it, there was a clicking from the front door, proving that Brune had

pressed the door-opening switch in his new apartment. Bert pushed through, drawing Emmart after him.

They were on the stairs, when Emmart looked at the notation dubiously.

"The signal ought to be 'A. C.'," argued Emmart. "Your first name is Albert, isn't it?"

"It happens to be Bertram," returned Cowder, "but don't tell that to the trade. Leave that tripe to the quiz

kids. We've got enough of a job to talk sense into Brune."

This being Bert's first visit to Brune's new place, the private dick gave the premises a careful survey. He

noted a window, with a fire escape outside it, at the rear of the second floor. The apartment bearing

Brune's number was along the way, so Bert paused there and rapped the B. C. signal with his knuckles.

A bolt withdrew, the door was opened, and Bert entered, hauling after him Emmart and the notebook.

Instantly, Gregg Emmart forgot his notes.

A crouched man in shirt sleeves flung the door shut and spun himself about. He couldn't be anyone but

Elvor Brune. Nobody else would have looked so scared. He looked like a cross between a crab and a

turtle. Brune's outspread arms gave him the crustacean effect, but his head, protruding from his hunched

shoulders, was a perfect replica of a tortoise about to return to its shell.

Brune was baldish, his face was wide like a turtle's, and his neck dropped with folds of flesh that added

to the illusion. As for eye markings, Brune had them in the form of horn-rimmed eyeglasses that could

only be of European make.

"Take it easy, Brune." Bert Cowder spoke smoothly, but firmly. "I told you I use assistants sometimes.

This is Gregg Emmart. He's one of them."

Brune's throat folds billowed a few moments, until he forced a hoarse, guttural voice from deep among

them.

"You should not bring him here! You should bring no one here! I have told you—"

"You told me to look out for you," interrupted Bert. "That's what I've tried to do, only you've made it too

tough for a one-man job. So come clean, Brune. What has you so scared?"

Brune's thick lips twitched and the throat gulps began again. In an easy tone, Bert queried:

"You're scared of Nazi agents?"

Brune gave a sudden nod.

"Good," decided Bert. "Make a note of it, Gregg. We'll tell the F. B. I. about it."

Words came frantically from Brune's lips.

"No... no—"

"So that isn't it." Bert's tone became a purr. "Then it must be ordinary crooks that worry you?"

After a short hesitation, Brune nodded.

"Then it's a job for the police," observed Bert. "That's easy, Brune. See this?" Bert reached over and

drew back Emmart's coat to display the detective's badge. "Here's the very fellow to hear your story.

That's why I brought him along."

Out of the inarticulate babble that Brune gave, Bert heard something like another "No... no!" Waiting for

Emmart to finish the latest notation, Bert declared:

"I'm dropping this case. Put that down as a final note, Gregg. I've never walked out on a client yet, but

this time one is walking out on me. I want to keep my reputation, so I'm asking you to act as an official

witness. Brune is through with me—"

Bert's canny statement had all the effect of an electric shock on Brune. Emmart stared in amazed

admiration while the frightened man clutched Bert like a last straw. In something like three languages,

Brune was beseeching Bert not to desert his cause. As a finish, came gulped words in English:

"I shall tell you everything!"

They watched Brune amble crablike across the floor. At the door to a rear room, the scared man halted,

gazed over a shoulder and spoke in begging fashion.

"Please do not go," said Brune. "I must get the metal box. You know the one, Mr. Cowder. It has

something important in it. Something that will explain."

Brune was fumbling for a light switch in the other room when Emmart raised his head from the notebook

and asked:

"The metal box?"

"Just a tin cash box," replied Bert in a puzzled tone. "I've seen Brune rummage through it often. I didn't

think there was anything important in it—"

THINGS interrupted wholesale. First, the click of the bedroom light switch; hard upon it, a hoarse shout

from Brune. In answer came an ugly snarl; then there was real commotion as Brune sprang deep into the

room to grab for someone he had found there.

Bert made a dash for the bedroom, yelling for Emmart to forget his notes and follow.

The fray was happening by a narrow window in the side wall of the bedroom. It looked like a struggle

between a turtle and an eel. The man with whom Brune grappled was thin and wiry, performing

contortions in his effort to get away. He wrestled loose just as Bert arrived, and in the fellow's clutch the

private dick saw the metal cash box that Brune had gone to get.

Coming next, Emmart saw the thief across Bert's shoulder. He recognized the pasty face under the tilted

visor of the cap above it and shouted:

"Wip Jandle!"

Bert knew the name. Wip was an ex-jockey, who had thrown so many races that he couldn't get another

job except as a member of the mob that bribed him. Since Wip had turned hoodlum, it wasn't surprising

to see him engaged in second-story thievery. The startling thing was the technique that Wip displayed.

He showed how he'd entered—by using the same route for exit, the little window right beside him. It

didn't look large enough for a midget, but Wip went through, one leg first, then the other, as though

mounting a horse. He performed the snakish action so quickly that Brune couldn't have gained another

hold on him but for the cash box that Wip carried under his arm.

So narrow was the window that the prize wedged crosswise, and before Wip could turn it around, Brune

clamped both hands upon the metal box and tried to wrench it away. Bounding to aid Brune, neither Bert

nor Emmart saw the thing that happened next.

They heard it, the repeated burst of a revolver that Wip snatched from his far pocket and fired at close

range into Brune's body. With a hard jolt, Brune fell back into the arms of Bert and Emmart, sagging as

they caught him.

There was a clatter from the cash box as Wip yanked it through the window, then a louder clang of steel

as the killer reached the fire escape just beyond.

Wip Jandle was a killer. Those shots were straight to Brune's heart, so close that they couldn't miss.

Letting Brune's body slump to the floor, Bert fired through the window. A shriek from the outside told

that he'd winged the escaping murderer. Reaching the window, Bert fired again, but Wip was starting

down the fire escape and a level of steel deflected Bert's fire.

Seeing that Bert couldn't possibly squeeze through the window, Emmart thought of a better route and

shouted for Bert to follow.

Out through the apartment they went, around by the hallway to the large window that opened directly to

the fire escape. Wrenching the window open, Emmart sprang through and aimed for a huddled shape he

thought was Wip, on the far side of the street.

Before Emmart could fire, Bert saw his companion's mistake. That crouched man across the way wasn't

Wip. The fugitive couldn't have traveled that far. Besides, there were other crouches like him, rising from

other vantage spots. In the glare of the red light that marked the fire exit, Gregg Emmart was a perfect

target for gunners who were backing Wip's foray into Brune's apartment.

Valiantly, Bert Cowder gave rescue. Out through the window, he gripped Emmart, spun him full about

and tried to hurl him back to safety. Emmart's gun popped a few shots in the air, whereupon the

headquarters man combined anger with stupidity as be tried to slug at Bert. Amid that fracas between

friends, rising gunners opened fire.

Bert Cowder was their target now, for his broad body was shielding Emmart's thinner form. Bullets

clanged the fire escape, other slugs bashed the brick wall. Bert was lurching Emmart back to safety

despite the fellow's foolish opposition. It was heroism on Bert's part, the sort that promised his own

doom. Those marksmen below were getting the range. One bullet scorched Bert's shoulder, another

singed his derby hat. A few more would have spelled his finish.

Those deadly shots never came. At that moment, other guns burst loose below. Their powerful roar

drowned the barks of revolvers. A brace of .45 automatics were in the fray, their targets the members of

the gun crew who were seeking Bert's death. The rip of those fresh guns was, in itself, a symbol of their

owner, but this new fighter left no doubt as to his identity.

Accompanying the roar of the big automatics came a challenging laugh, telling men of crime that their

nemesis had arrived. To ignore that defy could mean death, backed as it was by guns unerring in their

aim. With one accord, every crouching marksman turned.

Such victims as Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart could only be forgotten at a time like this. Killers were

banded in a common effort to meet an uncommon enemy whose case couldn't wait.

Crooks were faced by their arch-foe, The Shadow!

CHAPTER III. TRAIL TO WEALTH

DARING, almost foolhardy were The Shadow's actions as his fight began. He, the master of darkness,

was actually seeking light, making himself an open target for his foemen. A living blot, detaching itself

from night, came spinning beneath the glow of a street lamp across the street from Brune's apartment,

tonguing gun flames that sought no individual targets.

Crooks were firing as the whirling shape halted, disclosed itself momentarily as a figure cloaked in black,

then reversed its course with a sudden shift that blended into darkness. Half a dozen guns ripped away at

the momentary target; some were hasty, the others late. In reward for his daring, The Shadow went

unscathed, as his fierce laugh proclaimed.

Weird, that chilling tone! As if the fighter who uttered it had stood a hail of bullets without feeling their

piercing power!

Uncanny, indeed, the strategy that The Shadow used. He'd seen Bert's frantic effort to save Emmart's

life; with it, the inability of the crouching gunners to pick a target with their opening fire. Since they'd

gained Bert's range at last, the only course was to hoax them into dropping that advantage; so The

Shadow had banked that they'd miss him with their first fire, as in the case he witnessed.

The bold ruse worked. Twisting deep in darkness, zigzagging as he went, The Shadow not only cleared

the barrage by yards; over his shoulder he saw Bert plunging in through the window, hurling Emmart

ahead of him. Those two were safe, even safer than The Shadow, though he wasn't worried in the least

regarding his further security.

Offense was his defense, now. Halting on the far side of the street, The Shadow jabbed new shots for the

spots where he saw revolver spurts. Crooks were luckier than they should have been, for those The

Shadow picked were crouched beside house steps or fire hydrants that didn't show in the darkness.

They heard the bullets zang and they didn't wait around, nor did their companions. Forgetting Wip

Jandle, who had crumpled at the bottom of the fire escape with his precious box, the tricked marksmen

dived for alleyways from which they had originally issued. A tribe of human rats were seeking shelter

against the wrath of The Shadow.

To settle that issue, The Shadow wheeled through darkness for the nearest corner. The gloom of this

neighborhood was to his liking, for it offered covering darkness clear around the block. In the next street,

The Shadow would find his opportunity to pick off a few of the scattering marksmen. That is, he would

have but for sudden intervention. Car lights loomed suddenly from a corner; their blaze revealed the

cloaked fighter full in their path. From its manner of arrival, The Shadow took it to be a cover-up car for

the fugitive gunners, and he fired a test shot as he wheeled to the doorway. Guns responded, but the car

didn't act as The Shadow expected.

Instead of bearing down on him; the car made a quick reverse, whipping back around the corner. Out

from shelter, The Shadow headed toward it, expecting a chance to flay the car broadside when it sped

past the crossing, which happened to be a corner of the street in front of Brune's.

But the men in the car were very smart. The driver must have done some quick maneuvering in the

narrow street, for when The Shadow reached the corner, all he saw were taillights whizzing off in the

opposite direction, a full block away.

Instead of risking a fray with The Shadow, the men in the car had left him without a trail. The time that

The Shadow lost in tracking down the car that didn't wait was more than sufficient for the scattering gun

crew to make good their escape the other way.

MEANWHILE, things were happening in the street behind Brune's apartment. Finding that the route was

clear, Bert and Emmart, again in full accord, were coming down the fire escape. At the bottom, Bert

pointed toward a figure that was painfully squirming across to an alley. Emmart nodded when he heard

Bert undertone:

"Wip Jandle."

Together, they took up the trail. It wasn't too easy following Wip. The fellow was showing surprising

speed and skill at dodging from one alley to another. Wip's one handicap was that he had to pause to

rest because of the bullet that he carried. He was carrying something else, the tin box that belonged to

Brune. Bert and Emmart spied it whenever Wip faltered.

Back in Brune's apartment, moving blackness was stretching across the floor. From the doorway of a

little bedroom, a cloaked shape materialized. Grim was The Shadow's low-toned laugh when he viewed

Brune's body, a mirthless token of vengeance meant for men of crime. More, The Shadow's laugh was

his recognition of something that he'd missed.

Having arrived too late to witness Wip's gyrations on the fire tower, The Shadow had supposed that Bert

and Emmart were merely engaged in protecting Brune against the outside gunners. Here was evidence

that they were in pursuit of a killer when they appeared upon the fire escape. Since both detectives were

gone, it was obvious that they had taken up the trail anew.

Out through the hall, The Shadow reached the fire escape and descended. He could hear the wail of a

police siren, indicating that gunfire had been reported; nevertheless, he paused to probe the sidewalk with

a tiny flashlight. The licking beam revealed a blotch of moist blood, with another blob farther along.

Soon the darkness of an alley swallowed The Shadow, except for the blinking gleams of his well-guarded

flashlight. Mere drops of blood were The Shadow's present trail, marking the route that Wip Jandle had

taken. But The Shadow's moves along that path were slower than those of Bert Cowder and Gregg

Emmart. Wip's stalkers were progressing two blocks to The Shadow's one.

A dozen blocks away, Wip stumbled into a doorway, reached for a knob and found it. His strength was

spent, for the only thing that carried him onward were a few steps leading down into a basement.

Clutching the precious box, Wip crawled for a table and pulled the cord of a lamp. He stretched his hand

for a telephone, but his fingers slipped from the instrument. Groaning in mortal agony, Wip folded on the

floor.

Footsteps paused outside the door, then entered. Hands gripped Wip's shoulders and drew him up into

the light. Blinking, the dying crook saw the faces of Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart.

"You're through, Wip," informed Bert smoothly, "but you haven't got me to blame for it. Those rats ran

out on you, instead of taking you to some medico who could have patched you up."

"That's right," agreed Emmart wisely. "I'll tell you why they lammed. It was the big-shot's orders, because

he wanted to get rid of you."

Wip's eyes, like his dying snarl, evidenced complete disbelief. Picking up Brune's cash box, Emmart

handed it to Cowder. Looking about, Bert saw a can opener lying on a battered table Jabbing the opener

under the weak lock of the tin box, Bert made short work of it. He flung the lid back and let Wip have a

look.

Inside were a few papers, an assortment of silver coins, and a few loose bills of foreign currencies.

Seeing those meager contents, Wip propped himself on one elbow and gave a rattly snarl.

"Shep Ficklin... he's the guy you want." Wip's words began to come in gasps. "He sent me... to pick up

what I could find. There wasn't nothing... except that box—"

Slumping quite as suddenly as Brune had, Wip Jandle rolled dead. Taking it as something quite to be

expected, Bert and Emmart proceeded with other matters. Bert concerned himself with the contents of

the box, while Emmart began to write down notes in his book.

"Shep Ficklin," mused Bert. "That's a real surprise. He's been out of circulation a long while, ever since

his rackets went bust. Guess he saw some easy dough, trimming refugees. Only he didn't make much this

trip. This foreign dough can't be worth more than a few hundred bucks."

"Suppose we count the bills," suggested Emmart. "I ought to put the total in my report. That is, if we can

figure what it's worth."

"Here's how we can," remarked Bert. He drew a card from the box. "Look at this, Gregg. The Apex

Discount Office. I remember the place because I met Brune there once. It's open evenings, so suppose

we go down and get a value on this funny money."

The idea suited Emmart, so the two departed, turning off the light and closing the door. They took the

broken cash box with them, its contents intact. A hush fell upon the room where Wip Jandle lay dead. A

hush that remained unbroken when the door opened, a few minutes later, to admit the cloaked figure of

The Shadow.

Using his flashlight, The Shadow found Wip's body, then turned the gleam upon the telephone. He took it

for granted that Cowder and Emmart had completed their trail and left with whatever loot Wip had

taken. But there was nothing to show that Wip had still been alive, when the early trailers overtook him.

Using the telephone, The Shadow called Burbank and told him to put certain agents on the job of tracing

Wip's recent associates. In keeping with his own instructions, The Shadow then departed on the same

quest.

Though he had no lead to Shep Ficklin, The Shadow knew that Wip unquestionably served some

big-shot. Finding Wip was at least a start toward tracking the real head of the gang that preyed on

refugees like Elvor Brune.

There was little use in seeking Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart. That, in The Shadow's estimate, would

prove a waste of time, since both were soon due back in Cardona's office, where Clyde Burke would

hear their story. Thus, through a freakish chain of circumstance, The Shadow was to miss a most amazing

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THEMONEYMASTERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMANWHOFEARED?CHAPTERII.CREATURESOFCRIME?CHAPTERIII.TRAILTOWEALTH?CHAPTERIV.THREEMOVESAHEAD?CHAPTERV.BATTLEOFSHADOWS?CHAPTERVI.MASTEROFMILLIONS?CHAPTERVII.LUREOFGREED?CHAPTERVIII.THETRAPPERSTRAPPED?CH...

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 260 - The Money Master.pdf

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Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 260 - The Money Master

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