Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 196 - The Prince of Evil

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PRINCE OF EVIL
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARMON
? CHAPTER II. CHALLENGE OF CRUELTY
? CHAPTER III. DANGEROUS BLOND
? CHAPTER IV. THE SECOND BOTTLE
? CHAPTER V. DOUBLE DECEPTION
? CHAPTER VI. GREETINGS FROM HELL
? CHAPTER VII. UNDERGROUND CHALLENGE
? CHAPTER VIII. THE CLOSED CIRCLE
? CHAPTER IX. THE BLUE PARROT
? CHAPTER X. THE BATHTUB CLUE
? CHAPTER XI. SILVER AND BLACK
? CHAPTER XII. TWO IN ONE
? CHAPTER XIII. VICTORY - AND DEFEAT
? CHAPTER XIV. TRIPLE DOOM
? CHAPTER XV. BITTER TRIUMPH
CHAPTER I. THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARMON
JOHN HARMON'S hands were trembling as he took out his spectacle case and put on his glasses. He
picked up the check which David Chester had just laid smilingly on the desk. There was a blur of tears in
Harmon's eyes that made it hard for him to see clearly for a moment.
Chester misunderstood the older man's emotion. He thought that Harmon was jittery with eagerness to
close the deal and take the money.
"A tidy sum," he chuckled.
It was. The check was for five hundred thousand dollars. Chester had already signed it. His signature
was like himself - tight, angular and excessively neat. It was the price agreed upon for the sale of John
Harmon's business. Harmon was getting every penny he had asked for.
But he was far from happy.
He stared around the quiet, book-lined study where he and his visitor sat, as if trying to think of some
way to postpone the deal. Harmon's life had been wrapped up in his business. He had always known
that, some day, he'd have to quit and sell out. That time had now come.
Six weeks earlier, John Harmon had had a frightening experience. He had closed up his desk one evening
and walked out of his downtown office into nothingness!
Twelve hours of living death had followed. When he came to his senses, he was lying on a cot in the
public ward of a hospital. There was a horrible buzzing in his head, and no knowledge of a single event
during those twelve blank hours of aimless wandering.
The doctors had called it amnesia. Too much work; not enough rest and relaxation. It was taking its toll
from a tired man sixty-two years old.
That was when Harmon began negotiations to sell his business. Not because of himself, but because of
his wife. Martha Harmon was an invalid. She had never uttered a complaint; but life had not been too
pleasant for her, either. Business had swallowed both their lives. Neither had ever had time for a
vacation.
Yet John Harmon had a queer, intuitive feeling that he ought not to sell. It was a strange, frightened
sensation. He stared at David Chester.
Chester was harmless-looking. There was a smile on his thin face. He had been easy to deal with,
generous in his offer. His reputation was good, his business rating excellent.
"Let me think about it a moment," Harmon muttered.
He began to pace up and down his quiet study.
Behind his back, Chester's smile hardened. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a stick of chewing
gum.
The gum was in a plain wrapper. He popped it into his mouth and began to chew.
As his jaws worked, his face turned startlingly unpleasant. His eyes blazed coldly. His lax fingers on the
desk clenched into a sudden fist. He seemed at the point of leaping toward his unsuspecting host and
taking him by the throat.
Harmon saw nothing of this. He came back and sat down. Chester had regained his self-control. He was
friendly and sympathetic.
"After all," he pointed out softly, "you had a warning from nature that you'd be foolish to ignore. A mental
breakdown such as you suffered -"
"It wasn't a mental breakdown," Harmon said sharply. "It was amnesia."
"A man over sixty has to be careful. It would be different if your son could take over the business. But
you told me he has no interest in it."
"You're right," Harmon said dully. "Bob wants to be an engineer. He still has another year before he
graduates from college, and then he'll have to go to a technical school. That takes money, and,
unfortunately, my funds are frozen. And yet I hate to sell!"
"You have a daughter, too," Chester said.
"Yes, Jane is a fine girl. She wants to be a physician. She deserves my support."
"You can do it handsomely with a half million," Chester smiled. "How much are you in debt?"
"I owe a hundred thousand."
"A hundred thousand will clear up your debts, leaving you four hundred thousand dollars to invest in
good securities. You and your wife can take a world cruise and have plenty left to enjoy yourself when
you return. Surely, your wife deserves a little pleasure for the remaining years of her life?"
"You're right," John Harmon said slowly. "Martha's heart is set on that trip. And she may be right about
my health. I haven't felt right lately."
Chester's reply was amused. "And still you hesitate! You pass up the chance to step out of the grind and
pocket a cool half million. Why?"
"I don't know," Harmon admitted with a sigh. He rubbed his gray head with a troubled gesture.
"Suppose we call off the whole thing," Chester said curtly. "You keep your business and I'll keep my half
million. I'm sorry you have wasted my time."
He reached for the check to tear it up. Harmon uttered a faint cry and clutched at his hand.
"Don't be angry! I just want time to -"
"I've brought the sales contract and the check. Do you wish to sell? Yes or no!"
There was silence for an instant.
"Yes," John Harmon said.
Chester exhaled a tiny breath of relief. "Good!"
FROM his briefcase Chester took two duplicate documents. They were legal contracts, for the sale of
John Harmon's business to David Chester for the sum of five hundred thousand dollars. Chester signed
both sheets and handed them to Harmon.
Harmon had dictated the contract himself. The document needed no witnesses to make it legal. Having
read the terms carefully, Harmon signed both sheets.
Chester retained his own copy. Harmon placed the other one and the check in his study safe. His worry
vanished. The deal was finished, and his wife would be happy. He got a bottle of sherry from a cabinet.
The two men smilingly toasted each other.
Chester glanced at his watch and arose. "Good night and pleasant dreams." His voice was like silk. He
left at once.
A few minutes later, Martha Harmon came into the study at her husband's excited summons. He was
smiling and happy. So was Martha, when she learned that the deal was finished. It meant peace and
comfort for the few remaining years of their lives.
She had a sweet, pleasant face with a mass of silvery-white hair drawn back from her soft forehead. She
leaned heavily on a cane. Arthritis had bent her straight figure in the last few years. But to John Harmon
she was still the slim, lovely girl he had married forty years earlier. He kissed her and patted her arm.
"From now on my only job is to see that you're happy. Better write in the morning for some travel
folders. We're going to visit some of the places we've wanted to see all our lives."
"How much did Chester pay?" Martha asked.
"The price I asked. Five hundred thousand."
Smiling, he turned to the sate and opened it. He handed his wife the signed copy of the agreement and
Chester's check. He relaxed in his leather chair.
His wife's sudden cry brought him to his feet. Martha face was deathly pale. She was staring at the check
as if she couldn't believe her eyes. Her husband sprang to her side.
"What's the matter?"
"Look! The check! It... it -"
She couldn't speak. Harmon snatched the check from her. Then his own face paled. For a moment, he
wondered if he had gone suddenly crazy.
He had examined that check only a few minutes earlier. He had placed it in the safe with his own hands.
No one but his wife had touched it since. And yet, a horrible transformation had occurred.
The check was correctly drawn to John Harmon. It was signed correctly with the neat signature of David
Chester. But the sum was for fifty thousand dollars!
"Fifty thousand!" Harmon cried. "It should be five hundred thousand! There must be some mistake."
He snatched at the sales agreement. It too, was like the check. John Harmon had agreed, according to
the signed document, to sell his business to David Chester for the sum of fifty thousand dollars!
Harmon clutched at his temples. His head seemed to be splitting. His eyes were glassy. Then he pulled
himself together.
"I saw the amount clearly. I looked at both check and agreement before Chester left. It was for a half
million dollars."
He saw, to his horror, that his wife didn't believe him. His memory had been uncertain since the amnesia
attack a month earlier. Martha Harmon knew the business was worth every penny of a half million. But
she knew, too, that its assets were hopelessly frozen.
Had John become mentally confused under the strain of selling it? Had he agreed to sacrifice his holdings
for a ridiculous sum like fifty thousand while he was temporarily incompetent?
The quick thought showed in Martha's tragic glance. It shocked Harmon into action. He sprang to the
telephone.
"Chester's copy of the contract will show the truth!"
But he couldn't, get Chester on the phone. The bell buzzed monotonously, without answer.
"Perhaps he hasn't returned to his apartment yet," Harmon said thickly. "I'll go and see him. He'll
probably be there by the time I arrive. In five minutes, we'll have that silly mistake in figures rectified."
HARMON grabbed his hat and coat and rushed from the room. He raced to the corner and called a
taxi.
His thoughts were in wild turmoil. Was Chester a crook? Had he changed the figures in some way? Or
was Harmon himself losing his mind, as his wife's frightened glance had indicated?
Panting, he rang Chester's apartment bell. Chester himself opened the door. He was cool, smiling, very
friendly.
"Well, this is a surprise! Come in, Mr. Harmon. What in the world has brought you here?"
"The check! It's wrong! There's been some ghastly mistake! I... I want to see your copy of the
agreement."
"Why, certainly."
Chester got his copy of the contract out of a small wall safe and showed it.
"Naturally, mine is the same as yours. Fifty thousand dollars. That's the price we agreed on."
The document proved his words. Harmon glared at the figures with bloodshot eyes.
"But... but that's wrong! The price on the paper when we signed it was a half million dollars!"
"Sit down," Chester said gently. "Let me fix you a drink. You've had another mental attack, I'm afraid.
Does your wife know you left the house?"
He was like a grownup reasoning with a child. His voice was like soothing syrup. Dazed, Harmon hardly
heard what Chester was saying.
Chester was asserting that the deal was legitimate. He had bought the business at a low figure because it
was so hopelessly frozen in its assets. He suggested that Harmon ought to go home at once and summon
a physician. He advised rest and sleep until the dazed old man felt better.
Harmon, without realizing exactly how it happened, found himself eased quietly from Chester's apartment
to the street.
The hour was late, but he didn't hesitate. Into his tortured mind swam the name of Hubert Jackson.
Jackson was a lawyer, and Harmon's friend. At this hour of the night, Jackson was probably already in
bed. But Harmon called a taxi. He drove at top speed to the lawyer's home.
Dressed in pajamas and bathrobe, Hubert Jackson listened to the wild story Harmon poured out. He
shook his head when he saw the check and the sales contract.
"They look perfectly normal to me. Are you sure -"
Harmon screamed at him. "Of course I'm sure! He's a crook, a swindler! I want him arrested!"
Jackson's voice became soothing.
"Better let me take care of this. Go home and get some rest. Inspector Cardona, of the police, is a friend
of mine. I'll get permission from him tomorrow to take the check and the contract to the police laboratory
in Brooklyn. If there has been any criminal tampering, the police scientific gadgets will uncover it."
He guided his agitated visitor to the door.
"I'll also investigate David Chester. There's no need for you to worry. Go home to Martha and relax."
"You're a true friend, Hubert," Harmon gasped.
After he had left, Jackson looked thoughtful. The lawyer glanced at the check and shook his head. It
seemed perfectly legitimate. He was convinced that John Harmon had experienced a second mental
breakdown, this time a more serious one.
The story about the changed figures was too silly to believe. Chester was hardly fool enough to risk going
to jail with a swindle that could be easily detected.
Harmon was obviously unbalanced.
The lawyer was sure of it at the close of the following day. From the police laboratory came a definite
statement. There was no evidence that the ink on the check or sales document had been changed. The
texture of the paper showed no sign of tampering or erasure!
Jackson's investigation of David Chester also gave the lie to the old man's wild accusation of fraud.
Chester's financial rating was A-1. His business was that of purchasing shaky firms at cheap prices.
Jackson interviewed a half dozen former clients of Chester and all of them said they had been completely
satisfied in their dealings with the man.
JACKSON'S face was sorrowfully grim when he visited the home of John Harmon the following
evening.
He advised Harmon there was nothing further he could do. Harmon's business was the legal property of
Chester. A suit for fraud would be thrown out of court. Harmon's only course was to deposit the fifty
thousand dollars and have himself examined by a competent psychiatrist.
There was a pathetic scene between John Harmon and his weeping wife after the lawyer left. Their lives
were ruined. All Harmon had left was a check for fifty thousand dollars and he owed twice that!
Dazedly, he listened to the comforting words of his wife. Over and over, he tried to explain to her what
had happened. It was useless. He allowed his wife to guide him upstairs to his bedroom. He undressed
and turned out the light. Martha went to her own room.
But after she was gone, Harmon got out of bed again. A sudden desperate thought had come to him. He
got the tin box in which he kept his valuables, took out a thick envelope. The envelope contained his
life-insurance policy. He was insured for one hundred thousand dollars.
John Harmon shuddered, then he clamped his jaws. He knew now that this was the only way out. The
insurance policy would pay his debts. The check from Chester would leave enough to take care of his
wife, and allow his son and daughter to finish their college educations and get a decent start in life.
Harmon walked slowly into his wife's bedroom. There were tears in his eyes as he bade her good night.
She was puzzled by the tightness of his embrace and the slow fervor of his kiss. But he seemed calmer
and she was glad of that. Perhaps he'd feel better in the morning.
"What I need is sleep, Martha," Harmon told his wife huskily. "Good night, and God bless you!"
He left her quickly.
Ten minutes later, Martha Harmon heard a sound that brought her out of bed with a frightened cry. The
nature of that muffled explosion from her husband's room was unmistakable.
Seizing her cane, she hobbled painfully down the darkened hall. Her husband's room was ablaze with
light.
He had fallen back on his bed after firing the fatal shot into his temple. A little blood had soaked into the
pillow, but not much.
The agony of despair had left his tortured face. He looked gray and peaceful - and very tired.
Martha Harmon stood frozen for a moment, leaning painfully on her cane. Then she managed to totter to
the window. Her scream for help awoke the neighborhood. A man shouted. A policeman's whistle
shrilled. Feet pounded along the dark sidewalk.
But what help would that bring to the tired suicide on the bed or the moaning woman at the window?
Crime that was too clever to be recognized as crime had brought tragedy to a peaceful couple who had
lived cleanly and righteously all their lives.
The dead man alone knew there had been crime and no one, not even his wife, had believed him.
There was only one person on earth brilliant enough to solve this strange enigma of cruelty and greed.
The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. CHALLENGE OF CRUELTY
THERE was a frown on Lamont Cranston's usually pleasant face as he sat perusing a newspaper in the
quiet of the Cobalt Club. He sensed there was something peculiar about the pathetic suicide of John
Harmon.
Cranston had not been a friend of Harmon's, but had met him several times in the course of business. He
knew the old man had suffered an attack of amnesia a month or so earlier. But amnesia was a long way
from insanity. And Harmon's strange story of fraud before he committed suicide certainly sounded
insane.
Cranston raised his newspaper to hide the sudden glint that came into his keen eyes. It was an expression
that abruptly transformed his appearance from that of an amiable millionaire clubman to something grim
and relentless. For a moment his face, shielded by the newspaper, bore an uncanny resemblance to an
altogether different personage.
The Shadow!
The look was gone in a flash. Cranston lowered the newspaper. He had heard a man calling his name. A
fellow clubman was approaching the comfortable chair where Lamont Cranston sat, the picture of lazy
ease.
The man was Hubert Jackson. Cranston was glad to see him. He knew that Jackson had been John
Harmon's attorney, as well as his personal friend. The story of Harmon's visit to Jackson's apartment the
night before his suicide had been described in the newspapers.
"A shocking-case," Cranston said.
The lawyer nodded. "Poor Harmon was obviously insane. There's no other answer. His sudden suicide
proved it."
"He left a family, didn't he?"
"Yes. An invalid widow and a son and daughter. Bob and Jane Harmon have still a year to go before
they graduate from college. They're on the way home now, but I'm afraid they'll find precious little when
they arrive."
Jackson sighed.
"The boy hoped to be an engineer. Jane was studying to be a physician. That means, of course,
additional years of training. Unless something is done, I'm afraid Bob and Jane will have to sacrifice their
careers."
"Why can't something, be done to help them?" Cranston suggested.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Jackson replied. "It's the very thing I want to talk to you about. I thought
I'd take up a private subscription among some of the people who knew poor Harmon. It would bring
some measure of relief to a family stricken through no fault of their own."
"Are you quite sure that Harmon's story of fraud was a figment of his imagination?" Cranston inquired
slowly.
"Positive! The police laboratory experts scrutinized both the check and the bill of sale and discovered
they were O.K. I visited Chester at his office and found him a perfect gentleman. He offered me every
facility to examine his books. He gave me the names of other clients whose business he had purchased.
There's no doubt about it whatever. David Chester had nothing to do with Harmon's unfortunate suicide.
"
There was a pause. Lamont Cranston seemed to be too shocked to talk more about the matter at the
moment. But behind his quiet countenance, the shrewd, intelligent brain of The Shadow was formulating a
plan for further investigation of this strange case.
"I'll be glad to contribute my share to your charity fund," he said.
"I knew I could depend on your generosity."
Other club members were staring at the two men. Cranston used this as an excuse to rise from his chair.
He wanted to discuss the case further with Jackson, but he had no intention of doing so in the reading
room of the Cobalt Club.
"Could we go to your apartment?" Cranston asked. "I'll write you out a check there, and you can tell me
more about this unfortunate tragedy."
Jackson agreed. They got their hats and coats and left the club. Cranston's car was at the curb outside,
and both men got in.
"I'M glad you're coming to see my apartment," Jackson said smilingly. "I have a rather good collection of
paintings on which I'd like to have your judgment. And then there's Pippo."
"Pippo?" Cranston asked curiously.
"My dog. A little wire-haired terrier. He's been twice a prize winner at the dog show. A finer animal
never lived."
Cranston smiled and nodded. He drove his car with swift ease through the midtown traffic to the
apartment house where Jackson lived.
At the curb where he parked a childish voice spoke up hesitantly, as the two friends alighted from
Cranston's car.
"Hey, mister! Lemme watch your car for you, huh? Only ten cents. I'll wipe off the windshield and shine
up the hood. Only a dime, mister!"
The boy couldn't have been more than eight years old. A thin, undersized little waif, with pipestem legs
and a pale, half-starved face. His clothes were ragged. His cap looked as if it might have been fished
from a barrel.
Cranston's sympathy was touched.
"I'll make you a proposition, sonny. If you wipe the windshield and keep a good watch, so that no other
cars scratch up my paint, I'll give you a dollar when I come back."
For a moment, the kid thought he was being fooled. Then he realized that the tall, smiling gentleman
meant what he said. A grin of delight almost split his dirty face in half.
"A buck! Gee, whiz! Oh, boy, will I watch this car! I'll shine it up like it was just outta the factory!"
Cranston felt warm inside as he ascended in the elevator with Jackson to the latter's apartment. He liked
to do things like that for stray kids.
His face reflected the kid's grin as Jackson opened the door to his apartment and led his guest toward the
ornate living room.
Suddenly, Lamont Cranston stopped short. The smile disappeared from his face.
Jackson had uttered a shrill cry of horror. He was standing stiff-legged in the doorway of the living room,
staring at a scene of brutal chaos. The paintings on the wall which he had promised to show Cranston
hung in tattered shreds. Someone with a wanton knife had slashed the canvases.
The furniture had been converted into junk. Some of it had been attacked with an ax. Other pieces had
been splashed with acid that had eaten into the fabric and discolored the beautiful surface of the antique
wood.
But the bloody object that lay in the center of the floor was what had drawn that horrified cry from
Jackson. It was the corpse of the lawyer's beloved wire-haired terrier, Pippo. A knife had ripped across
the animal's throat, almost severing the terrier's head.
Jackson fell on his knees beside his pet. Tears streamed from his eyes. He forgot everything except the
fact that his prized dog had been brutally slain.
And for no reason!
That was what Jackson kept mumbling over and over in dazed grief, after Lamont Cranston had helped
the stricken lawyer to a chair. Cranston seemed as shocked as Jackson. But his mind was working
grimly. Why had this thing been done?
There was only one possible answer. Jackson had no personal enemies. Of that he assured Cranston in a
trembling voice. Yet his dog Pippo, the one thing in life that he prized, had been wantonly slain.
Cranston was certain, even before he found the Bible, that the attack had been made because of
Jackson's good-natured effort to help the family of the dead John Harmon.
THE Bible lay on the rug beneath an overturned chair. The book had been opened to a particular page.
The page was ringed with red crayon.
It drew attention to the story of the good Samaritan!
Even Jackson understood the import of that sneering message, when he had recovered from the shock of
his dog's brutal murder. He realized that he was being punished for trying to help the family of John
Harmon. His charity had brought a cruel reprisal.
To Cranston it was proof that the suicide of John Harmon had been willed by a criminal. He asked a
swift question.
"How many people besides me did you approach with your charity appeal so far?"
"Only David Chester," the lawyer replied slowly. His face was pale. "I can't believe that Chester had
anything to do with this. He was too decent when I called on him. He promised me a contribution later."
"Perhaps this is his idea of a contribution," Cranston said grimly. "At any rate, we know one thing: you've
put yourself on the spot!"
Jackson shuddered. "What shall I do?"
"I'd advise you to make a public statement resigning from the job of collecting charity for the Harmons.
It's the only way you can save yourself from further attack. Let me attend to it for you."
Cranston picked up the telephone. In a steady voice, he called the number of the City News Association.
He knew that this was the quickest way to publicize what he wanted known.
"Mr. Hubert Jackson wishes to announce that, because of ill health, he is resigning from the chairmanship
of the fund to help the family of the late John Harmon," Cranston said over the wire.
His voice hardened.
"You may state that his place is being taken by a friend. From now on, Lamont Cranston will accept
contributions to the Harmon fund."
He hung up and smiled. Cranston was deliberately offering himself as bait. He was determined to come
to closer grips with an unknown criminal. It might be David Chester; it might not. But The Shadow was
certain that Harmon's wild story of fraud was a true one.
A cunning and ruthless scoundrel who delighted in evil had raked in a cool profit of four hundred and fifty
thousand dollars.
Cranston advised Jackson not to tell the police what had happened in his apartment. Jackson was glad to
agree. He was heartbroken by the loss of his prized dog. He was terrified of further attacks if he dared to
undertake an investigation.
Cranston left the apartment, convinced he had everything arranged the way he wanted it. He had moved
fast. He awaited an answering move. But Cranston had no idea of the appalling speed that answer to his
challenge over the phone would take.
He didn't even realize it when he saw the man at the curb. The man was mistreating the boy whom
Cranston had left to watch his parked car. The boy was crying. The man had grabbed him by the arm
and was twisting it. It looked as if he were trying to break the frightened lad's arm.
Cranston felt a quick surge of anger. He darted forward and shoved the man away.
The man reeled, and recovered his balance. He was a nasty looking individual, with a mop of coal-black
hair and a ragged black mustache. He was chewing gum vigorously.
"Mind your own damn business!" he growled. "This kid belongs in school. That's where I'm taking him.
摘要：

PRINCEOFEVILMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEMADNESSOFJOHNHARMON?CHAPTERII.CHALLENGEOFCRUELTY?CHAPTERIII.DANGEROUSBLOND?CHAPTERIV.THESECONDBOTTLE?CHAPTERV.DOUBLEDECEPTION?CHAPTERVI.GREETINGSFROMHELL?CHAPTERVII.UNDERGROUNDCHALLENGE?CHAPTERVIII.THE...

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