WIZARD OF CRIME
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 15, 1939.
Wizard of Crime - he challenges the blazing guns of The Shadow!
CHAPTER I
LUCK OF A SORT
IT was five o'clock, the end of a very gloomy afternoon. Ralph Atgood took
a long, final look at the rows of empty desks in the large office of the defunct
Art Imprint Corp. They had been vacant for a month, those desks, and to Ralph,
who had come here daily to clean up left-over business, the place had the
aspect of a morgue.
All of Ralph's fellow workers were gone; some, fortunately, to new jobs.
But Ralph, though he had been given an extra month of work at half salary, was
the hardest hit of the lot. All his hopes and ambitions had been tied up with
Art Imprint. As secretary to the president, old Mr. Carruthers, Ralph had
actually looked forward to becoming a junior partner.
Until the fatal day when Carruthers, tempted by a large offer from a rival
concern, had sold out his entire business. He had sailed for Europe, to spend
his remaining years on the Riviera, and in place of a junior partnership,
Carruthers had given Ralph a very lovely letter, recommending him to all the
world at large.
So far, the letter of recommendation had produced no offers that Ralph
could not have obtained without it. Jobs were open, yes; but none that Ralph
could afford to take without giving up the greatest hope of all: his chance of
marrying Alicia Weylan.
The phone bell was ringing, but Ralph left without answering it. He knew
that it was probably Alicia, calling up to insist that she would marry him
whether he had a job or not. But that simply wouldn't do. Alicia's father was
wealthy, and would class Ralph as a fortune hunter - unless Ralph had an actual
job as good as the one that he had just lost.
Money, of course, would help. Ralph was thinking in such terms as he
stalked along the rain-swept street toward the subway. He had saved some cash,
and if he only had a thousand dollars more, he could go into business on his
own, which ought to satisfy old Carter J. Weylan. Alicia's father had started
his huge patent-medicine business on a small amount of capital; perhaps Ralph
could get somewhere with art prints.
He couldn't risk it, though, without that added thousand dollars. Ralph
had gone over the figures often enough to know.
AT the change booth in the subway, Ralph's thoughts switched suddenly from
dollars to nickels. The shift came when a drunk bumped into him and sent a
handful of change scattering from Ralph's fist. Mumbling apologies, the fellow
tried to help Ralph pick up the rolling coins, but barely managed to hang on to
a nickel of his own.
His money gathered, Ralph grinned and started the staggery man through the
turnstile ahead of him. The stumble-bum managed to keep his footing going down
the steps, where Ralph grabbed him, near the track edge, just as an uptown
express roared in beside the platform.
Reeling into the crowded car along with Ralph, the drunk clamped a hand
upon the young man's shoulder. Thrusting a puffy, bearded face close to
Ralph's, the drunk gave a bleary-eyed stare and announced:
"You're a good guy! Yessir! A good guy -"
Acknowledging the approval, Ralph listened to the drunk repeat it. The
fellow tried to get confidential, but his conversation invariably failed, until
the express was nearing Forty-second Street. That was when the drunk managed to
get an envelope out of his pocket. It was a long envelope, and quite thick;
Ralph noticed the scrawled address on it: "R. G. Dean, 310 Harmon Bldg., New
York."
"D'liver it for me, will you, good guy?" - the bleary-eyed man pitched, as
the train stopped - "an' don't tell 'em I was drunk. Wouldn't like to hear it."
He shook his head sadly. "No, R. G. wouldn't like to hear that Jerry was
plastered.
"I wouldn't hurt R. G., no sir, I wouldn't! He's a good guy, like you. So
take this to him" - the drunk pushed the envelope into Ralph's hands - "before
With a sudden stagger, the fellow went through the door just before it
slid shut. A few seconds later, the express was under way.
With a shrug, Ralph glanced at the envelope; noting that it was unsealed,
he lifted the flap to see what it contained. Only the rattle of the subway
train drowned the exclamation that came to Ralph's lips.
Looking about, Ralph saw that no one was noticing him. Shifting the
envelope close to the door, he lifted the flap farther. He was right; the green
that he had seen inside was currency, and he hadn't been mistaken about the
denominations of the bills.
They were hundred-dollar bills, twenty in all. Twice the sum that Ralph
Atgood so badly wanted, placed in his hands by a drunken stranger who would
probably forget him - for delivery to a man named R. G. Dean, who had probably
never heard of Ralph!
WHILE Ralph Atgood was making his astonishing discovery, the drunk who had
left the train at Forty-second Street was performing in a singular fashion of
his own. Instead of boarding a local train, he discarded his reeling gait,
hurried up the steps to the street and hopped into the first cab that he saw.
In a voice no longer thick, he told the driver to take him to the Harmon
Building only a few blocks east.
Arrived there, the man unlocked the door of an office that bore the number
310; beneath it, the rather cryptic legend:
R. G. DEAN
Representative
Inside the office, the ex-drunk hung his battered hat and shabby overcoat
in the closet. Peeling off coat, vest, and ragged necktie, he stepped into an
alcove where there was a mirror and a washstand. He began to shave, smoothly
but rapidly, and when he had sleeked his hair and eyebrows, he bore but little
resemblance to the whisker-stubbled drunk.
Instead of keeping his chin shoved forward and lower lip outthrust, the
sleek man let both return to normal. For a finishing touch, he put on a lavish
necktie, fancy vest, and well-fitted frock coat. His long face quite solemn,
the transformed man seated himself at a mahogany desk and waited.
Someone tried the door, found it locked; stepping from the desk, the sleek
man opened the door and looked into the hallway. He was confronted by a very
earnest-looking young chap, who happened to be the man that he expected: Ralph
Atgood.
The man in the office gave no sign of recognition. His eyes, feigning
query, noted that Ralph was quite deceived by the transformation. Ralph's
question proved it:
"Are you Mr. Dean?"
"No. I am Frederick Glenny" - the sleek man's tone was a purred contrast
to the thick speech he has used a while before - "but I manage Mr. Dean's
transactions when he is absent. Step right in, Mr.
-"
Ralph supplied his name, and handed Glenny the envelope. Even before he
opened it, Glenny shook his head.
"From Jerry Vorden," he said. "One of the inventors that Mr. Dean has
helped. When he collects royalties, Jerry insists on paying us half, to show
his gratitude. Of course, we use the money to assist others who are struggling
for scientific recognition."
The facts interested Ralph. Apparently, R. G. Dean was a philanthropist
who helped worthy persons, and used the term "Representative" to make them feel
more independent. The way Glenny tossed the money into a desk drawer proved that
his office handled large amounts.
When Glenny asked how Ralph had happened to bring the money, the young man
told his story, softening the description of Jerry's drunken condition.
"That explains much," declared Glenny. "Sometimes Jerry has said that he
sent us the money, but could not remember how or when. Not having received it,
we assumed that he had actually spent it. Since we regard the money as his, not
ours, we made no inquiry.
"From what you tell me, it is obvious that he gave those sums to
strangers, who simply kept the money. Which proves" - Glenny's eyes fixed
steadily on Ralph - "that you are a singularly honest person. Might I inquire
For reply, Ralph produced the letter that old Carruthers had given him. It
was phrased in such glowing terms that other readers had probably discounted it.
But the recommendation seemed to make a strong impression upon Frederick Glenny,
which did not surprise Ralph at all, considering his prompt delivery of Jerry's
two thousand dollars.
"I can use a man of your caliber," declared Glenny, promptly. "It happens
that I am going out of town and will need someone to take care of
correspondence, delivery of important packages, and such matters."
"From this office?"
"No. I am closing the office. Only Mr. Dean or myself could handle the
curiosity seekers and half-crazed inventors who sometimes come here. You can
attend to matters from your own address, coming here once a day, of course, to
get any mail from the box outside the door."
From a chain that carried the office key, Glenny drew off one that opened
the mailbox. Ralph's expression became troubled; he was beginning to think that
the job would pay very little, when Glenny smiled and added:
"Your salary will be one hundred dollars a week."
AMAZEMENT swept Ralph. The amount was much more than he had received on
his former job, with all its promise of a junior partnership. Thinking that
Glenny was joking, he exclaimed:
"But how can you pay so much for such slight service?"
"They are important services," returned Glenny. "You will be intrusted
with sums far greater than the money you brought here today" - he gestured
toward the desk drawer - "and you will also have access to very confidential
information. In fact, your job is so important to us that Mr. Dean doubted that
I could possibly find a man who could be intrusted with it.
"This letter from your former employer, together with my testimony
regarding your integrity, will satisfy Mr. Dean. Your job has already begun.
Give me your address and telephone number, so that I can contact you whenever
necessary."
While Ralph was writing out the information, Glenny produced a stack of
bank books and various lists. He handed them to Ralph and added a check book,
thumbing its pages. Ralph saw that all the checks bore the signature of R G.
Dean, but that they were otherwise blank.
"This illustrates what I said," stated Glenny. "I am trusting you to fill
in those checks, to the proper persons and for the exact amounts, whenever you
are notified. As for your own salary, you can draw it each week by simply
filling in a check payable to yourself."
When Ralph had pocketed those important items, Glenny produced an envelope
that was stamped and sealed. It was addressed to George Thurver, Chem-Lab Co.,
White Meadows, New Jersey. Tapping the envelope, Glenny said seriously:
"Mail this as soon as you leave here. It is highly important that it
should reach Thurver by tomorrow. The lives of certain persons may depend upon
it."
With that admonition, Glenny bowed Ralph from the office. As soon as the
clang of an elevator door occurred, Glenny stepped back into the office, picked
up the telephone and dialed a number. Recognizing the voice that answered,
Glenny purred:
"Congratulate me, chief... Yeah, I pulled the Diogenes stuff and got the
honest man we were after. It worked just like we thought it would... About the
dough? Of course, he thought a hundred a week was a lot.
"But when I trusted him with the signed checks, he began to feel
important... I told him about the letter, too, and that impressed him... Yeah,
I'm packing everything, and I'll be out of here in half an hour... See you
later, chief."
Posting the Thurver letter at the nearest mailbox, Ralph Atgood, at that
minute, was feeling quite as impressed as Glenny had stated. He was elated,
too, by the good fortune that had come his way.
Ralph Atgood had struck luck. But had he overheard the telephone
conversation that followed his departure, he would have realized that it was
luck of a sort that would bring him future trouble!
CHAPTER II
FLAME OF DEATH
THE Chem-Lab Co. stood on the Jersey Meadows, a collection of squatly
buildings, with a tall one in the center. From the top floor of the central
structure, the windows offered a view across the Meadows, revealing the tower
of the Empire State Building beyond the heights of Jersey City.
But Eugene Bristow, president of Chem-Lab, was not interested in viewing
Manhattan. He had forgotten the city of New York the moment that he had left it
this morning. Until mid-afternoon, he had been watching one of the squatly
buildings, listening to the slow, intermittent throb of machinery.
The slow motion, as well as the pauses in between, made Bristow chafe.
Tall and pompous, he suddenly forgot his usual dignity to shake his fist at the
window, while he stormed at three startled secretaries:
"Do you know what's happening down there? We're losing a thousand dollars
a day, that's what! Just because our fiber-finishing formula won't stand the
test!"
The secretaries nodded, dumbly and pathetically, while Bristow paced the
floor. Facing them again, in calmer mood, the pompous man spoke again.
"I have decided to suppress the facts no longer," he declared. "You all
know why we enlarged this plant, and began to build others. It was because we
developed Fibrolast, the best of all materials for finishing the interiors of
buildings."
He picked up a flat object from his desk, it looked like a slab of thin
marble. Bristow waved the fiber square, bent it and finally thwacked it against
the desk.
"Lighter than aluminum!" he exclaimed. "Pliable as rubber, as strong as
steel! Stained any color or pattern that you want it. Partition a room with
Fibrolast and you have the equivalent of
wallpaper. This sample is better than
any imitation marble on the market, and can be turned out at half the price -
provided we get production.
"That's the trouble. The fiber goes through a chemical bath, and is
finished under machine pressure. Our first experiments were entirely
successful, but when we sped production on Fibrolast we found out what we
didn't know.
"The machine pressure produces heat; and the finishing formula won't stand
it. Sooner or later, one of the chemicals ignites. That's what caused those
fires down in the Fibrolast Division. Unless Thurver finds out what's wrong -"
Bristow was pounding the desk with his fist. The thumps were echoed by a
knock at the door. A secretary answered; two workmen pushed in a wheeled table
loaded with bottles, test tubes, and other chemical equipment.
Following the table came a worried looking man with high, bald head. He
was George Thurver, chief chemist of the Chem-Lab plant.
SOLEMNLY, Thurver began to measure off various colored liquids from
different bottles, which were marked with letters, each representing a solution
used in the Chem-Lab secret formula. He poured them all into a large beaker,
which he placed on a tripod over a Bunsen burner.
"This represents average heat," began Thurver, "gauged to the present
speed of the machinery -"
He paused, gave worried glances toward the secretaries. Bristow told him
to go right ahead.
"And this," continued Thurver, "will bring high-speed heat."
Carefully, he increased the flame of the burner. Bristow drew away.
Thurver made a gesture.
"Don't worry," he insisted. "This is not a superheat. It's merely the same
demonstration that I gave you in the laboratory."
As Thurver finished, there was a mild puff from the beaker. Bubbling
liquid formed a jet of flame, which was repeated, until the chemist turned off
the burner.
"How does that help us?" demanded Bristow. "It's what happened before -
the very thing we are trying to prevent. Gad, Thurver, do you know what will
happen if you can't correct this fault?
"We'll have to buy the formula the Experimento Co. offered us. Bah! Those
hijackers! They own nothing but a formula, no better than ours ought to be. But