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

Silence spoke the fact that a mighty avenger had issued forth upon a cause of justice, another routine task
in a long and celebrated career. That, and no more, did the silence tell.

It would take events themselves to prove that the case of Elvor Brune was but the stepping-stone to a
quest as stupendous as any that The Shadow had ever undertaken.

A quest that would pit the crime investigator against a monster who's evil was world-wide, threatening
even the security of generations yet unborn!

CHAPTER II. CREATURES OF CRIME
BERT COWDER gestured toward the small apartment house, and Gregg Emmart made a note of what
he saw. The place wasn't much to look at; it was simply an old brownstone residence that had been
converted into apartments. But Emmart had a habit of listing such things in his notebook. Each one of
those old houses was different, if you checked it far enough.

This one had steps leading up to a vestibule, wherein were mailboxes accompanied by push buttons.
Three of those boxes had no names, so Bert picked the middle one and gave the button a long push, then
three shorts. Nothing happening, Bert buzzed again; a short, then a pause, then two more shorts.

"B. C.," he told Emmart. "My initials in Morse. That's the signal I always give to Brune."

While Emmart was making a note of it, there was a clicking from the front door, proving that Brune had
pressed the door-opening switch in his new apartment. Bert pushed through, drawing Emmart after him.
They were on the stairs, when Emmart looked at the notation dubiously.

"The signal ought to be 'A. C.'," argued Emmart. "Your first name is Albert, isn't it?"

"It happens to be Bertram," returned Cowder, "but don't tell that to the trade. Leave that tripe to the quiz
kids. We've got enough of a job to talk sense into Brune."

This being Bert's first visit to Brune's new place, the private dick gave the premises a careful survey. He
noted a window, with a fire escape outside it, at the rear of the second floor. The apartment bearing
Brune's number was along the way, so Bert paused there and rapped the B. C. signal with his knuckles.
A bolt withdrew, the door was opened, and Bert entered, hauling after him Emmart and the notebook.

Instantly, Gregg Emmart forgot his notes.

A crouched man in shirt sleeves flung the door shut and spun himself about. He couldn't be anyone but
Elvor Brune. Nobody else would have looked so scared. He looked like a cross between a crab and a
turtle. Brune's outspread arms gave him the crustacean effect, but his head, protruding from his hunched
shoulders, was a perfect replica of a tortoise about to return to its shell.

Brune was baldish, his face was wide like a turtle's, and his neck dropped with folds of flesh that added
to the illusion. As for eye markings, Brune had them in the form of horn-rimmed eyeglasses that could
only be of European make.

"Take it easy, Brune." Bert Cowder spoke smoothly, but firmly. "I told you I use assistants sometimes.
This is Gregg Emmart. He's one of them."

Brune's throat folds billowed a few moments, until he forced a hoarse, guttural voice from deep among