Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 233 - The Blackmail King

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THE BLACKMAIL KING

Maxwell Grant

http://www.blackmask.com

? CHAPTER I. A QUESTION OF TERMS

? CHAPTER II. DOUBLE TROUBLE

? CHAPTER III. WAYS IN THE DUSK

? CHAPTER IV. DEATH DEFINED

? CHAPTER V. DEAD AND GONE

? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S PROOF

? CHAPTER VII. MEETINGS BY NIGHT

? CHAPTER VIII. THE ONLY CHANCE

? CHAPTER IX. THE LONG RIDE

? CHAPTER X. THE NEEDED TRAIL

? CHAPTER XI. TRAILS CLOSE

? CHAPTER XII. DEATH OUT OF HAND

? CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN WHO LIVED

? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW'S ADVICE

? CHAPTER XV. A MATTER OF HUNCHES

? CHAPTER XVI. MANHATTAN MAN HUNT

? CHAPTER XVII. THE SHORT TRAIL

? CHAPTER XVIII. DEATH INTERVENES

? CHAPTER XIX. FACTS REVEALED

? CHAPTER XX. THE FINAL EVIDENCE

CHAPTER I. A QUESTION OF TERMS

IT looked like an ordinary desk lamp. It consisted of a little wooden stand and an incandescent bulb of

forty-watt intensity, topped by a small shade. There, the resemblance ended. One thing was missing: the

lamp cord.

Homer Fengram lifted the lamp from the desk and chuckled like a pleased child. His chuckle had a basso

boom, and his childish glee was also incongruous. For Homer Fengram, portly man of millions, usually

had the serious manner that befitted the successful financier. It was odd to see a boyish smile spread

across his heavy-jowled face.

With a long reach, Fengram passed the glowing lamp across the desk to the calm-faced visitor who sat

on the other side.

"It's not a trick, Cranston," boomed Fengram. "Most tricks are done with wires. This lamp" - the portly

man chuckled anew - "has no wires."

Lamont Cranston took the lamp and studied it from every angle. His face showed no amazement, but

Fengram was sure that it was masking such a sentiment. It was simply a habit with Cranston never to

"Take it apart."

Cranston removed the shade, then started to unscrew the bulb from its socket. His fingers revealed the

surprise that his face restrained. They expected the bulb to be hot; hence they still hesitated, even when

they found it cool.

Like an ordinary bulb, this one extinguished itself when removed from the socket, and when Cranston

inverted the lamp stand, out dropped the source of the illumination - a tiny dry-cell battery of the sort

used in pencil-sized flashlights!

Cranston's interest returned to the light bulb as the only explanation for such phenomenal illumination from

so small an electric supply. Extinguished, the bulb looked dark, but Cranston's probing eyes distinguished

its contents to be a gelatinous substance. The bulb, moreover, was heavy, when he weighed it in his

hand.

"It is called 'Infralux,'" explained Fengram, beaming across the desk. "'Bottled light' would be a good

commercial term for it. Light without heat, on a scale that passes belief. Imagine its possibilities,

Cranston!"

The possibilities required little imagination. Cranston was thinking more in terms of the invention itself.

Someone had evidently solved the riddle of the firefly's glow, and produced a synthetic substance giving

the same result on a large scale.

The need of a slight electric current, supplied by a tiny flashlight battery, to put the glow in operation, was

too minor a detail to impede in any way the invention's success.

His eyes turning to Fengram, Cranston put his first question:

"Who invented it?"

"Some obscure experimenter," replied Fengram. "His name is Dana Mycroft, I believe. But the man who

developed it is Giles Brett."

"Head of the Brett Research Corp.?"

"The same." Catching a slight flash of Cranston's eyes, Fengram shook his head. "No, no, Cranston. You

mustn't believe those rumors about Brett. Those photoelectric bomb detonators that he developed for the

government are quite practical. He had some unforeseen difficulties with them; nothing more."

Cranston nodded, as though he took Fengram's word for it. The financier returned to the subject of the

Infralux bulb. It had cost Brett a mere twenty-five thousand dollars, Fengram declared, and Fengram had

offered him a quarter million for it. The deal was to be closed this very afternoon.

"It is now half past four," declared Fengram, stroking his double chin. "In exactly one hour, Giles Brett

will be in his office, back from Washington. I have here" - Fengram drew a slip of paper from his desk

drawer - "a certified check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, that I shall take to him.

"I should like you to come with me, Cranston, and witness the transaction. Meanwhile, allow me to detail

the plans that I have made for financing the Infralux Co., which will be the newest of the dozen

corporations under my control. When I have finished, I am quite sure that you will become the first

purchaser of stock in the new corporation."

THERE was nothing of the high-pressure salesman in Homer Fengram. He was actually offering Lamont

Cranston a chance to come in on the ground floor. For Fengram had the Midas touch in all his

undertakings. His present companies, a dozen of them, were paying good dividends to lucky

stockholders.

In fact, if Fengram had a fault, it was his ability to make too much money. With emphasis on national

defense, several of his companies were taxed to their limit of capacity. All that Cranston needed to do

was look around and see proof of Fengram's affluence.

Fengram's office, wherein the chat was taking place, was located in his palatial mansion, that occupied a

quarter of a block of choice Manhattan real estate. The house, alone, required two dozen servants, in

addition to Fengram's secretaries.

Downstairs were rooms containing enough famous paintings to furnish an art gallery; other rooms held

curios, jewels and statuettes that would have done credit to the Metropolitan Museum.

Having spent vast sums upon such collections, Fengram was only anxious to buy more. In his opinion,

this was the time to make such purchases, for many persons were selling their treasures at low prices. A

few years from now, values would be up again, according to Fengram, who was usually right in

everything he claimed.

On one statement, Fengram was wrong.

He said that Giles Brett would not be back from Washington until half past five. Actually, Brett had

already returned to New York, but he had not yet notified Fengram that he was in town. Brett happened

to have too many other matters on his mind.

TALL, stoop-shouldered, with a worried expression upon his long, thin face, Giles Brett was pacing from

one office to another in the suite where his research corporation was located.

A dozen employees, busy at their desks, were carefully avoiding his silent wrath. When they saw him turn

to the door of the connecting laboratory, they breathed relief, but only temporarily.

Brett's attention was suddenly attracted by the loud opening of the outer door. In from the elevator

stormed a scrawny man, whose face was thinner than Brett's and whose white hair formed a shocky

banner.

Seeing Brett, the scrawny man raised a thin, withered fist and shook it for the benefit of all witnesses.

"I am Dana Mycroft!" he piped in a high tone. "I demand my rights! I sold a priceless invention to Giles

Brett -"

"And I am Giles Brett!" interjected Brett in a harsh tone. "If you have business with me, Mycroft, it is

private."

"Private!" screeched Mycroft, still wagging his fist. "You made it public, Brett, when you offered my

invention, Infralux, to Homer Fengram for a quarter million! Look at this!" He waved a copy of a daily

picture tabloid. "Read what Three O'Clock has to say!"

"Whatever Three O'Clock says, is wrong," sneered Brett. "It prints everything backward in hope of

starting a controversy. I didn't offer Infralux to Fengram. He offered to buy it from me."

"For a quarter million?"

"The figure, surprisingly, is correct. But I haven't sold the invention yet, Mycroft."

"And when you do -"

"You will be taken care of in a proper fashion, Mycroft. I have never yet dealt unfairly with anyone."

Mycroft screeched a laugh and thumbed through the pages of the picture newspaper, which he flaunted

anew under Brett's nose.

"What do you call this?" he cackled. "Your deal with the government, Brett! Those faulty detonators that

you sold them!"

Brett turned to a pair of husky clerks who had drawn close. He gestured them toward Mycroft, and

ordered bluntly:

"Throw him out!"

They threw Mycroft out. An elevator door gulped wide to receive him. Before the door could close,

Mycroft high-pitched his parting threat:

"I've given you your last warning, Brett! I have another way to deal with you! I have friends -"

The clang of the elevator door started Mycroft on a twenty-story journey to the ground floor. Employees

were glued to their work as Brett paced past them and entered the laboratory. Two technicians greeted

him with pleased looks.

"Well, Craig," questioned Brett, "what about the detonator?"

"Martin and I have tested it, sir," replied Craig, gesturing toward his assistant. "I believe that we have

corrected the trouble."

"You should have been with me today," snapped Brett bitterly. "One of our shells blew up another

anti-aircraft gun at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds."

Leaving the technicians staring at each other, Brett strode through a connecting door into his private

office. On his desk, he found a letter in a plain envelope. In one corner it bore the word: "Personal."

Ripping the letter open, Brett read its contents. He picked up a telephone and ordered the operator to

connect him with his lawyer. Getting the connection, Brett spoke:

"Another of those letters, Kemball... Yes, demanding the same sum. I'm to expect a call at five o'clock,

as usual. Of course, it's Mycroft. He was just here making another of his crazy threats... No, I hadn't

found the letter then... Naturally, he was trying to find out if I'd read it -

"Worry about Mycroft? Why should I? It's that friend of his who bothers me... Yes, the one with the

smooth voice who always calls up at five o'clock... Certainly, I'll talk to him and sound him out. Only, this

time, it really has me worried -"

FINISHING his call to Kemball, Giles Brett stared at the letter. It was very simple, and specific. It stated

that unless he paid over the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, evidence would be made

public to ruin him.

It was blackmail, of course, and this wasn't the first letter of the sort. Hitherto, Brett had turned them

over to Kemball. This letter, however, was different.

It carried a final note in its last sentence. There, Brett read the words: "You have waited long enough; at

five o'clock, we shall give you proof." Fingering the letter, Brett wondered. What could these hounds

mean by proof?

Bitterly, he wished that he had held on to Mycroft and made the fellow tell more about his friends.

Unfortunately, Mycroft hadn't delivered that bit of warning until the elevator door was closing.

Picking up the telephone, Brett called his switchboard operator, to say that he expected an important call

at five o'clock and wanted it put through to his office without question as to the caller's name. That done,

Brett began to look over other correspondence that had accumulated during the day.

Very shortly, a strange thing happened. It occurred in an outer office, where the switchboard operator,

momentarily idle, was talking to a clerk.

"You know how fussy old Brett is," confided the switchboard girl. "Well, what does he do but say: 'Put

the call through at five, without question.' It doesn't make sense - or does it? Maybe it does, considering

how old Brett goes popping around everywhere, looking over people's shoulders -"

The clerk was making gestures. The operator halted and looked over her shoulder, to meet the stony

gaze of her employer, Giles Brett. She saw lips form a disapproving sneer; then, while the girl was still

trying to find words, Brett turned away in his sudden style and stalked toward his office.

"I didn't know he'd come out!" the girl panted to the clerk. "I hope he won't fire me!"

"It's all right," the clerk assured. "He's gone back into his office."

The clerk was wrong. Brett had not gone back into his office.

Giles Brett was still in his office!

CHAPTER II. DOUBLE TROUBLE

PUSHING the stack of letters aside, Giles Brett came back to the first one that he had opened. He read

its last sentence; then, in a sneering tone, he spoke aloud:

"The proof!"

To Brett, the threat was empty. His misadventures with the bomb detonator were no fault of his own. It

was common knowledge, however, that Brett's device had failed, and on that basis, professional

blackmailers were trying to shake him down, inspired, no doubt, by Mycroft, after the inventor's own

measures had failed.

For Mycroft's open demands were definitely unjustifiable, considering that he had sold his invention

outright, with full knowledge of the extent to which Brett might develop Infralux. In a fair sense, Brett

considered the finished product his own.

This letter bothered Brett, however, more than his sneer denoted. Something in the word "proof" rankled

him, because it carried a tangible note. Then, as if in answer to a query, came a voice which might have

been an echo to Brett's own.

"The proof is here, Mr. Brett," said the voice. "I am the proof!"

Brett stared across the desk. His eyes opened wide as he saw the person opposite him, and the other

man's did the same. Even to their milk-gray color, they matched Brett's eyes. When Brett's lips gave a

twitch, the other man duplicated it as faithfully as though he were a reflection gazing from a mirror.

For, in face, voice, manner, and even attire, this man who had entered unannounced was Brett's double!

Blinking, as though he didn't believe it, Brett freed himself from part of the illusion. At least, his double did

not copy his blinks; instead, the long-faced visitor relaxed, and delivered one of the contemptuous smiles

that were Brett's wont. Obligingly, he waved his hand, and said in a voice quite like Brett's own:

"Turn on some lights, so you can see me better."

Brett reached for a desk lamp and twisted its bulb tight; then did the same with a lamp on the other side

of the desk. He'd hardly finished before he realized that he had used two of the Infralux lamps that he

kept as samples. The fact pleased Brett's visitor all the more.

"A good idea, Brett," he stated, "to use your special lighting system. I like those new lights. I've seen them

before. Not quite so good as these -"

"You mean Mycroft's!" interrupted Brett. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I am you, Brett!"

Coming upright from his chair, Brett glared at the smirking man across the desk. His attitude was so

pugnacious, that his double lost something of his calm.

"At least, I have been mistaken for you," corrected the double. "My own name happens to be Jay

Doban. I am fortunate in two ways: I resemble you very closely, and I was once a character actor, which

enables me to play the part to perfection. Now, Brett, to our business."

DOBAN drew an envelope from his pocket and took some photographs from it, spreading them on the

desk for Brett's examination. One photograph showed Brett shaking hands with a blocky, fat-faced man

whose dark face had a blunt look. Another showed him seated at a table with the same individual.

"Why, that's the man they recently indicted for Fifth Column activities!" exclaimed Brett.

"Exactly!" agreed Doban. "I had no trouble meeting him. In the presence of witnesses, by the way."

Brett's eyes went narrow.

"You mean you introduced yourself as me?"

"Exactly," said Doban again. "Suppose, Brett, that the F.B.I. should receive copies of these photographs

and begin to look into your recent past. For a man handling government contracts - faulty ones, by the

way - your position would be serious. Here are some other pictures -"

Doban stopped, as he laid another envelope on the desk. He'd spoken his piece as far as he could. Brett

was storming about the room in a fashion that a caged lion would have envied.

As Brett fumed, the telephone rang. Brett pounced for it, to hear the five-o'clock call that he expected. It

came in the smooth voice he recognized, though he did not know its owner.

"Are you convinced, Brett?" the voice inquired. "We told you that we would give you proof. It is right in

front of you, Brett."

Brett's reply was incoherent. He was glaring across the desk as he tried to talk. Sight of Doban

accounted for his lack of words.

"It's so simple, Brett," the speaker continued. "Sell the rights to Infralux and pay the money over to us.

We'll give you the negatives of those photographs, and a signed statement from Doban."

Brett found his voice.

"For a quarter million?" he stormed. "Never!"

"You've heard the terms," the voice intoned. "You have no other choice. Mycroft has left it entirely to

us."

Brett started to slam the telephone back on its stand. Doban stopped him. Coolly, Brett's double spoke

to the unknown caller in a tone precisely like Brett's own:

"He's convinced. I'll close the deal for you, Cleeve."

Doban was hanging up, when he saw a change in Brett's glare. For the moment, Doban was nonplused.

He'd made a bad slip, but he was quick to correct it.

"Cleeve is the name," said Doban. "Cleeve Rayland, to save you the bother of checking on it. I've

worked for him before, but not often. He needed some special service in this case."

"I warn you!" stormed Brett. "This is blackmail!"

"What else would you call it, Brett?"

Brett didn't know what else. It was his turn to be nonplused. Then, rallying, he asserted:

"You can't get away with it, Doban!"

"Brett to you, Brett," retorted Doban. "I've already gotten away with it. How do you suppose I walked

into this office, past all the clerks who are supposed to keep people out? Only by passing as you so

perfectly, that there wasn't a chance for argument."

The statement was quite a convincer. Brett took on the air of a trapped man. He stalked over to the

window and stared down into the dusk, as though contemplating a twenty-floor leap as his next move.

Then, raising his head, he caught his reflection in the darkened window, and blinked when he saw two

faces mirrored side by side. Wheeling, Brett found Doban right at his shoulder.

"You won't jump, Brett," sneered Doban. "You'll pay! After all, what have you to lose? Only the

twenty-five thousand that you originally paid Mycroft. You gypped him out of the rest, you know. So

Rayland and I are collecting it for him."

BRETT became canny, as he walked to his desk. Stopping there, he turned to argue. He hadn't closed a

deal on Infralux, as yet. True, he had been offered a quarter million by a financier named Homer

Fengram, but it was his intention to hold out for a much larger sum; perhaps not to sell at all, but to

market Infralux himself.

Such argument had no effect on Doban. He simply shook his head and stated that Brett had heard the

final terms.

Under the light of the glowing Infralux lamps, Brett studied Doban closer. He was realizing that this man

was nothing but a stooge, working for the real blackmailer, Cleeve Rayland. It couldn't be otherwise,

Brett reasoned. Doban had been chosen for his job simply because he was Brett's double. He was an

actor, too, but there his ability ended.

If smart, Doban would be handling this game himself, instead of working for someone else. Remembering

Doban's previous slip, Brett decided to test him to the full. As preliminary, he laid his hand upon the

telephone.

"Suppose I call some people in here," suggested Brett, "and let them see us both together, Doban. This

blackmail business would be all off."

"Not at all," spoke Doban, as though Brett's words were a cue. "I would say that you had tried to bribe

me to commit perjury; to swear that the person in those photographs was myself, and not you."

A good argument, but Doban put it in a glib way. It was evidently Rayland's idea, not his own. Brett's

face firmed, and he watched to see if Doban's did the same. It did, but only superficially.

There was a difference between these two who looked alike. Brett was a man of determination; his

double was not. It was all that Brett wanted to know.

"I'm going to make that test, Doban," said Brett decisively, "with the police as judges. We'll ask them to

give us their famous third degree, and we shall see who cracks first!"

The words filled Doban with horror. This was getting beyond his depth. Madly, the fellow sprang for the

telephone and snatched Brett's hand from it. Then, as Brett shoved him toward a corner, Doban pulled a

revolver.

"Don't touch that telephone, Brett!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "If you do, I'll shoot! You'll stay right here,

just as you are, until I've gone."

Brett didn't touch the telephone. Instead, he moved closer to Doban, speaking sarcastically as he

approached.

"You'd shoot me, Doban?" Brett queried. "And spoil the whole pretty game? Why, I'm the one man you

can't afford to kill! Rayland didn't think of that, did he, when he framed this thing for Mycroft?"

"No closer, Brett!" Doban was backing desperately to a corner. "I'll shoot, if there's no other way!"

Brett came closer, with a charge so sudden that it bewildered Doban. He hadn't an idea that Brett could

be so agile. Brett caught Doban's hand before the fellow could pull the trigger, and shoved the revolver

upward. Brett's hold was not merely powerful; it was tricky. He bent Doban down to one knee, twisting

him until his head was bowed and tilted.

All the while, Doban was trying to bring the gun down from the upright position and turn it toward Brett's

body, but the grip on Doban's hand was torturing, numbing. Doban's fingers tightened under Brett's

clutch.

And then -

The revolver spoke, its report muffled. Doban's body sagged down in Brett's grasp. Brett found himself

looking downward at a face which still could have been his own, but its imitative expressions were frozen

into a final grimace.

The reason was the ugly hole that the revolver shot had blasted in Doban's temple. One bullet had put an

end to Brett's double.

Yet the trouble still remained.

IT dawned on Brett, as he gazed, rigid, that Doban was a greater menace dead than alive. The very story

of bribery that Doban had threatened to relate might occur to the police. They would have but one man

to question: Brett himself.

Could his story hold?

Hardly, considering that the police could well regard this as a case of murder. The photographs wouldn't

help, whether Brett kept them or destroyed them. The letter on Brett's desk was merely a typewritten

sheet that Brett could have typed as a bluff, to back his story.

The thought struck Brett that his lot might have been better had the bullet found him, instead of Doban.

The idea was an inspiration.

Dropping beside Doban's body, Brett went through the dead man's pockets, taking whatever he found.

He began stuffing the contents of his own pockets into Doban's, and was busily at it when the phone bell

rang. Brett completed his task before he answered. When he spoke, his voice was strained.

The call was from his switchboard operator, announcing two visitors: Homer Fengram and a friend

named Lamont Cranston.

"Call Craig," said Brett slowly. "Have him show them in. And wait! Tell Craig to bring Martin with him.

There may be some technical points to discuss. I shall need them both."

Scooping up the photographs and the letter, Brett turned, not toward the door to the outer offices, but to

the one that led into the laboratory. It was latched from his side, and he turned the knob slowly, carefully.

He was peering through a crack when the two technicians went out from the lab, through a door to the

outer offices.

Sliding into the laboratory, Giles Brett took a last look at the huddled duplicate of himself in the far corner

of his private office. The click of the door latch marked Brett's departure from the strange scene of

death.

CHAPTER III. WAYS IN THE DUSK

THE two technicians were prompt in escorting the visitors to Brett's office. Craig knocked, and when he

received no answer, he opened the door as a matter of course.

Fengram entered first, and the lamps on the desk immediately attracted his attention. He was pointing

them out to Cranston, when he saw his companion gaze beyond.

Then, with a stride that was swift but easy, Cranston walked to the corner, and the others hurried along,

excitedly, when they saw the object that attracted him. Cranston was first to stoop beside the huddled

body of Doban. He looked up at the others and pronounced the word:

"Dead!"

Cranston didn't have to inquire the dead man's identity. Craig and Martin were already babbling Brett's

name, and Fengram was nodding recognition. Fengram's first words expressed the obvious, as to the

cause of death.

"It's suicide!" he exclaimed. "Unless -"

He turned to the technicians and asked if Brett had mentioned anything about his trip to Washington.

Grimly, the men nodded, and told of the new failure at the proving ground.

"Another faulty detonator!"

"But we told Mr. Brett we'd located the trouble!"

While the technicians were thus expressing themselves, Cranston stepped over to the corner door. As he

opened it, Fengram joined him.

The technicians were on hand when the visitors looked into the laboratory, and both explained that they

had been in that very room when Brett summoned them. No one could possibly have come in through the

laboratory, cornered Brett and murdered him in less than a single minute.

The men were honest on that point; so honest, that they released the fact that the laboratory formed a

route between Brett's private office and the corridor without the necessity of going through the outer

offices.

Across the lab, Cranston saw the far door that served as an exit. Instead of going to it, he took the word

of the technicians and stepped back into Brett's own office.

"We must inform the switchboard operator," Cranston said quietly to Fengram, "and any of the other

employees who are still here. We can then summon the police."

Fengram nodded, and Cranston stepped toward the outer office. Already, employees were crowding in,

the switchboard girl among them. A few swift paces and Cranston could have prevented them from

viewing the gruesome scene, but his step wasn't as quick as before.

Brought by the sound of excited voices, the employees were through the door before Cranston reached

them.

There was a shriek from the switchboard girl when she saw the body. Hysterically, she cried that she

"should have known." There was "something different in Mr. Brett's voice" when he had called the board.

One of the clerks was wavering, his face very white. Briskly, Cranston said to Fengram:

"Look after matters here. I'll find a doctor."

Through the outer offices, Cranston looked along the corridor as he rang the elevator bell. He saw the

door from the laboratory; it was marked: "Private." Farther along was another door, quite as important in

Cranston's estimate. It said: "Fire Exit."

An empty elevator arrived. Without a word to the operator, Cranston entered it and began a rapid trip to

the ground floor, with no stops, since most of the people in the building had started out at five o'clock,

half an hour earlier. In that trip, Cranston hoped that he could make up for a few minutes of delay.

Those few minutes were the time that it would have taken a man to slide out through the laboratory and

down the fire tower, the logical path for a man who had framed a nearly-perfect scene of imitation

suicide. For in Cranston's opinion, this case had elements that might better fit with murder.

CRANSTON'S opinion coincided with The Shadow's.

Famed master mind who hunted men of crime, The Shadow, in public life, posed as Lamont Cranston,

wealthy New York clubman. It was a guise that helped in many ways.

Not merely did it give him an introduction among the upper crust upon whom brainy criminals so often

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THEBLACKMAILKINGMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.AQUESTIONOFTERMS?CHAPTERII.DOUBLETROUBLE?CHAPTERIII.WAYSINTHEDUSK?CHAPTERIV.DEATHDEFINED?CHAPTERV.DEADANDGONE?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'SPROOF?CHAPTERVII.MEETINGSBYNIGHT?CHAPTERVIII.THEONLYCHANCE?CHAPTERIX....

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