Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 077 - The Golden Quest

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THE GOLDEN QUEST
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE HEIR RETURNS
? CHAPTER II. THE TELEPHONE CLUE
? CHAPTER III. CROSS TRAILS
? CHAPTER IV. THE EARLY BIRD
? CHAPTER V. A DETOUR ENDS
? CHAPTER VI. THE SHADOW'S THRUST
? CHAPTER VII. ON THE LIMITED
? CHAPTER VIII. THE LODGE ON THE LAKE
? CHAPTER IX. AT THE CHALICE MINE
? CHAPTER X. THE TRAIL BELOW
? CHAPTER XI. PLOTTERS BY NIGHT
? CHAPTER XII. MOVES AT DUSK
? CHAPTER XIII. THWARTED RESCUE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE ALLIANCE
? CHAPTER XV. TRAPPED BELOW
? CHAPTER XVI. IN THE DEPTHS
? CHAPTER XVII. THE PATH TO SAFETY
? CHAPTER XVIII. DEFENDERS PREPARE
? CHAPTER XIX. RIFLES TAKE CONTROL
? CHAPTER XX. THE BIG SHOT SPEAKS
? CHAPTER XXI. THE COUNTERSTROKE
? CHAPTER XXII. DESPERATE STROKES
? CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAST SHOT
CHAPTER I. THE HEIR RETURNS
REX BRODFORD smiled as he stared from the window of his cab. Broadway lights were glimmering
with early evening brilliance. Times Square presented a kaleidoscopic luster of ever-changing
illumination.
Hurrying throngs beneath the vari-hued glow. Raucous horns; shrill whistles; the surflike roar of traffic -
all formed a symphony that symbolized New York. The medley was music to Rex Brodford. He was
back in the metropolis after years of absence.
Broadway's glare showed Rex Brodford as a young man of less than thirty. His features were large, yet
well molded. His heavy eyebrows were set beneath a broad forehead that was matched by the
squareness of his chin. Smooth-shaven, his cheeks were dark with tropical tan.
Rex Brodford looked like a man who had returned from some foreign clime. The maturity of his
sun-dyed face was evidence of the ten years that he had spent in Central America. Even his smile
betokened him as a man who had overcome hazards. For Rex Brodford's lips bore only the slightest
upward curve.
Ten years in the tropics. Rex Brodford was reviewing the past decade as the cab shot away from the
thickness of the Times Square traffic. While he watched the approaching glimmer of Columbus Circle,
the young man found himself unconsciously thinking of his own affairs.
He had not expected to come back to New York. Not until he had received that cablegram from Cyrus
Witherby, his uncle's lawyer. Ten days ago, Rex had found the message awaiting him at the American
Club in Tegucigalpa. It had announced the death of old Ezra Brodford, and had added that Rex was the
sole heir to his uncle's estate.
Uncle Ezra. To Rex, the old man had been no more than a name. He had never met his father's eldest
brother. He had never expected to be remembered in Uncle Ezra's will. Thus the news had come from an
unclouded sky. Chance - fate - whatever it might be - had decreed that Rex Brodford should return to
New York.
The cab had passed Columbus Circle. It was veering left, twisting through a puzzling maze of byways.
The glitter of an avenue; then the darkness of a side street. Another avenue; a short run down a narrow
thoroughfare that was lined with old brownstone buildings. The cab came to a stop.
Rex Brodford alighted. He looked up toward a dully lighted transom above a heavy door at the top of
brownstone steps. He saw the number that he had given the driver. He had arrived at the home of his
deceased uncle.
TAXI paid, Rex ascended the steps and rang a bell. A faraway clang answered. The door popped open;
Rex Brodford faced a dry-faced servant, who viewed him with an air of semi-suspicion. Rex announced
his name.
"Ah! Mr. Brodford!" The servant bowed in menial fashion, as he stepped back into the vestibule. "Step
right in, sir. I had not expected you so soon."
"Your name is Firth?" questioned Rex, as he stepped into the house.
"Yes, sir," acknowledged the servant, his voice a trifle wheezy. "Your uncle's servant, Mr. Brodford."
"So I understand," stated Rex. He extended his hand. "I am glad to meet you, Firth. Tell me, is Mr.
Witherby here?"
"Yes, sir," wheezed Firth, "and also Mr. Laspar. Mr. Cortland Laspar, an old friend of your uncle's. Step
right this way, Mr. Brodford."
Firth conducted Rex toward the rear of a long hall. They came to a doorway where light glimmered from
beyond heavy curtains. Firth drew one drapery aside.
Rex Brodford entered the room. He found himself in a book-walled library, where two men were
engaged in conversation.
Both rose to greet the newcomer. One man stalked forward. Tall, stoop-shouldered, he thrust forward a
long, clawlike hand and displayed a smile upon a lean face that was topped by a glistening bald head.
Rex Brodford knew that this must be Cyrus Witherby, his uncle's lawyer.
Witherby cackled his own introduction. Then the lawyer turned to indicate the other man. Rex Brodford
shook hands with a round-faced, gray-haired gentleman who wore a quiet, friendly smile.
"This is Mr. Laspar," introduced Witherby. "Mr. Cortland Laspar, who has lumber interests in Michigan.
An old friend of your Uncle Ezra. One of the last to see your uncle before he died."
Witherby's tone had struck a note of solemnity. The lawyer motioned Rex to a chair. The young man sat
down and the others followed suit. Witherby reached beside his chair and drew up a portfolio.
"Let us come to business first," decided the lawyer. "Mr. Laspar is leaving New York tonight; and I want
him to know the details of your uncle's will before his departure. You see" - Witherby paused to adjust a
pair of pince-nez spectacles to his nose - "your uncle named administrators in case you did not claim the
estate. Mr. Laspar is one of them."
"One of those who will not be called upon," inserted Laspar, with a genial chuckle. "Your arrival, Rex,
lets half a dozen of your uncle's friends avoid the duty of giving funds to charity. As the will now stands,
all of your uncle's estate goes to you."
"Unless Rex should refuse it," added Witherby. "That is why Mr. Laspar and the other administrators
should know the details of the legacy."
"I understand," declared Rex, with a smile. "But since the estate was intended for me, I choose to accept
it."
"Quite naturally," agreed Witherby. He was referring to the papers that he had taken from the portfolio.
"Here is everything for your inspection. If you wish, I can give you a brief resume of the items
concerned."
"All right," nodded Rex.
"CONSERVATIVELY totaled," obliged Witherby, in a dry cackle, "the estate will bring a trifle upward
of fifty thousand dollars. That includes real estate and salable securities. Less mortgages and inheritance
tax."
"Fifty thousand dollars," mused Rex. "Quite a considerable sum, Mr. Witherby. Less, though, than I
supposed my uncle's estate would be."
"Quite right," agreed Witherby. "And this sheet explains the answer. Your uncle, Rex, was very
unfortunate in his investments. He tossed away nearly half a million dollars in worthless projects.
"For instance" - the lawyer leaned over and pointed to items on the list - "he invested fifty thousand
dollars in Montana Shale. That company went bankrupt. Here is an item of forty thousand dollars.
Calgary Oil. Another defunct corporation.
"These stock certificates, you understand, will be delivered to you. But I have investigated all of them and
I can assure you that they are worthless. Here" - the lawyer ran his finger down the list - "is the most
unfortunate of the lot. An item of two hundred thousand dollars. The controlling interest in the Quest Gold
Mine."
"Another dead company?" inquired Rex.
"Yes," replied Witherby. "Just one more of your uncle's unfortunate mistakes. Of course, Rex, I shall
expect you to look into these investments for yourself. It is only right that you should assure yourself of
their worthlessness. I hope that you will not be too critical of your uncle's mistakes."
"Why should I be?" returned Rex promptly. "It was Uncle Ezra's money. He had the right to invest it as
he chose. I always understood, though, that my uncle was a keen old chap. This one item, in particular,
interests me: the Quest Gold Mine. Even the name savors of adventure: You say that this company also
failed?"
"Not exactly," replied Witherby. "It still exists - on paper. But I can assure you that the Quest Gold Mine
offers no possibilities, despite the fact that your uncle had hopes for it up until the very day of his death."
Rex Brodford raised his eyebrows questioningly. Before Cyrus Witherby could reply, Cortland Laspar
leaned forward in his chair.
"I can tell you about the Quest Gold Mine," volunteered the gray-haired man. "I, too, invested in it.
Twenty-five thousand dollars, some thirty years ago, when it appeared to be a good gamble.
"Then funds failed" - Laspar paused reminiscently - "and the Quest mine was abandoned. Ten years -
twelve years - passed. The mine was forgotten. The company needed funds, in order to exist as a
corporation. Your uncle prevailed upon me to supply them."
"You bought more stock?" queried Rex, in surprise.
"No," replied Laspar, "I simply purchased the timber rights to the land on which the Quest mine is
located. The tract borders on Lake Chalice, in Michigan. I bought some acreage on the opposite side of
the lake and started a lumber camp there. I have been paying for the timber rights to the Quest mine
tract; but as yet, I have not begun to clear it."
"Then the mine might be worked again?"
"Not a chance of it! The very site of the shaft is gone. My foresters, surveying the ground less than a year
ago, could find no trace of it. Somewhere, lost in an area of several hundred acres, is the forgotten shaft
of the closed mine."
Witherby nodded in corroboration of Laspar's statement. Rex Brodford was about to speak when
Laspar forestalled him.
"I KNOW what you are thinking," remarked the lumber magnate, with a smile. "It would still be possible
to excavate in hope of striking the old shaft. But that would be a costly process; and furthermore, recent
events would prove it useless."
"Recent events?" queried Rex.
"Yes," nodded Laspar. "A few years ago, a new company purchased a large acreage adjoining the
property of the Quest mine. This new concern - called the Chalice Gold Mine - has spent a fortune
digging a shaft of its own. No results were gained, and the mine fell into the hands of shrewd swindlers
who have been selling worthless stock.
"One man" - Laspar shook his head sadly at the thought - "even came to me with his worthless
proposition. This fellow was a rascal named Jubal. He was calling on the old purchasers of Quest stock,
trying to sell them shares in the Chalice mine. He had the nerve to think that people who had been foolish
once would be foolish always."
"Suckers often bite twice," cackled Witherby.
"Thank you," chuckled Laspar blandly. "I was one who did not. I practically threw this swindler Jubal out
of my office. He never returned after that one visit. As for the Chalice mine, it is on the edge of failure.
The company burrowed shaft after shaft without digging up a lump of pay dirt."
"Which proves," suggested Rex, "that the territory about Lake Chalice has no gold."
"No," said Laspar, "not entirely. Some worthwhile ore was mined in the old Quest mine during the early
days of its operation. Yet the mine failed. Cold facts prove the inadvisability of new attempts in that
district."
As he finished speaking, Laspar glanced at his watch. He replaced the timepiece in his pocket and
stepped to a corner where his hat and coat were lying.
"Almost train time," the gray-haired man commented. He extended his hand to Rex Brodford. "I am
leaving; but I hope to see you again in the near future. Should you find opportunity to come out to
Michigan, visit me at my lodge on Lake Chalice."
"And look over the Quest mine land?" laughed Rex.
"Yes," responded Laspar. "The surface of it, at least, is under my jurisdiction. You will be free to roam
the timber land as you please."
Laspar shook hands with Witherby. Rex and the lawyer accompanied the lumber magnate to the door.
Firth appeared and started ahead, stating that he would call a cab. Laspar shook his head, remarking that
he would have sufficient time to walk to the avenue.
WITH Laspar gone, Rex and Witherby returned to the library. The attorney began to go over the items
in the lists of the estate. He noticed that Rex was not attending. Witherby spoke sharply, almost
querulously.
"Perhaps we should leave these matters until later," was his sour comment. The lawyer arose as he spoke
and shoved the papers back into the portfolio. "Come to my office, after I have talked with the other
administrators. I can then supply you with funds from the estate."
"Sorry, Mr. Witherby," returned Rex, following the lawyer through the curtained door. "I was thinking of
a matter that we had mentioned. It occupied my full thoughts."
"The Quest Gold Mine?" Witherby's sharp query came when they had reached the hall.
"Yes," admitted Rex. "Mr. Witherby, I have a hunch that my uncle was right concerning that investment.
It is worth investigating."
Witherby was picking up hat and coat; his garments had been left on the hall table.
"Folly runs in your family," cackled the old lawyer. "The fortune you have gained is a slender one. Yet I
presume you will be ready to waste it in following your uncle's hopeless schemes."
"The scheme may not be so hopeless," Rex said slowly. "It is my feeling that I may be following a
well-laid plan of my uncle's."
Firth had entered the hallway. The dry-faced servant was standing by the curtained door to the library.
Neither Rex nor Witherby noted his watching.
"I intend to go to Michigan," decided Rex. "Unless I decide to change my plans, I shall leave late
tomorrow night."
"No funds will be available," warned Witherby.
"I can collect them later," returned Rex. "We shall arrange that tomorrow, at your office. I have money of
my own for the present."
"You intend to look for the lost shaft of the Quest mine?"
"Exactly! Furthermore, I expect to find it."
"You will waste your legacy -"
"Not by a one-man search."
Firth, standing in the hallway, was reaching for a telephone. Plucking the instrument from a table, the
servant stepped through the curtains into the library, carrying the long extension cord with him.
Rex and Witherby had reached the outer door. Neither had observed the servant's action.
As Rex opened the door, Witherby plucked a gold-headed cane from an umbrella rack. With this last
item of equipment added to hat and coat, the stoop-shouldered lawyer was prepared to leave. But as he
stood on the brownstone door sill, Witherby could not refrain from caustic comment.
"SUIT yourself, young man," he snorted. "Be like your uncle. Refuse to follow wise advice. Waste your
legacy, if you choose, but never say that I did not warn you.
"That stock of yours is in safe-keeping, worthless though it is. You hold the controlling interest in the
Quest Gold Mine. That, however, is your misfortune."
"Just what would you advise?" questioned Rex, as Witherby paused.
"To forget it!" snapped Witherby. "Unless you could rid yourself of that idiotic investment. At two cents
on the dollar, a sale of Quest mine stock would be a profitable transaction. But no fool would offer you
such a proposition."
Rex Brodford smiled as he extended his hand. Old Witherby accepted the farewell shake; then turned
about, mumbling, and strode down the steps, leaning heavily on his cane.
Rex watched the lawyer click away along the sidewalk. Witherby, too, was heading for the avenue.
Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, the young man reentered the house.
Firth was stepping from the living room as Rex closed the door. Quickly, the servant replaced the
telephone upon the table; then stepped aside as Rex approached.
The young man did not observe Firth's action. Nor did he do more than scarcely notice the servant. For
Rex, musingly drawing a cigarette from his pocket, was lost in thought as he strolled back into the
curtained library.
Rex Brodford was thinking of his plan to visit Michigan, there to begin a search for the lost shaft of the
Quest Gold Mine. Firth knew the trend of his new master's thought. That fact was plain by the twisted
smile that appeared upon the servant's parchment-like features.
For Firth had already profited by learning Rex Brodford's intention. He had made a prompt call by
telephone, without Rex's knowledge. A step had been made toward the culmination of some hidden,
insidious scheme.
That smile which slowly faded from the lips of Firth boded ill for Rex Brodford and his future plans.
CHAPTER II. THE TELEPHONE CLUE
AT half past four the next afternoon, a sallow-faced man was standing by the window of a lofty hotel
room, looking idly out across Manhattan. With eyes that blinked beady from between slitted lids; with
dark, pointed mustache trimmed to a thin line, this individual exhibited a shrewd appearance.
From the gloating smile that showed upon his pasty lips, the sallow man would have impressed an
observer as being a schemer deluxe. Alone in this room, he had no reason to veil his true type. Craftiness
showed unrestricted on his jaundice-tinged countenance.
This man was James Jubal, star promoter of the fading Chalice Gold Mine. He was the swindler whom
Cortland Laspar had mentioned to Rex Brodford, less than twenty-four hours ago.
Retaining his distorted smile, Jubal ran long-nailed fingers through a crop of sleek, black hair. He
chuckled with contempt as he viewed the pygmy figures of the throngs in the streets below. James Jubal
was a man with but little human sympathy. People, to him, were nothing more than potential victims for
sharp double-dealing.
A telephone bell tingled. Jubal turned from the window and picked up the instrument. He raised the
receiver, then spoke in a silky purr that he used in usual conversation.
"This is James Jubal speaking..."
A wheezy voice interrupted across the wire. Jubal recognized it. His purring tone ended. He spoke
quickly, in terse, brusque phrases:
"Yes, Firth..." Jubal was talking to old Ezra Brodford's servant. "You say he is back... Yes, a visit to the
lawyer... I see. You're calling from a drug store... Go ahead... Yes, tell me more...
"You told me last night that young Brodford might go to Michigan... What's that? You're sure he is going?
I see... Bought his ticket and reservations this afternoon... That's news, all right... Midnight train, you
say..."
A pause. Firth's voice wheezed in Jubal's ear. The swindler listened; then gave brief instructions.
"I'll call young Brodford myself," he announced. "Yes... Right away... Yes, you go back to the house... I'll
make an appointment for this evening... Yes, you be ready to cooperate... All right, Firth, give me the
number..."
JUBAL listened; while he did so, he picked up a pencil from the table and made a notation on a pad that
was attached to the telephone. He ended his call with Firth. Then Jubal jiggled the hook for the operator.
Receiving an answer, he repeated the telephone number that Firth had given him.
A minute passed. Then came a voice. The tone was a quiet, easy "Hello." Jubal began to speak in his
accustomed purr.
"Hello..." Jubal smiled as he spoke. "Mr. Brodford? Mr. Rex Brodford? My name is Jubal, James Jubal.
Dealer in investments. Gold mines, in particular. I want to talk to you about an excellent offering...
"Chalice Gold Mines is the security that I am selling... A Michigan venture... What's that? No, no... You
have been misinformed, Mr. Brodford. The Chalice mine is located in an ideal district...
"The Quest Gold Mine? Certainly, I have heard of it... Yes, I know that you hold stock in the Quest
mine... Yes, that is how I learned your name... Suppose, Mr. Brodford, that we get together and talk
over the matter of mines in Michigan. It will prove to your advantage.
"Yes, tonight would be excellent... I can be there by half past ten... Your address? Perhaps you had
better give it to me. I would prefer to call at your home... Certainly, to be free from disturbance..."
Jubal made new notations on his pad. He marked down the address of the Brodford residence and
added the note "10:30 p.m.;" then, in suave fashion, the promoter concluded the telephone call.
The smile that appeared upon Jubal's lips showed that the swindler was counting heavily upon his
appointment with Rex Brodford.
A rap sounded at the door of the room. Jubal twisted about, nervously. He shot a suspicious glance
toward the barrier; then laughed slightly. He strolled over and opened the door. A young man was
standing in the hallway.
JUBAL eyed the visitor. He saw a keen-looking chap of about thirty, a man who looked prosperous and
clean-cut. The promoter's beady eyes encountered a frank gaze.
"Mr. James Jubal?" inquired the arrival, in a steady but affable tone.
"Yes," returned Jubal.
"I am Harry Vincent," announced the young man, extending his hand. "I tried to call you from the lobby,
but your telephone was busy -"
"Step right in, Mr. Vincent," exclaimed Jubal, receiving the handshake. "Over here. Take the chair by the
window. I had forgotten that you might drop in today.
"Well, Vincent" - Jubal added the comment as he produced a cigar from his pocket - "it is indeed a
pleasure to meet you. At last, we have been able to get together. But I have bad news for you."
"Regarding the Chalice mine stock?" inquired the visitor.
"Yes," replied Jubal. "I have been unable to acquire any more shares. There are absolutely none on the
market!"
"That's odd, Mr. Jubal. My friend Mann assured me that a purchase would be possible."
"Mann is a conservative investment broker. He is not familiar with stocks of the Chalice mine type. You
understand, of course, that the Chalice mine is a speculative venture?"
"I do. But I was certain that shares still remained unsold. Mann said -"
"Mann probably said that shares were available. In a sense, he is right. Much of the Chalice mine stock is
unsold. But" - Jubal paused emphatically - "those particular shares are under option. They can not be
acquired until released by the option holders."
Harry Vincent nodded his understanding.
"This very afternoon" - Jubal spread his arms in a gesture of despair - "I talked to three option holders,
begging them to release shares that were wanted by customers such as you. They refused me. Every one
of them refused me!" Jubal pounded his right fist against his left palm. "All three said that they intended to
exert their options; moreover, they announced that they were in the market for further shares, could I
obtain them."
"The Chalice mine must be a good proposition," observed Harry.
"It is," assured Jubal. "One that has been retarded, I must admit; but that happens frequently with mining
projects. Flooded shafts; ruined equipment; transportation difficulties - all took heavy toll. But those
expenditures will be recuperated. I have faith in the Chalice Gold Mine. Real faith, Mr. Vincent."
JUBAL sleeked back his hair. He engaged in momentary meditation, while Harry eyed him in quiet
fashion.
Glancing about, Jubal looked toward the telephone. He spied the pad on which he had written Rex
Brodford's telephone number and address, with the time of appointment.
Stepping over, Jubal tore the top sheet from the pad. He glanced at it and nodded. Harry could see the
promoter reading comments; but the paper was turned so that only Jubal noted the markings. Jubal
folded the paper and thrust it into his vest pocket.
"A long-distance call," he remarked. "I must make it at once, Mr. Vincent. To Chicago. Suppose you
remain here while I go downstairs."
Harry started to rise from his chair by the window. Jubal stopped him.
"No, no," assured the promoter, "do not misunderstand me. It would be quite all right for you to listen in
on the call. But in order to keep my personal expense accounts straight, so they will not be added to the
hotel bill, I like to pay cash for my phone calls.
"That is why I prefer to go downstairs to a public pay station. I shall not be more than ten minutes. I can
call from the drug store in the next block. Make yourself quite at home, Mr. Vincent."
With this, Jubal made a prompt departure, leaving Harry Vincent puffing at his cigar. As soon as Jubal
had gone, a grim smile showed on the visitor's steady lips.
Harry Vincent had been seeking James Jubal with a definite purpose. Ostensibly a young New Yorker
with a private income, Harry actually played a hidden but adventurous role. He was an agent of The
Shadow. A secret aid to an amazing master who battled all undercurrents of crime.
The Shadow had learned of James Jubal. He knew that the suave man was a swindler. The Shadow had
delegated Harry Vincent to contact with Jubal and learn the details of the fake promoter's game. Harry
had started his appointed task.
He had made a mistake in the beginning. By way of introduction to Jubal - through correspondence -
Harry had mentioned the name of Rutledge Mann, a New York investment broker.
Mann, like Harry, was a secret agent of The Shadow.
Jubal did not suspect that fact. But Jubal did know that Mann was a dealer in reputable securities. The
swindler had therefore suspected that Harry Vincent might be out to trap him. To counteract Harry's
efforts, Jubal had been cagey in all his references to the Chalice Gold Mine.
Jubal did not want Harry Vincent on the "sucker list." Harry knew it. But he was making the best of a
bad beginning, seeking to lull Jubal. Harry had managed this visit as his first actual meeting with the
swindler.
Fifteen minutes passed. Harry had finished his cigar. Jubal had not returned.
The telephone bell jingled. It repeated. Harry answered it. He heard Jubal's voice.
"Mr. Vincent?" Jubal's purr was smooth across the wire. "Sorry to have kept you waiting. Listen, old
man; I have to go to Chicago. Just time to catch the next train. I've just checked out, downstairs."
"Wait for me in the lobby," suggested Harry.
"I can't," protested Jubal. "The cab is waiting. Call me next week, old fellow. Good-by."
THE receiver clicked at the other end. Harry Vincent hung up his own telephone. He smiled sourly. He
looked about the room, opened a closet door, and saw emptiness. No trace of luggage. James Jubal
must have checked all his belongings downstairs.
The rogue had pulled a stall. Harry knew it and felt disgruntled. He should have suspected the game in
the beginning; but Jubal had pulled it smoothly. The swindler had dropped Harry like a hot potato.
Chicago? Harry shook his head. That city would not be Jubal's destination. Perhaps the man intended to
remain in New York. If there were only some trace of Jubal's real objective, this investigation would not
be a total failure.
A thought struck Harry Vincent. The Shadow's agent went to the telephone and examined the pad. He
saw marks on the upper sheet: the piece of paper that had been directly beneath the one which Jubal had
torn away.
Harry took the pad and carried it to the window. The tracing was illegible; nevertheless, it was the only
clue. Finding an envelope, Harry inserted the pad, pocketed it and picked up hat and coat. He strolled
from the hotel room.
TWENTY minutes later, Harry Vincent entered the inner office of a suite that was located high in the
towering Badger Building. Seated at a mahogany desk, Harry found a chubby-faced man who extended
a hand in lethargic fashion. This gentleman was Rutledge Mann.
Briefly, Harry told of his visit to Jubal's. Mann listened; then stared reflectively from the window, eyeing
the pinnacles of Manhattan's sky line. Then Mann turned and spoke in deliberate fashion.
"It was a mistake," he granted, "to mention my name. Jubal realized that I would not have sent a customer
to him. However, the damage has been done. I shall forward your report."
"And this goes with it," put in Harry, extending the envelope that contained the pad.
"Yes," agreed Mann. "And in the meantime, Vincent, remain at your own hotel."
Harry Vincent took his leave.
Rutledge Mann found a ready sheet of paper and used a fountain pen to inscribe a message in ink of vivid
blue. This writing was in code. Mann allowed the ink to dry; then folded the sheet promptly and inserted
it in an envelope. With it he placed the pad that Harry had brought.
It was after half past five. Mann arose, left his office, and took an elevator to the street. There he entered
a taxi and rode to Twenty-third Street. Dusk was settling as the chubby-faced investment broker
approached an old, dilapidated building.
Mann entered the antiquated structure and ascended a flight of rickety stairs. He followed a dingy
hallway and stopped in front of a secluded door. Upon a grimy glass panel appeared the name:
B. JONAS
摘要：

THEGOLDENQUESTMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEHEIRRETURNS?CHAPTERII.THETELEPHONECLUE?CHAPTERIII.CROSSTRAILS?CHAPTERIV.THEEARLYBIRD?CHAPTERV.ADETOURENDS?CHAPTERVI.THESHADOW'STHRUST?CHAPTERVII.ONTHELIMITED?CHAPTERVIII.THELODGEONTHELAKE?CHAPTERIX.A...

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