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

"Suppose we count the bills," suggested Emmart. "I ought to put the total in my report. That is, if we can
figure what it's worth."

"Here's how we can," remarked Bert. He drew a card from the box. "Look at this, Gregg. The Apex
Discount Office. I remember the place because I met Brune there once. It's open evenings, so suppose
we go down and get a value on this funny money."

The idea suited Emmart, so the two departed, turning off the light and closing the door. They took the
broken cash box with them, its contents intact. A hush fell upon the room where Wip Jandle lay dead. A
hush that remained unbroken when the door opened, a few minutes later, to admit the cloaked figure of
The Shadow.

Using his flashlight, The Shadow found Wip's body, then turned the gleam upon the telephone. He took it
for granted that Cowder and Emmart had completed their trail and left with whatever loot Wip had
taken. But there was nothing to show that Wip had still been alive, when the early trailers overtook him.

Using the telephone, The Shadow called Burbank and told him to put certain agents on the job of tracing
Wip's recent associates. In keeping with his own instructions, The Shadow then departed on the same
quest.

Though he had no lead to Shep Ficklin, The Shadow knew that Wip unquestionably served some
big-shot. Finding Wip was at least a start toward tracking the real head of the gang that preyed on
refugees like Elvor Brune.

There was little use in seeking Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart. That, in The Shadow's estimate, would
prove a waste of time, since both were soon due back in Cardona's office, where Clyde Burke would
hear their story. Thus, through a freakish chain of circumstance, The Shadow was to miss a most amazing
sequel to Brune's murder.

RIDING by cab, Bert and Emmart had arrived at the Apex Discount Office, a modest place of business
located one flight up in a building on a side street. By mutual consent, they parked the tin box on the
stairs and thumbed through Brune's foreign currency in the dim light.

"Here's a funny one," declared Bert. "This bill says 'Ten Tarka.' What country does that belong to?"

"Hungarian, I guess," returned Emmart, "or Rumanian, maybe. It ought to be worth about thirty cents."

"If it's worth anything! Funny it only says Ten Tarka."

"Why should it have the name of a country? It's good where it came from... or was once. Let's show it
with the rest."

The pair entered the discount office, where Bert nodded to a drab-faced man behind the counter and
mentioned that he worked for Elvor Brune. In his turn, the drab man nodded, for he remembered Bert
from the private dick's last visit.

As Bert thumbed through the bills, the clerk shook his head. Most of the money was worthless, the rest
had little value. Emmart was checking down the few amounts that the drab clerk gave, a point which
rather amused Bert. Merely to observe the effect on Emmart, Bert put on a confidential pose when he