“I am The Crime Master.” Ganford chuckled gleefully. “My aim in life is wealth — possession. Once I was known as a giant among financiers.
“Then my practices were declared illegal. Why? Not justly, but because my ways of accumulating wealth were too gigantic. In five years longer, I would have become the overlord of merged industries. I would have commanded billions — not mere millions.
“I was prevented. So I went back to millions. Preposterous laws had been passed to stop my plans for pyramiding wealth. So I resolved to proceed in defiance of the law. The barriers were down, so far as I was concerned. I spent thousands upon thousands in organizing crime. To-day, I am The Crime Master!”
The old man was approaching Weston as he spoke. He fairly spat the final words into the commissioner’s face. Then, with a sweep of his hands, he ordered Woodling to new duty as he pointed a scrawny finger toward his new prisoner.
“Take him away!” shrilled Dagron. “Take him away! Keep him safely, Woodling. He is my hostage.”
The old man’s mirth trailed into a maddened cackle. Derisively, The Crime Master voiced the triumph of his capture. The chief official of the law was in his power. Already, minions had sent in the report of The Shadow’s trapping.
AFTER Woodling had marched Weston from the room, Ganford Dagron settled in his chair behind the checkered table. As he surveyed the layout for his coming game, he spoke aloud to Henley.
“The police may visit us,” chuckled The Crime Master. “But what if they do? You, Henley, will remain out of sight. I shall tell them that I have no secretary. They will believe that my name was used as a lure.
“That is the advantage, Henley, of my reputation. The police! Bah! Outside of Cardona, who is still disabled, and this man Weston, who is my prisoner, there is none among them who would have brains enough to doubt my integrity. The proof? We had it tonight — when Weston, himself, came to visit me.
“As for this crime” — the old man waved his hand above the board — “the very stupendousness of it serves as a protection. Compared with the Impregnable Trust Company’s vault room, that of the Titan Trust was a toy bank. Moreover, we are dealing with heavy metal, Henley. The very weight of those platinum bars should render them safe from ordinary robbers.”
Again, the old man cackled. He tapped the white pieces on the board; the reminder caused him to loose final derision toward the law.
“Fools!” he exclaimed. “They know that The Crime Master is mighty — that he must possess a wizard’s brain such as my own. Yet they will not suspect me. They know that The Crime Master pursues mighty schemes; but they will overlook the one opportunity for unparalleled robbery — that wealth in the vault of the Impregnable Trust.
“No one would suspect either fact!” The Crime Master paused; a cunning smile showed on his evil face. “Yes — there is one who would suspect. One — The Shadow. But he is helpless within my mesh!”
While Henley, first of The Crime Master’s own aids, was harkening to the babbling of his chief, Woodling, the second trusted servant, was listening to palaver of a different sort. Woodling had imprisoned Weston in a cell-like room beneath his master’s library.
Behind a wicketed door, the commissioner was speaking to his jailer. He was studying the hard face of the servant while he presented persuasive argument. Weston had classed Ganford Dagron, The Crime Master, as a grasping miser. He was basing his plea to Woodling on the offer of cash.
“Here is a check” — Weston paused to draw book and pen from his pocket — “that will be cashed without question. It is my first payment for my release. Do you understand?”
Woodling nodded while Weston scrawled.
“I do not ask to be released tonight,” resumed the commissioner. “To-morrow will be soon enough — after you have obtained your money. Take it to the bank; they will pay you five thousand.”
He handed the check through the wicket. Woodling nodded as he read the amount.
“Then return,” ordered Weston. “I shall have another check — the next one for ten thousand. It will be yours the moment that I am free.
“Keep me here until late to-morrow afternoon. That will lull this fiend you call your master — the man whom you must cease to serve. Remember, I guarantee you immunity from the law, if you will do your part to aid me in combating crime. Do you understand?”
“To-morrow.” Woodling nodded. “I cash this check. I receive another. Ten thousand. I understand.”
The Crime Master’s minion departed. Commissioner Weston seated himself on a small cot. A smile appeared beneath his trim mustache.
Weston was confident that he had succeeded with his bribe. By to-morrow night, he felt sure, he would be free to thwart The Crime Master’s greatest robbery.
CHAPTER XIX
FORCES PREPARE
SHORTLY before five o’clock the next afternoon, a quiet, chubby-faced man was seated by the window of an inner office. High above uptown Manhattan, he was gazing complacently at the hazy sky-line of the great city.
“Mr. Burke is here, Mr. Mann.”
A stenographer had entered. The chubby-faced man nodded. He ordered the girl to admit the visitor. A keen-visaged chap of wiry build appeared. He nodded to Mann and took a chair beside the desk.
Men of a totally different type, these two were in the same service. Rutledge Mann, easy-going investment broker; Clyde Burke, enterprising reporter of the New York Classic — both were agents of The Shadow.
Where Mann served in passive capacity, as information gainer and contact maker, Burke, like Marsland and Vincent, belonged on the firing line. Each, however, was important. This fact was about to prove itself.
Rutledge Mann produced an envelope. He handed it to Clyde Burke. The reporter opened it to find a message in code. He read the blue-inked lines; then the writing faded. Such was the way with The Shadow’s messages. They disappeared after short contact with the air.
Clyde Burke nodded as he looked toward Rutledge Mann. It was plain that the investment broker had received a message similar to his own. They were free to discuss the subject.
“These clippings impressed me.” Mann drew printed items from his desk. “They are duplicates of the ones I forwarded. That Colombian platinum, Burke, offers great opportunity for criminals.”
“Provided they can get it,” agreed Burke, grimly. “I have made a final search of the back files at the Classic. I find — as I intimated in my last report through you — that the shipment from Colombia was arranged several months ago.”
“Then people in New York would have easily gained knowledge of it—”
“Yes. Here is the situation, Mann. Certain European governments require platinum. Russia controls almost the entire European output. Purchasers in the countries that have no trade agreement with the Soviet government must look elsewhere.
“Colombia produces platinum. A New York Syndicate arranged to purchase this vast supply. They are holding the metal to sell in Europe. Most of it is already ordered; small shipments are to begin before the end of this week.”
Mann nodded.
“So far as crime is concerned,” asserted Burke, “it is a natural. And yet—”
“No one would suspect it.”
“Exactly. That is, the police would not suspect it. But—”
Mann smiled. He and Burke, as agents of The Shadow, had been trained to look for situations such as this. They had both been informed by The Shadow of The Crime Master’s power and ways. Separately, they had been seeking to find indications of crime possibilities. Millions in platinum, despite the supposed security of the precious metal, would be an incentive to The Crime Master.