Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 210 - The Devil's Paymaster

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THE DEVIL'S PAYMASTER
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 15, 1940.
The Prince of Evil and The Shadow match wit for wit in this battle to the
death!
CHAPTER I
VOICE IN THE NIGHT
POLICE COMMISSIONER RALPH WESTON was a man who did not, as a rule, awaken
easily once he had fallen soundly asleep. He had trained his body to relax
completely for eight hours every night. He had to, or he could never have
endured the daily grind of directing the tremendous activities of the New York
police department.
From 11 p.m. until 7 the following morning, Weston's valet had orders not
to disturb the commissioner.
But, like all rules of personal conduct, Weston's sleep habits had one
important exception. When the telephone bell in his bedroom rang, he always
awakened instantly. Many a big crime had broken without warning in the black
hours between midnight and dawn. Whenever it did, the news was flashed from
headquarters to Weston's home.
His phone was ringing tonight. Or rather, it had just stopped ringing.
The final echo of the bell buzzed in Weston's ears as he sat up sleepily
on the edge of his bed. A vivid stab of lightning cut the blackness of the
room
like a sword flash. It was followed by a rolling crash of thunder.
Weston, blinked. Instinctively, he turned toward the partly-opened
window.
The rug was damp. He could feel the wet drive of rain on his pajamas. Except
for
the sudden ring of the telephone bell, Weston would have slept calmly through
the lightning and thunder.
But once awake, he didn't want his wallpaper stained or a priceless
Oriental rug soaked. He sprang across the room and shut the window. Then he
darted to the phone.
"Commissioner Weston speaking."
There was no answer.
Weston spoke again impatiently, but no reply came. He growled with
annoyance. His detour to shut the rain-drenched window had not taken much
time.
The phone bell must have barely stopped ringing before he had become fully
awake. Not more than thirty seconds could have elapsed. And yet the operator
at
police headquarters had hung up already.
Weston's finger jabbed at the dial, to ring back the uniformed
switch-board cop. He was sore enough to want to give that cop a good
tongue-lashing.
But he was not angry enough to, overlook an important fact. Something
queer had happened to his private phone. There was no wire hum in his ear. The
phone was dead.
Weston proved the correctness of his hearing by trying to establish
contact with police headquarters. Nothing happened.
It puzzled him. How in the name of common sense could a phone bell ring,
if the line was dead? Weston began to wonder if he could have imagined that
bell-sound that had stopped ringing an instant before his sleepy eyes had
opened to the flashing of lightning and the pelting of rain.
He snapped on the bedroom light and looked at the clock. Then he chuckled
at his own foolishness.
The hands of the clock pointed to one minute after midnight. The chimes
of
the striking clock had telegraphed a wrong message to Weston's sleeping brain.
The echo of the last chime had been in his ears when he had sat up with a jerk
on the edge of his bed. There had been no phone call at all.
But why was the instrument dead? Another flash of lightning filled the
room with daylight brilliance. To Weston, the flash provided a plausible
answer. Lightning had struck a feed cable somewhere. It had put a whole
section
of phone lines temporarily out of commission, his own included.
He went back to bed and closed his eyes. He felt better, knowing his
window was now shut against the wet lash of the storm. He was drifting back
into slumber, when he heard the bell again!
THIS time, Weston was out of bed with a leap. It was a curiously muffled
ring. It sounded more like a ghost bell than the normal ring of a telephone.
He
ran to the instrument and clapped it to his ear.
The phone was still dead!
Commissioner Weston felt a queer chill. The hair prickled on his scalp.
He
listened intently. Then he heard the faint bell again.
The sound came from the closed door of his wardrobe closet. A closet was
a
place where no normal person kept a telephone - certainly not Commissioner
Weston.
And yet, he found one there.
It was on the floor at the back of the closet, almost hidden by the
trailing garments on the hangers above it. It was the latest type handset
phone. Instead of being connected with a bell box screwed onto the wall, the
signal apparatus was contained within the base of the telephone itself.
Weston had no idea how this mystery phone could have gotten into his
bedroom closet. He picked it up. The wire was alive and throbbing.
"Hello! Who the devil are you?" Weston barked.
"Is this Ralph Weston, police commissioner of the city of New York?"
The voice was a curious one. It was high-pitched and tinny in quality. It
could easily have been a woman's. And just as easily, it could have been the
voice of a man speaking in a careful falsetto.
"Commissioner Weston speaking. Who are you? What do you -"
"My name doesn't really matter," the voice interrupted, coolly. "If you
like, you can call me Mr. Remorse. Naturally, you want to know what my
business
is. I have none, at the present time. I retired some years ago. I'm a reformed
criminal."
"A criminal!"
Weston choked with anger at the man's colossal gall. But he hid his rage.
He had backed out of the closet, still holding the phone. His finger pressed a
button on the wall, to summon his valet. In the meantime, he tried to
temporize.
"I'm waiting to learn why you called me, Mr. Remorse," he said quietly
into the instrument.
"All right. Listen!"
The voice was still too shrill to be natural, but the words were crystal
clear.
"I won't waste your time or mine. I'm a criminal. A reformed criminal,
believe it or not! I call myself Mr. Remorse because my real name, my
fingerprints, and my record are on file down at police headquarters. The cops
have enough on me to put me in jail for the rest of my life.
"But I don't want to go to jail! I want to undo some of the harm I caused
before I decided to retire from crime. That's where you come in,
commissioner."
"How?"
"I can't restore stolen money directly to my former victims. I need a
go-between; somebody to do the contact work. I've got to use some
public-spirited citizen - or someone whose own life is above reproach - to do
my dirty work - or rather, my clean work - of restitution!"
There was a brief chuckle. It didn't sound sincere. There was nastiness
in
it.
"Who would you suggest, commissioner? Who, in New York City, is the
intermediary I need? He must have leisure, plenty of money of his own, a
reputation for charity and philanthropy. Tell me the name of a man like that,
and I'll stop annoying, you and bid you good night."
"Just a minute. I'll have to think."
Weston's valet had hurried noiselessly into the room in response to the
summons. One glance at the commissioner's face and he knew that something
deadly was going on.
He bent his ear close to Weston's faintly-moving lips. The commissioner
ordered his valet to race downstairs and try to trace the mystery call on
another phone. The man vanished swiftly
"Well?" snarled the high-pitched womanish voice on the wire. "I haven't
got all night to wait! Have you thought of someone?"
"I would suggest that you get in touch with Mr. Lamont Cranston. He's a
gentleman with every quality you have mentioned."
"Thank you. Good night."
"Wait! How are you going to restore this stolen money you spoke of? How
are you going to contact Mr. Cranston?"
"That's my business, commissioner."
"How did you plant your damned telephone in my closet?"
There was more laughter on the wire.
"I fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Good night!"
The connection was suddenly broken. Commissioner Weston dialed furiously.
But it did no good. The wire itself, as well as the connection, was broken.
AS Weston stood staring at the instrument, his valet raced back into the
bedroom. The servant looked as flabbergasted as his employer.
"Something very queer going on tonight, sir. I put through a tracer call
from downstairs. I couldn't trace the call, because there wasn't any!"
"What! You heard me, didn't you? You saw me! Do you think I was putting
on
a ventriloquist act just to amuse myself in the middle of the night?"
"I can't help it, sir. I spoke to the exchange manager. He said that no
call came to this house."
Weston frowned. He began to realize the full extent of the cleverness of
this invisible Mr. Remorse. The mystery man had evidently tapped in on
Weston's
phone at some point between the exchange and the commissioner's home. The tap
had given him a private wire from some spot in the rainy darkness outside.
"Do you have any idea how this extra phone got into my bedroom closet?"
Weston demanded. "Or where the wire leads?"
"No, sir."
"Then get busy and find out!"
Weston dressed hurriedly, while his valet investigated. The valet soon
found where the wire left the closet. A hole had been bored through the
baseboard at the rear.
The wire ran along the baseboard of the sitting room beyond, concealed
beneath a narrow strip of ornamental wood beading. It must have been a slow,
careful job, one that had taken plenty of time. More than one secret intrusion
of Weston's home must have taken place. Careful timing and an exact knowledge
of the daily movements of Weston and his valet were indicated.
The contraband wire led out a rear window.
Weston and his valet traced it to a spot at the rear of the back yard.
Rain lashed at them. Neither of them were fully dressed. Their hastily-donned
clothes were soaked. Water from their dripping hair ran into their eyes.
But they discovered where the wire ended.
It ended in a dangling strand that led nowhere. The strand had been
freshly cut with a pair of sharp clippers.
A small white card was hanging to the loose end of the wire. A hole had
been punched in a corner of the card. Through the hole was a bit of white
string. The string tied the card to the soaked wire.
Weston stared at the message with helpless rage. Rain had made the ink
run, but the mockery of the single word was clear enough:
Sorry!
MR. REMORSE.
That was the end of that!
Later on, many cops arrived with plenty of flashlights and plenty of
technical experts. But they might as well not have come. They found out no
more
concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Remorse than had Weston or his valet.
Back in his bedroom, Commissioner Weston changed his soaked clothing. He
pulled on a slicker before venturing outdoors again. Automatically, his gaze
traveled toward the clock.
The time was now thirty-two minutes after midnight.
At exactly 1 a.m., a duplication of Commissioner Weston's amazing
experience was occurring at a point north of New York City. Mr. Remorse had
used his hour's leeway to do some efficient traveling.
He was talking in his womanish, high-pitched falsetto to the warden of
Sing Sing Prison!
The warden found himself awakened from sleep by the sound of a ghostly
telephone bell. It didn't come from his own instrument, the private one in his
bedroom that connected him with the head keeper of the prison.
This phone was a planted one, an instrument which the dazed warden had
never seen before. It was a new-type handset model, with the bell apparatus
concealed in the base of the instrument itself.
Mr. Remorse repeated his cool announcement that he was a reformed
criminal. Mockingly, he asked the name of a prominent New York citizen who
could help him to restore stolen money.
The warden hesitated. Then he mentioned the first name that came to his
mind. It was the name of Lamont Cranston.
There was nothing remarkable about this. Cranston fitted exactly the
specifications mentioned by the mysterious Mr. Remorse. He was independently
wealthy. He had plenty of leisure. His interest in charity and reform projects
was well known. If anyone could reassure frightened victims that his motives
in
acting as a go-between for a criminal were honest, it was Lamont Cranston.
The warden at Sing Sing, however, couldn't understand how the sneering
crook at the other end of a planted telephone wire expected to avoid capture
if
he tried to go through with his nervy plan.
"That's my business, warden!" Mr. Remorse replied.
He hung up. The line went dead. An effort to trace the call met with the
same result that had baffled Police Commissioner Weston. A grim searching
party
in the drenched flowerbeds back of the warden's cottage, found themselves
staring at a freshly-cut wire, to which a small, white card was attached,
stating:
Sorry!
MR. REMORSE.
By this time, the news of the strange happenings was beginning to seep
into newspaper offices. Reporters came buzzing like bees around the home of
Commissioner Weston. Another batch of them raced up to Sing Sing.
The rain had stopped. But the mystery grew more baffling by the hour.
That was how Mr. Remorse operated. On the hour!
There was no way to predict who would be called next. Nobody knew where
to
look, until the next alarm came through. The telephone company was going
insane.
Crews of linemen were racing through the darkness in a mad
needle-in-the-haystack quest.
Commissioner Weston's call had come through at midnight. The warden of
Sing Sing had heard the ghostly bell at 1 a.m. At 2 a.m., the third call was
made.
This time, it came to a prominent newspaper owner. The publisher of the
Daily Classic was roused from his bed.
At 3 a.m., a clergyman was drawn into the tangled web of Mr. Remorse's
grim questionnaire. He was the Rev. Andrew Dingle, one of the best known
preachers of New York.
He tried to reason with the unknown criminal. He pleaded with him, in the
name of decency and religion, to come into the open like a man, if he were
really the reformed criminal he claimed to be.
All that the Rev. Dingle received was a burst of shrill laughter. He also
found a cut wire and a mocking card.
The final telephone call was made at 4 a.m. The last man was Benedict
Stark, a prominent industrialist and banker. Stark was well known for his vast
financial holdings, his modern, well-built factories, his interest in opera!
Stark was asked the same question as the others. His answer was
immediate.
He mentioned Lamont Cranston as being a perfect intermediary for a criminal
who
wanted to do good through the aid of a reputable private citizen.
Was the whole thing a clever gag on the part of some practical joker? Or
was it in deadly earnest?
The five men who had been called could scarcely be more unlike. A police
commissioner, a prison warden, a publisher, a preacher, and a banker! Why had
Mr. Remorse gone to such extraordinary trouble to contact them in the dead of
night? Was he after some strange sort of publicity?
Whom had he victimized? And who was he?
There was only one definite in this whole whirlpool of conjecture and
mystery. It looked as if Lamont Cranston's reputation as a public-spirited
millionaire was getting him into a strange situation.
Perhaps a dangerous situation!
CHAPTER II
A STATUE WITH A HAT
ON the following morning, Lamont Cranston was seated at a desk near the
window of his room at the Cobalt Club.
Whenever Cranston was in town, he usually stayed at this exclusive
midtown
club. His room was a rear one. It afforded an unexpectedly pleasant view in
the
heart of a metropolis like New York.
The rear courtyard had been transformed into a private garden, in which
members of the club could stroll or sit whenever they chose. Right now, it was
not in use. The grass had been taken up for resodding. But the rose bushes
hadn't been disturbed.
Cranston loved roses. He glanced downward at them through his sunlit
window.
But his mind wasn't on roses this morning. He was thinking of the strange
and sensational mystery that had come to the attention of police at the stroke
of twelve on the previous night.
The desk at Cranston's elbow was heaped high with morning newspapers.
Their front pages were black with headlines concerning the unknown Mr.
Remorse.
Was he a criminal or a jokester? Did he really intend to restore loot to the
victims from whom he had previously stolen it? Why had he made such a public
announcement of his plans?
It was the biggest news story in a long time!
Lamont Cranston looked like an inoffensive gentleman, to act as a
go-between for a criminal. The five men who had suggested his name the night
before shared the general public opinion of Lamont Cranston. They knew him as
a
millionaire sportsman and a globe-trotter. They were aware of his many
charities.
But there was a grim flame in Cranston's eyes as he scanned the
newspapers
on his desk. His jaw tightened, his face seemed thinner, harder. An entirely
different personality was disclosed. The personality of The Shadow!
Lamont Cranston was The Shadow!
Millions of persons had heard of The Shadow, but few had ever come in
contact with him. Those few were criminals. All of them were now either dead
or
serving long terms in prison. The Shadow was a creature of darkness who fought
on the side of the law.
In his sunlit room at the Cobalt Club, The Shadow considered the names of
the five men whom the unknown Mr. Remorse had questioned by telephone. Four of
those names he dismissed from his mind. The fifth remained.
That final name was Benedict Stark.
It wasn't the first time that Lamont Cranston had been mixed up in a case
that involved Benedict Stark. Three times, The Shadow had encountered the
elusive traces of Stark in his battle against the forces of crime. The Shadow
had won those three battles. (Note: See "Prince of Evil." Vol. XXXIII, No. 4,
"Murder Genius," Vol. XXXIV, No. 3, "The Man Who Died Twice," Vol. XXXV, No.
2.) But each time, the master criminal against whom he fought had managed to
escape.
The name of that master of murder was Benedict Stark, the Prince of Evil!
The Shadow had knowledge of this, but no legal proof. To have accused
Stark of crime would have made Lamont Cranston a laughing-stock. Stark was one
of the richest men in America. He moved in the best society, was a friend of
most of the influential leaders of the nation.
Lamont Cranston was still sitting silently, when there came a knock at
his
door. Reporters from every paper in New York were downstairs. He had given
them
permission to interview him. They were here now.
As soon as they were admitted to the room, they fired a barrage of
questions. Cranston didn't answer those questions. Smilingly, he produced a
brief typewritten statement and read it aloud.
It expressed mystification at the peculiar events of the previous night.
Cranston had no idea who Mr. Remorse might be. He was gratified that five
prominent men should have named him as a public-spirited citizen. He couldn't
say whether he would act in the role of intermediary or not. He had been
invited to a conference at police headquarters. He was going there soon. He
thanked the newspapers for their courtesy.
And that was all.
Cranston handed out copies of his statement, and the newsmen scattered to
phone it in for the late editions. None of them bothered to trail Cranston to
police headquarters when, later, he left the Cobalt Club.
The conference at police head-quarters was to be a private one. No
reporters were allowed to enter. Commissioner Weston had made that clear.
WESTON himself greeted Lamont Cranston when he entered the commissioner's
private room in the old building on Centre Street. Weston and Lamont Cranston
were old friends.
Inspector Joe Cardona was there, too. Cardona was the ace sleuth of the
police department. Between him and Weston there was mutual confidence. When
the
police moved against the unknown Mr. Remorse, Cardona would be the spearhead
of
the attack. Cardona was also an old friend of Cranston's. He shook hands and
murmured a pleasant greeting.
But Cranston's interest centered on Benedict Stark. Stark was one of the
men who sat in the room, with self-conscious importance.
Each time Cranston met Stark he was impressed anew by the man's
incredible
physical ugliness. Some men are so ugly they become impressive. Stark was one
of
these.
His torso was powerful, broad-chested like a gorilla's. A malformation at
birth had made one of his arms shorter than the other. His head was enormously
large on a short neck. He had a jutting lower lip and eyes like bright
marbles.
Behind those small eyes was a magnificently trained brain. It was his brain
that
made Benedict Stark so dangerous.
Stark said nothing, preferring to let the others speak. But when a direct
question was asked of him, he was affable and courteous.
Weston took charge of the discussion.
"As you all know, we five men suggested the name of Lamont Cranston as a
go-between to assist an unknown criminal in restoring stolen money to his
victims. Is Cranston to accept this role, or not? Before I ask him, I'm going
to ask each of you gentlemen your opinion - and your reason for it. I'll start
with myself, because I was the first man telephoned by Mr. Remorse."
Weston took a deep breath.
"I say yes! It's the only way in which the police can get any kind of a
start, or a clue, in a case that at present is shrouded in the deepest kind of
mystery. What is your opinion, warden?"
The warden of Sing Sing nodded.
"My answer is yes, too. For the same reason you have given. I'd like to
see that criminal caught. I'd like to have him as one of my permanent boarders
up the river!"
"What about you?" Weston asked the publisher of the Daily Classic.
"Yes, by all means! First, as a duty to society. Second, because this is
the biggest news story of a decade. I want it kept alive and solved. I promise
that my paper will co-operate with the police one hundred percent."
Weston's gaze moved to the clergyman. The Rev. Andrew Dingle's face was
red. He spoke hesitantly.
"Ordinarily, I would not like to ask a man to risk his life. But if Mr.
Cranston is willing, my answer is yes. The criminal may be entirely sincere in
his... ah... unusual offer of restitution. And it will certainly help the
cause
of charity, if Mr. Remorse keeps his promise."
"Promise?" Weston growled. "What promise?"
"Why, he told me over the telephone last night that for every stolen
dollar he returns, he will match it with another dollar to be paid to any
charity Mr. Cranston may select. It's his way of repaying Mr. Cranston for any
annoyance he may be put to in acting as go-between."
"It's the first I've heard of this," Weston said with annoyance. "He made
no such offer to me. What about the rest of you?"
There was a quick chorus of denials. The Rev. Andrew Dingle's face got
redder.
"Perhaps he thought that, as a clergyman, such an offer would appeal to
my
interest in charity. And it does, gentlemen. I don't know why I didn't mention
it before. I thought I had. But Mr. Remorse did offer to match every dollar he
returns with one for charity. And so, if Mr. Cranston is willing, I say yes."
"Mr. Stark?"
"No!"
Stark spoke quietly, with a slight smile of derision. He was well aware
that he was the only man in the room to veto the plan. He was also aware of
Lamont Cranston's mild gaze.
"Why not, Mr. Stark?" Cranston asked.
"Because I don't think you ought to risk your life. You never can tell
who
this Mr. Remorse may be. He might be a criminal of considerable mental power.
He
might be a lot more intelligent than Mr. Cranston. He might even kill you, Mr.
Cranston!"
There was a sneer in the depths of Stark's eyes. So faint was it, that
Cranston was barely aware of it. But he knew a challenge had been offered to
him.
He didn't accept the challenge. He didn't even disclose that he was aware
of it. None of the other men in the room sensed the situation.
"What is your own decision, Mr. Cranston?" Stark asked suavely.
Cranston met his smile, and matched it.
"At the present moment, I haven't the faintest idea. Naturally, I'd like
to think things over at considerable length before I agree to so dangerous an
assignment. It may be several days before I can let you know, commissioner. I
wish you'd notify the newspapers to that effect. In the meantime, may I be
excused?"
He arose and shook hands. In a few moments he was downstairs and in his
trim little car, driving northward toward the Cobalt Club.
He was halfway there before he noticed the man in the gray coupe.
THE man was driving his car nimbly in and out of the whirlpools of
traffic. He was doing a good tailing job of Cranston's machine. His face was
bent low over the wheel. Cranston couldn't get much of a glimpse of him in the
rear-vision mirror.
Cranston's smile deepened. He bided his time.
When he threw on his brakes, finally, he was traveling at a good rate of
speed. The quick stop made his brakes squeal. The gray coupe almost ran into
him.
It swerved just in time and sped past his stalled car, moving at a rapid
pace. Cranston got a quick look at the man as the car shot past. He recognized
the long nose, the bumpy forehead and the pale blue eyes of the driver.
The man in the gray coupe was a well-known crook named Mike Largo.
Largo knew that Cranston was wise to him. He fled in his speedy little
car
like a scared rabbit. Cranston made no effort to pursue him. Even if he could
have overtaken Largo and forced the gray coupe to the curb, it would have done
him no good. He couldn't bring a charge against a man for following him -
except, possibly, disorderly conduct.
Cranston had no desire to force events at this time. For the present, he
was content to file away in his mind Largo's name and appearance for future
reference.
He drove at a more sedate pace to the Cobalt Club. He nodded smilingly to
the man at the desk and went up to his room. But his smile tightened as he
inserted his key in the door and entered.
Someone had been in the room during his absence!
The shade was drawn on the rear window. Cranston had not done that. He
liked the sunlight that came in from the rear garden behind the club.
Nor had Lamont Cranston placed his favorite silk hat on the marble bust
of
Cicero that stood on a pedestal in the corner.
The silk hat was perched rakishly on the statue's head. It looked like a
ridiculous prank. But Cranston sensed something more sinister than a mere joke
in the drawn shade and the misplaced hat.
He examined the silk hat, and could find no explanation. Nor was there
any
clue in the statue. It hadn't been touched, or moved an inch. Somebody with
gloves had merely taken a silk topper from Cranston's closet and placed it on
the statue.
Cranston made the only possible deduction. The silk hat had been
deliberately placed where it was now, not to draw attention to the statue, but
to draw attention to the fact that the hat had been removed from its usual
place in the closet.
Opening the closet door, Cranston took down the hat box from the shelf.
The circular lid of the box was open.
A grim look covered Cranston's face when he glanced inside. Then he
walked
with a quick step toward his bed, emptied the box on the coverlet.
Bank notes fluttered out like a green snowstorm. They made quite a pile
on
the bed. With them fluttered a white sheet of paper and a sealed envelope.
Cranston read the paper before he did anything else. It was just a
penciled list of figures, with a total amount recorded at the bottom. The
paper
was a tally sheet recording the amount of cash the hat box contained.
The sum was twenty thousand dollars!
This amount had been checked and marked as being O.K. Under the
check-mark
was a familiar name: "Mr. Remorse."
The sealed envelope was still lying where it had fallen on the pile of
loose cash. Cranston didn't pause to count the money, or to open the sealed
envelope.
He stepped quickly to the window end raised the shade. The mystery of the
unknown burglar's entry was explained.
There was no glass in the window. The pane had been removed by a glass
cutter. It was hidden on the floor behind an armchair.
CRANSTON stared down into the garden in the courtyard behind the club. He
could see the bare earth from which the grass had been removed for resodding.
He could also see the elm tree.
The elm tree was obviously how the burglar he'd climbed to Cranston's
window. A branch swept close to the rear of the building. Members of the club
were not supposed to enter the garden during repairs. But someone had. And
that
someone had made good use of his time.
Cranston placed the sealed envelope in an inner pocket. He started for
the
door. His purpose was to interview the club employee whose post was nearest
the
rear door that led to the garden.
He was grimly anxious to find out who had gone outside in spite of the
garden's temporary lack of lawn. The employee ought to be able to describe the
man. It would be impossible to enter the garden without passing him.
The sudden ring of the telephone bell changed Cranston's purpose. He
answered the call. It was from Inspector Cardona. Cardona was excited.
"I just found out something very queer, Mr. Cranston! I thought you'd
like
to know, on account of your being mixed up in this thing. The chief clerk in
charge of headquarters records has just informed me that all our files
concerning a certain criminal have vanished. His complete docket, his
photograph, fingerprints - everything! Swiped and taken away! And nobody knows
how the thing was done."
"Was it the records of a crook named Mike Largo?" Cranston asked quickly.
"Largo? No! Largo's just a small-time gunman. What made you think of
him?"
Cranston's voice became sleepy.
"I don't know why. Perhaps I saw Largo's name in the papers one time. I
really don't know much about crime, as you know."
He took a quick breath, said:
"Who was it?"
"A crook named Flasher Brown. A big-timer in the underworld. Flasher
served time for a few minor jobs years ago. Then he got smart. He went after
big swindle dough and made plenty of it. We never laid a finger on him after
that, because he was too smart to give us a chance to nail him with a rap."
"What happened to him?"
"I don't know, Mr. Cranston. Flasher dropped out of sight several months
ago. Wherever he is, he must be rotten with jack. You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I got a hunch that Flasher Brown is Mr. Remorse!"
Cranston didn't reply directly to that. It was impossible to tell whether
he agreed with Joe Cardona or not. He turned the conversation to himself. He
was so trite in his remarks, that Cardona brought the conversation to a close
and hung up.
Lamont Cranston unlocked his door. He descended to the rear foyer of the
Cobalt Club, to ask a few idle questions. Mr. Remorse's sealed envelope was
tucked away in his inner pocket.
CHAPTER III
A FRIEND AND A FOE
LAMONT CRANSTON was a popular figure with the employees of the Cobalt
Club. He was courteous and considerate. He always paid generously for special
favors. And his bonus at Christmas skipped no one. The employee on duty in the
rear foyer greeted Cranston with a respectful salute.
"I was expecting a friend of mine today," Cranston stated. "I haven't
seen
him around. Perhaps he called during my absence."
"Oh, yes, sir! He was here. He went out into the rear garden to wait. But
you were a long time returning, so he left about ten minutes a ago. He said he
had another appointment."
Cranston's eyebrows lifted.
摘要：

THEDEVIL'SPAYMASTERbyMaxwellGrantAsoriginallypublishedin"TheShadowMagazine,"November15,1940.ThePrinceofEvilandTheShadowmatchwitforwitinthisbattletothedeath!CHAPTERIVOICEINTHENIGHTPOLICECOMMISSIONERRALPHWESTONwasamanwhodidnot,asarule,awakeneasilyoncehehadfallensoundlyasleep.Hehadtrainedhisbodytorelax...

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