"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 260 - The Money Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Mind if I call the Classic office?"

"Not at all," returned Cardona. "Use the phone outside. But stick around until Emmart comes back.
That's our bargain."

There was reason for Inspector Cardona to congratulate himself. Letting Clyde call the newspaper office
was a neat touch. The city editor of the Classic was the last person to whom Clyde would mention the
Brune case. If Clyde did, the "old man" would hand the assignment to some other reporter, since Clyde
was temporarily immobilized.

Knowing the ways of reporters, Cardona recognized that Clyde would play safe. Emmart's return could
mean a sure story to Clyde's own credit. The Brune business wasn't an office assignment; it was
something the reporter had picked up on his own. Newshawks were as jealous with such stories as any
dog with a bone.

Inspector Cardona had more reason for self-congratulation than he supposed.

From the outer phone, Clyde Burke didn't call the Classic office at all. Instead, he dialed a number that
brought a quiet-toned speaker who gave his name as Burbank. Briefly, Clyde undertoned the meager
facts in the case of Elvor Brune. There was a methodical response from Burbank:

"Report received."

A FEW minutes later, a tiny light gleamed from the wall of a mysterious room. Long, thin hands stretched
from beneath the glow of a blue-bulbed lamp and reached for earphones. The hands carried that
attachment to a head above the level of the bluish glow. A whispered voice spoke in response to a
relayed call from Burbank.

Only one living being could voice that strange, sinister whisper. He was the master crime-hunter known
as The Shadow, a black-cloaked fighter who traveled amid the shroud of night itself when trailing men of
evil. This room was The Shadow's sanctum, to which Burbank, his contact man, relayed reports from
secret agents such as Clyde Burke.

To the ears of The Shadow came the curious facts pertaining to Elvor Brune, the man who feared a
menace that he dared not mention even to a trusted hireling like Bert Cowder.

Strange was the laugh that chilled the sanctum after Burbank's call was ended. Deft hands, returning to
the bluish light, stacked little piles of clippings and slid them into a large envelope. That work of a few
moments explained the reason for the satisfaction in The Shadow's low, trailing laugh.

Every clipping in that batch had to do with refugees who had been robbed or swindled by Manhattan
crooks who, so far, had kept their identity covered. In every instance, the victims had complained after
crime was done, and their accounts had been too meager to supply a trail that would serve The Shadow
or the law.

Brune's case promised an exception. The man who feared was obviously living under threat. Where the
slow machinery of the law might fail to help him, the hand of The Shadow could win out. This was the
very sort of opening The Shadow needed to crack a rising wave of crime.

Fading into echoes, the strains of The Shadow's laugh were absorbed by the black walls of the sanctum.