PRINCE OF EVIL
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," April 15, 1940.
A new crime-master arises - to strike a blow at The Shadow's power!
CHAPTER I
THE MADNESS OF JOHN HARMON
JOHN HARMON'S hands were trembling as he took out his spectacle case and
put on his glasses. He picked up the check which David Chester had just laid
smilingly on the desk. There was a blur of tears in Harmon's eyes that made it
hard for him to see clearly for a moment.
Chester misunderstood the older man's emotion. He thought that Harmon was
jittery with eagerness to close the deal and take the money.
"A tidy sum," he chuckled.
It was. The check was for five hundred thousand dollars. Chester had
already signed it. His signature was like himself - tight, angular and
excessively neat. It was the price agreed upon for the sale of John Harmon's
business. Harmon was getting every penny he had asked for.
But he was far from happy.
He stared around the quiet, book-lined study where he and his visitor sat,
as if trying to think of some way to postpone the deal. Harmon's life had been
wrapped up in his business. He had always known that, some day, he'd have to
quit and sell out. That time had now come.
Six weeks earlier, John Harmon had had a frightening experience. He had
closed up his desk one evening and walked out of his downtown office into
nothingness!
Twelve hours of living death had followed. When he came to his senses, he
was lying on a cot in the public ward of a hospital. There was a horrible
buzzing in his head, and no knowledge of a single event during those twelve
blank hours of aimless wandering.
The doctors had called it amnesia. Too much work; not enough rest and
relaxation. It was taking its toll from a tired man sixty-two years old.
That was when Harmon began negotiations to sell his business. Not because
of himself, but because of his wife. Martha Harmon was an invalid. She had never
uttered a complaint; but life had not been too pleasant for her, either.
Business had swallowed both their lives. Neither had ever had time for a
vacation.
Yet John Harmon had a queer, intuitive feeling that he ought not to sell.
It was a strange, frightened sensation. He stared at David Chester.
Chester was harmless-looking. There was a smile on his thin face. He had
been easy to deal with, generous in his offer. His reputation was good, his
business rating excellent.
"Let me think about it a moment," Harmon muttered.
He began to pace up and down his quiet study.
