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

The projector took over as the room lights were cut off. The intensity of the glow was scarcely changed;
evidently this change-over had been carefully tested. But there was one difference. With a low whir, the
projector began to cast occasional shadows on the window blinds, giving the precise effect of figures
moving in the office.

Anton hissed for the others to hurry. Leaving the office, they went through the rear room, each picking up
two suitcases to match the pair that Anton carried. Through a little door they took a stairway that led
clear down to the cellar. There, footsteps faded as they followed an underground route through the
cellars of adjoining buildings.

OVER in the tap room, Bert Cowder and Gregg Emmart had recovered some of their boasted sangfroid.
For one thing, they'd piled the million dollars back into the suitcase, hiding the operation within the booth.
The suitcase was on the bench beside Emmart and he was bringing out his notebook, when the
barkeeper arrived and asked what they wanted. Bert ordered two beers.

"Pipe the joint across the way," confided Bert, as the barkeep left. "Those birds are still staying put. Not
much chance they'll fly away, which gives us time to think."

While Emmart was watching the occasional streaks against the upstairs window shades, Bert reached for
the notebook. It was the loose-leaf type, and quite thick. It needed to be, because Emmart began each
new notation on a fresh page.

For instance, Bert observed that Emmart had recorded the death of Wip Jandle in simple style. Then, on
the next page, like a separate account, he gave Wip's dying confession. The page following covered the
contents of Brune's cash box, and still another page was devoted to the visit to the Apex Discount Office.


The page that interested Bert most was the one containing the confession. He was thumbing it when the
punch holes began to tear, up where the clamps ran through. A shrewd expression flickered on Bert's
face. Emmart didn't notice it, for he was still studying the windows across the way.

"Guess I'd better phone headquarters," remarked Emmart. "Inspector Cardona can come here and pick
up the dough. He'll bring a squad along to raid that place across the street."

"A good idea," agreed Bert coolly. "Slide that suitcase under the table, so I can keep my mitts on it while
you're at the telephone. I always did go in for big money, Gregg."

There was this about Bert Cowder. He could reverse his earnest style whenever he so chose. Purposely,
he was displaying his opposite character, and the effect worked with Emmart. Indeed, Bert produced the
exact touch that he wanted. He gave the impression that he could still be trusted, as long as he didn't have
a million dollars in his clutch.

"I ought to hang on to the bag, Bert," argued Emmart. "We can't take any risks. You know how it is."

"Of course," conceded Bert, switching back to his earnest tone. "I guess that leaves it up to me to call
Cardona for you. Anyway, I ought to talk to Joe. He sent you along on my say-so."

The beers had arrived and the barkeeper was returning where he belonged. Stepping from the booth;
Bert found the telephone in a rear corner and put in his call. But he didn't phone headquarters. The call
that Bert made was strictly confidential, and quite to the point. Finishing it, he returned to the booth.