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  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

  his office closes. This is where I gotta get off."

  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

  just what is your present occupation?"

  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