Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 255 - The Devil's Partner

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THE DEVIL'S PARTNER
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. A CROOKED DEAL
? CHAPTER II. THUG'S TRICKERY
? CHAPTER III. MR. JONAH MINTER
? CHAPTER IV. A TREACHEROUS TOY
? CHAPTER V. A FAVOR FOR PORKY
? CHAPTER VI. A DATE FOR MR. JOHNSON
? CHAPTER VII. A STRANGE THEFT
? CHAPTER VIII. SLEIGHT OF HAND
? CHAPTER IX. KNOBS MALETTO
? CHAPTER X. THE SHADOW'S SHADOW
? CHAPTER XI. TRIPLE CROSS
? CHAPTER XII. A CUNNING DECISION
? CHAPTER XIII. A SUCCESSFUL RAID
? CHAPTER XIV. THE HOUSE OF STONE
? CHAPTER XV. TWO-WAY TRAP
CHAPTER I. A CROOKED DEAL
YOUNG DR. KILBY sat in his beautifully appointed office, staring at a portrait of his father. There was
a tight smile on his lips.
He wondered why he hadn't heard yet from Simon Swade.
Kilby's office was in his home. It was on the ground floor of a private wing. To this discreet consulting
room came many patients, most of them wealthy. Young Kilby was carrying on the work of his dead
father, Marcus Kilby.
The patients who came to him, like those who had come to his noted father, suffered from no ills of the
flesh. They came to be cured of the more difficult ills of the mind and heart. At the time of his death,
Marcus Kilby had been the most famous psychoanalyst in New York.
He had been the city's best loved philanthropist, as well. His death had brought an army of sincere
mourners to his funeral. From rich penthouse suites on Park Avenue, from tenement ratholes - all came to
pay tribute to the greatness and kindness of old Marcus Kilby.
The measure of his goodness was made even clearer when his will was filed for probate. Except for a
small trust fund he had bequeathed to young Anthony, not a penny of the huge fees collected by the old
man was left. Everything else had been spent freely for the good of humanity.
That was why young Kilby smiled so impatiently at the thought of Simon Swade. Swade's visit meant
profit. He was a keen man of affairs. He had been for a number of years the confidential business adviser
of the elder Kilby.
Anthony Kilby had entrusted five thousand dollars for Swade to invest. It was money that he would not
have risked with anyone else. He hadn't asked questions, because Swade was not the sort of man who
answered questions. But Swade had made a pleasant promise.
"I will do better than double your money," Swade had said, a week before.
Anthony Kilby wet his lips as he stared at the enormous portrait of his saintly father. They were oddly
unlike for father and son. The elder Kilby's face was round, his expression benevolent.
Young Kilby wasn't like that. He took after his dead mother. His face was sharper. There was a driving
force within him that had been entirely lacking in his father.
He was so intent on his scrutiny of the portrait that he jerked nervously when his butler knocked at the
door.
"Yes, Oliphant?"
"Mr. Swade telephoned a moment ago, sir. He said to inform you he'd be here shortly."
"Good! Admit him to my office as soon as he arrives."
Left alone, Kilby's smile flicked. If everything went well, there would be glory for him as well as his
father. It would be a more personal sort of glory. The profit he anticipated from Swade would not be
used for anonymous free milk stations for needy children. Nor would it go into distant vacation camps for
sick babies and mothers.
It would be a perpetual memorial to his father's humanitarian reputation right here in New York. A
memorial playground, completely equipped, paid for privately by Kilby's own son. A daily reminder that
young Anthony Kilby was also a psychoanalyst!
No reason why charity couldn't be made to pay. Wealthy patients had been slow bringing their mental
troubles to young Anthony Kilby. A memorial erected to the memory of his father would also be a
constant reminder to neurotic millionaires that Anthony Kilby deserved their continued patronage.
He had studied a long time to fit himself to take over his father's practice. It annoyed him that people who
had paid his father large fees were slow in coming to him.
Again a knock roused him.
"Mr. Swade," Oliphant said, and withdrew.
SIMON SWADE entered. The two men shook hands.
"What news?" Kilby asked eagerly.
"Good news," Swade replied.
He was a lean man who looked thinner than he actually was. Everything about him seemed to run to
points. His mustache, the corners of his eyes, his thin eyebrows, his elbows - all contributed to an
appearance of undernourishment that was far from the truth. Swade was a well-fed business expert who
knew which side his bread was buttered on.
He laid a large briefcase on Kilby's desk.
"I'm a man of my word," he said. "You gave me five thousand dollars to invest confidentially. I promised
you more than to double your money. I've brought you the return on your investment. Suppose you count
it."
Swade opened the bulging briefcase, began tossing packets of currency to the desk. At sight of those
packets, Kilby's eyes widened. Swade kept tossing them on the desk until there were ten in all.
Elated, Kilby picked one up. A glance at the denomination of the topmost bank note and a quick
estimate of the number of bills made him gasp.
"But... Swade... good heavens! There are five thousand dollars in just this single packet!"
"That's right."
"But there are ten packets. That makes... fifty thousand dollars!"
"I told you I'd do better than double your money."
Swade was entirely calm. But the glint in his sandy eyes deepened. He was like a fox considering a very
silly rabbit. He waited for Kilby to make some comment about the odd fact that the money was in
currency, rather than in the more convenient form of a check.
But Anthony Kilby was too dazed to notice.
"Good heavens! I didn't know it was possible to turn so handsome a profit so quickly in the stock
market. I know that you are a financial wizard, Mr. Swade. But even so -"
"I didn't invest it in the stock market," Swade murmured. "I took a little flyer in some real estate"
Kilby hardly listened.
"Now I can go ahead with the memorial project. Naturally, I'll need more money later. But this is a
splendid start! Since the city has agreed to assemble a plot provided that I pay for the equipment of the
playground, it looks as if I can go right ahead."
Simon Swade didn't reply. The cold spark in his shrewd eyes made a more noticeable gleam now. Kilby
became aware of it. He thought he knew what it meant. Flushing, he tried to stammer his thanks.
"I want to show my appreciation, Swade. You've undoubtedly gone to some trouble to do me this favor.
You must have incurred some expense. I insist that you allow me to turn over - say - ten percent of this
money to you."
"No!"
Simon Swade was no longer so friendly. A change had come over him. His voice was crisp, cold.
"Keep your money, Kilby. I want something more than a lousy ten percent from you, my friend. I want
complete obedience!"
"Look here, Swade; what kind of talk -"
"Shut up! Listen! It's time you learned where that fifty thousand dollars of yours came from."
"Didn't it come from a stock-market deal?"
"I said nothing of the kind. If you were listening you'd have heard what I said a moment ago. The money
came from a little flyer in real estate."
"I don't understand."
"No?" Swade's sneer grew. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret that I've known all along. There is no
need for you to finance the play ground memorial. The city decided to appropriate money for the whole
project - including both the land and the equipment. In other words, that fifty-thousand-dollar bundle of
yours is going to make things look bad for you. In fact, criminal!"
"CRIMINAL?" Kilby faltered.
Swade's laughter was harsh.
"The deal which netted you your profit was the sale of the playground land to the city! How do you think
that would sound if it were made public? Marcus Kilby's crooked son profits fraudulently from the sale of
overvalued land to the city to be used as a memorial to his own saintly father! Can't you see the black
headlines?"
"Damn you, Swade, you can't prove it! I acted innocently on your advice. I didn't invest the money. You
did!"
Swade's mouth twisted in a grin.
"That won't save you, my friend. I didn't handle the deal. It was all done - and done very smartly, too -
by a dummy purchaser who did exactly what I told him to. The dummy, a smart lad named Quinn,
bought cheap tenement land at a fraction of its value. He resold it to the city for many times what it was
worth. That money on your desk, Kilby, is only a small part of the total profits. But it's enough to put you
in prison stripes - if you refuse my demands."
"Blackmail, eh?" Kilby flashed. His face was pale. "You want my answer? It is no!"
"Think it over," Swade said. "Just remember a couple of things. You gave me your five thousand by
check. At my suggestion, you drew your check to cash. It was endorsed by you. It was also endorsed
by my dummy. All investigation for fraud will lead directly where I planned - to you!"
His voice was jeering as he continued:
"Well? Do you want me to squeal to the newspapers? My dummy can afford to get into hiding
indefinitely. Can you?"
There was sweat on Kilby's face.
"You dirty rat! What do you want?"
"The confidential case histories of every wealthy patient of your late father," Swade said.
"Why?"
Young Kilby knew why, but he croaked out the word in the hope of gaining time. Swade tapped a bony
finger on the desk.
"Do you need a diagram? Blackmail, my friend! Against the easiest type of victim. All of them are rotten
with money. They won't dare to go to the police, or even to a private detective. Some of them aren't
even aware of the hidden secrets they disclosed.
"Your father used hypnosis as part of his mental cures. I happen to know that you have those case
histories in your office safe. They were transported here in a van, together with other effects from your
father's estate."
Swade's thin eyebrows drew together.
"Don't look so shocked. I am prepared to be generous. I am inviting you to come in on the blackmail
deal. In fact, I'll be frank enough to admit that I shall need your help. We'll split the profits fifty-fifty.
O.K.?"
There was sweat on Kilby's face.
"I like money," he said, "but not that kind. I'd rather rot in jail for the rest of my life than betray the
professional secrets of my dead father. You can't have those records, Swade! Do your damnedest! My
father brought me up to be decent. I intend to stay that way!"
"I thought you'd say that," Swade sneered. "Now that you've gotten it off your chest, let me show you
something else."
He took a sheaf of documents from his briefcase, handed them coolly to the young doctor.
"Look these over, sucker! If that portrait on the wall of your old man could laugh, he'd be cackling right
now with unholy glee. You think he was so damned honest, eh? I worked for him for years as his
confidential business agent. There never was a foxier crook born than the same hypocritical Marcus
Kilby!"
Young Kilby sprang to his feet, his fists clenched. But the impulse to lash out at Swede was only a brief
one. The documents Swade had tossed on the desk looked damning.
Swade had played a criminal ace.
"Photostats," he told Kilby. "The originals are in a safe place. What do you think of your old man now? Is
he worth rotting in jail for? Or would you rather play ball with me - and keep the old faker's reputation
for saintliness unsmirched?"
"So my father profiteered on real-estate deals," Kilby whispered. "He did exactly what you have just
done. He pulled fraudulent land deals with the city in connection with his charitable playground
bequests."
"Correct," Swade arrived. "He was a smart old faker! He turned back enough dough to establish his
reputation as a great humanitarian. Why not? For every buck Marcus Kilby spent on free milk for babies,
he pocketed ten bucks of fraudulent profit."
Young Kilby's face was bleak. He got up jerkily and paced the room. Swade sat very still.
"It's hard to take," Kilby gasped.
"It's easy - if you've got brains and guts," Swade tempted.
"What's the use of trying to be honest?" Kilby said. "What's... the... use? My own father, stealing under
the guise of saintliness! Profiteering on slum babies and unfortunate tenement mothers! Just a crooked big
shot!"
"Not a big shot," Swade whispered. "A piker! He stuck to real estate. He didn't have sense enough to
tackle a gold mine. That's what we're going to dig into - the gold mine of those confidential case histories
in your office safe."
Kilby sagged into his chair again. For a while, he couldn't speak. When he did, his voice was like that of
another man. There was an ugly rasp in it.
"All right, Swade. It's a deal!"
"Smart," Swade breathed. "Ve-ry smart."
"I'll turn over the records to you," Kilby continued harshly. "We'll work the racket together on half
shares."
"Swell!" Swade agreed. "We'll get together later. We'll sort out the victims and decide who will be the
first wealthy and neurotic sap we put the lug on."
"Tonight?" Kilby asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early."
Kilby nodded. He shook hands briskly with his new associate in crime. Then he rang for the butler with a
steady gesture.
Oliphant escorted Swade to the door.
Within the quiet consulting room, Anthony Kilby's face was still drawn into bleak lines. He glanced at the
painting of his dead father, mouthed an almost inaudible whisper.
"So you were a crook, eh? In league with a rat like Simon Swade. O.K.! Here's to crime! And here's to
me! We'll find out who the biggest crook is going to be - Swade or myself!"
He laughed a little.
"Fifty-fifty - hell!"
Kilby sat alone in the office for a long time. He didn't forget the name of the dummy that Swade had used
in the fraudulent land deal: Quinn. He thought of another name. It was the name of a man who had a long
criminal record as a gunman and thug.
Later that evening, Kilby spoke carelessly to Oliphant.
"I'm a little tired. I believe I shall retire early. Will you bring me a glass of hot milk when I ring?"
He was undressed and in bed when Oliphant brought the hot milk. But he didn't remain there long after
the butler departed. An alibi had been forged. Not a perfect one, but good enough.
Kilby left his bedroom by the window, after making sure his door was locked on the inside.
He wore his least presentable suit of clothes. He looked shabby as he headed downtown. But that was
all right, too. Kilby was heading for a shabby neighborhood.
His goal was a place in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. Kilby knocked carefully at a dark door. The
man who opened it was the man with the criminal record.
The fellow's eyes narrowed with recognition. It was apparent that he and Kilby had had other dealings.
Before the man could greet him by name, Kilby shook his head.
"No names," he warned, his glance over his shoulder. "I've got a little proposition I think may interest
you."
"Come on in!" the tough-looking guy said. The door of the dive closed behind the pair with a discreet
click.
CHAPTER II. THUG'S TRICKERY
ANTHONY KILBY was not the only figure on the move tonight through the darkness of Manhattan.
Nor was his desire for secrecy any stronger than that of another prowler in the darkness.
This second prowler was interested in a house about two miles north of the shabby dwelling near
Brooklyn Bridge.
The time was an hour or so later. Kilby had finished his conference, and had long since left the vicinity of
Brooklyn Bridge by the time this second figure reached the house to the north.
The figure stood at the rear of a narrow alley alongside a brownstone dwelling. He was favored by the
fact that no windows were on the alley side of the house. But even if there were lighted windows, the
figure who waited in grim silence would not have been visible.
The silent watcher in darkness was The Shadow!
His black cloak blended with the vagueness of the alley. His face, turned keenly toward the street
sidewalk that fronted the alley, was hidden to the lips by the upturned collar of his black cloak. A slouch
hat was tilted low on his forehead. It masked the flame in The Shadow's eyes.
He was watching the headlight glare from a car that was parked out of his sight, directly in front of the
brownstone dwelling.
When that headlight glare moved and the invisible car drove swiftly away, The Shadow would move
swiftly, too.
Unmistakable hints of crime had brought The Shadow from his sanctum to attend a vitally important piece
of investigation. The brownstone house belonged to a sly little man named Seton Quinn. The Shadow had
discovered that peculiar events seemed to cluster about this shrewd Mr. Quinn. They were events that
threw a queer light on the affairs of the late Marcus Kilby.
A few days earlier, The Shadow had first become aware of something wrong. He learned of it in his role
of Lamont Cranston.
Lamont Cranston was a role The Shadow assumed often. As Cranston, he was one of Manhattan's
foremost socialites, a man of wealth and distinction. As Cranston, he had enjoyed the friendship of the
late Marcus Kilby, who had been one of the most influential members of the Cobalt Club.
It was natural, when the elder Kilby died and was buried with many honors, for Lamont Cranston to be
appointed a trustee for his estate.
Laughter welled sibilantly from The Shadow's lips in the dark alley alongside the home of Seton Quinn.
He was aware of a scarcely believable fact. Crime seemed to be stirring in the wake of the death of the
city's most beloved philanthropist!
The Shadow had uncovered a hint of fraud in the sale of certain property to the city. The deal had been
handled by Seton Quinn. A huge profit had been made by Quinn; but there, the slimy trail ended.
Quinn was obviously a dummy for someone else. The Shadow had ordered Rutledge Mann to look into
the affairs of the sly realty expert. Mann was one of The Shadow's smartest agents. He specialized in the
unraveling of tangled financial and legal webs. Usually, Mann was successful. But this time he had failed.
He had uncovered only a few facts. Seton Quinn maintained a small office, which he seldom visited. He
had only one employee, a stupid-looking stenographer with muddy blond-hair and dull eyes. Her name
was Emma Gerber.
Rutledge Mann had tried to get a line on this Emma Gerber. That was when The Shadow realized the
deadly nature of hidden foes. Mann, on the trail of Quinn's stenographer, was shot and seriously
wounded by an assailant he didn't even see!
He was now in The Shadow's private hospital, a place run by a public-spirited physician named Rupert
Sayre. Sayre, a friend of The Shadow's, maintained a private wing where such affairs could be handled
with discretion. Mann was recovering from his gunshot wound, but The Shadow didn't intend to let
matters stop at that.
Cunning crooks would find that they had challenged the supreme enemy of crime!
The Shadow was prepared to search this dark dwelling of Seton Quinn's. But not yet. Not until certain
well-contrived events lured the foxy Mr. Quinn away from his house.
The hidden car, whose headlight glow The Shadow could see from his invisible station at the rear of the
alley, was a taxicab. It belonged to a hackie named Moe Shrevnitz.
Shrevvy, as he was called by his pals in the trade, was a shrewd traffic dodger and a smart driver. But he
was more than that. He was one of The Shadow's most trusted agents.
Moe's job was to drive away with Seton Quinn.
IN a drugstore up on the corner, a pretty girl was making a phone call. The girl was Margo Lane. Like
Cranston, she was a well-known socialite. She was often seen in the company of Cranston in fashionable
hotels and night clubs. Margo had proved useful to The Shadow on many occasions.
She was talking over the telephone to Seton Quinn. She used a dull, blurred tone. It was a voice that
sounded remarkably like the sullen tones of Emma Gerber, Quinn's stenographer.
Her message made Seton Quinn gasp with concern.
"I gotta talk fast," Margo mouthed. "Somepin' funny is happenin' at your office, Mr. Quinn. I just now
went there to get some papers I forgot this afternoon. I didn't go in. The office is lit! Someone is inside,
searchin' it! What'll we do? I'm afraid it's a dick or somepin'!"
Quinn spat a startled oath.
"Wait close by the office somewhere, in case the guy comes out. See if you can get a look at him. But
don't show yourself. I'll be over there right away!"
"O.K.," Margo mumbled.
She left the booth and hurried outside. She sent a signal down the street to the watchful Moe Shrevnitz.
Moe pretended to doze. His act was to be a sleepy hacker who had pulled into the curb for a brief
snooze.
He didn't look up when, a moment later, he heard the door at the top of the brownstone stoop fly open
and a man yell, "Taxi!" He came hurrying down the front steps and darted toward Moe's parked cab.
Moe, pretending indifference, took his time reaching backward to unhook the handle of the rear door.
He didn't want to put ideas in Quinn's foxy brain by showing too much alacrity in picking up his fare.
But as Moe's face turned, he received an unpleasant surprise. His fare was not Quinn. It was a man with
a hard face and cold, slitted eyes.
A thug!
Moe had no chance to yell a warning to the invisible figure of The Shadow deep in the blackness of the
alley. A gun butt struck Shrevvy on the skull. Dazed, he was dragged from behind the wheel.
The thug carried him across the dark sidewalk, lowered him silently into a still darker place.
Moe's dazed body was dropped into the areaway in front of the brownstone. The level of the areaway
was a foot or two lower than the sidewalk. It was guarded by an iron fence whose pickets were so close
together that Moe's body could not be shoved through.
It was easy for the thug to thrust an arm between two of the fence uprights. This time, he didn't use a gun.
A knife was easier for a quiet kill. Its point glittered as the thug plunged the weapon downward into the
limp body of his victim in the areaway.
Moe was still dazed from the blow on his skull, but he was far from unconscious. He saw doom as the
glittering knife stabbed downward at him from above. He tried to roll desperately aside. Then he groaned
as the knife found its target.
But Moe's groan was a piece of deception. The knife had missed his flesh. It had stabbed into the
bunched folds of Moe's overcoat.
The killer wasn't aware of his error. Only his arm and the knife projected inward through the railing of the
areaway The thug's face was turned watchfully aside to make sure that no one in the dark street had
noticed his murderous little job.
He was satisfied he had ended Moe's life when he felt the thud of the stabbing blow, and jerked his knife
upward. Its blade was stained crimson with fresh blood.
Moe, too dazed to fight, had done a courageous and clever thing. He had deliberately clutched at the
knife as the killer withdrew it from the bunched overcoat. He let the blade rip through his palm. It slashed
a horrible gash, made Moe cringe with agony.
But it fooled the killer.
Whirling, the killer leaped behind the wheel of Moe's empty cab, drove swiftly away.
THE SHADOW, hidden in darkness at the rear end of the alley, was unaware of the cunning treachery
that had so abruptly marred all his plans. He could, of course, see nothing of what had happened on the
sidewalk. He couldn't even see the parked taxicab, until it moved away.
The Shadow made an excusable mistake. When he saw the taxi race quickly away from its spot in front
of the house, he assumed that Moe, obeying orders, was driving it.
He assumed also that the passenger who had entered the cab was Seton Quinn, racing to his office, lured
by the bait that had been offered to him by Margo in her letter-perfect role of Emma Gerber.
The Shadow vaulted the alley fence, dropped like a moving patch of blackness to the ground on the
other side. He was now in the rear of Quinn's dwelling.
A small shed with a sloping roof made an easy route to a window on the main floor. The catch was old
and rusted, but The Shadow took no chances on a noise that might be audible. A diamond cutter moved
swiftly around the four edges of the windowpane. When he pressed lightly, the pane came loose.
An instant later, The Shadow was inside Quinn's home.
It was pitch-dark in the room and in the hallway that connected with the front stairs. The Shadow's eyes
told him nothing. But he received a warning of something unusual from a different sense. He sniffed.
Smoke!
The smoke was coming from above. Not a lot of it, but enough to convey the unmistakable and acrid
fumes of something burning.
As he crept up dark stairs, The Shadow could see a pale glimmer of light, now. It came from a room on
the top floor. The Shadow used infinite stealth on his upward sneak. The staircases were old and creaky.
An incautious planting of feet might bring telltale sounds to the ears of anyone aloft.
The Shadow was still mistakenly convinced that Seton Quinn had left the house. But he suspected the
presence of someone else on that top floor. Quinn would scarcely go away leaving papers burning. That
the source of the smoke came from burning papers, The Shadow was certain.
Who was destroying papers in this sinister old dwelling?
It took The Shadow considerable time to mount the last flight of stairs. He had seen no evidence of
anyone on the floors below. But a strange intuition made his scalp crawl as he thought of the lower floor
which he had just quitted.
It was a vivid sense of peril. Someone out of sight in the darkness below was aware that The Shadow
was mounting noiselessly toward the lighted room on the top floor!
The Shadow could see the room now through the vertical balustrade posts along the hallway. The room
door was open. Through it streamed a dim light from a single, frosted bulb. Smoke drifted through the
doorway into the hall.
Papers had been burned! A blackened mass of debris was noticeable in a small fireplace that was partly
visible through the open doorway.
But it was the figure of Seton Quinn that held The Shadow's grim gaze.
Quinn was sitting in a chair near the fireplace. He was staring toward the peering face of The Shadow.
But Quinn did not see The Shadow. He would never see anything else on earth.
His throat had been slashed from ear to ear!
The Shadow waited in the blackness of the staircase, just below the level of the dim light from the upper
room. Not a sound was audible. The house continued as quiet as a tomb.
摘要：

THEDEVIL'SPARTNERMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.ACROOKEDDEAL?CHAPTERII.THUG'STRICKERY?CHAPTERIII.MR.JONAHMINTER?CHAPTERIV.ATREACHEROUSTOY?CHAPTERV.AFAVORFORPORKY?CHAPTERVI.ADATEFORMR.JOHNSON?CHAPTERVII.ASTRANGETHEFT?CHAPTERVIII.SLEIGHTOFHAND?CHAPT...

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