THE DEVIL'S PARTNER.

Maxwell Grant.

CHAPTER I. A CROOKED DEAL.

YOUNG DR. KILBY sat in his beautifully appointed office, staring at a portrait of his father. There was a tight smile on his lips.

He wondered why he hadn't heard yet from Simon Swade.

Kilby's office was in his home. It was on the ground floor of a private wing. To this discreet consulting room came many patients, most of them wealthy. Young Kilby was carrying on the work of his dead father, Marcus Kilby.

The patients who came to him, like those who had come to his noted father, suffered from no ills of the flesh. They came to be cured of the more difficult ills of the mind and heart. At the time of his death, Marcus Kilby had been the most famous psychoa.n.a.lyst in New York.

He had been the city's best loved philanthropist, as well. His death had brought an army of sincere mourners to his funeral. From rich penthouse suites on Park Avenue, from tenement ratholes - all came to pay tribute to the greatness and kindness of old Marcus Kilby.

The measure of his goodness was made even clearer when his will was filed for probate. Except for a small trust fund he had bequeathed to young Anthony, not a penny of the huge fees collected by the old man was left. Everything else had been spent freely for the good of humanity.

That was why young Kilby smiled so impatiently at the thought of Simon Swade. Swade's visit meant profit. He was a keen man of affairs. He had been for a number of years the confidential business adviserof the elder Kilby.

Anthony Kilby had entrusted five thousand dollars for Swade to invest. It was money that he would not have risked with anyone else. He hadn't asked questions, because Swade was not the sort of man who answered questions. But Swade had made a pleasant promise.

"I will do better than double your money," Swade had said, a week before.

Anthony Kilby wet his lips as he stared at the enormous portrait of his saintly father. They were oddly unlike for father and son. The elder Kilby's face was round, his expression benevolent.

Young Kilby wasn't like that. He took after his dead mother. His face was sharper. There was a driving force within him that had been entirely lacking in his father.

He was so intent on his scrutiny of the portrait that he jerked nervously when his butler knocked at the door.

"Yes, Oliphant?"

"Mr. Swade telephoned a moment ago, sir. He said to inform you he'd be here shortly."

"Good! Admit him to my office as soon as he arrives."

Left alone, Kilby's smile flicked. If everything went well, there would be glory for him as well as his father. It would be a more personal sort of glory. The profit he antic.i.p.ated from Swade would not be used for anonymous free milk stations for needy children. Nor would it go into distant vacation camps for sick babies and mothers.

It would be a perpetual memorial to his father's humanitarian reputation right here in New York. A memorial playground, completely equipped, paid for privately by Kilby's own son. A daily reminder that young Anthony Kilby was also a psychoa.n.a.lyst!

No reason why charity couldn't be made to pay. Wealthy patients had been slow bringing their mental troubles to young Anthony Kilby. A memorial erected to the memory of his father would also be a constant reminder to neurotic millionaires that Anthony Kilby deserved their continued patronage.

He had studied a long time to fit himself to take over his father's practice. It annoyed him that people who had paid his father large fees were slow in coming to him.

Again a knock roused him.

"Mr. Swade," Oliphant said, and withdrew.

SIMON SWADE entered. The two men shook hands.

"What news?" Kilby asked eagerly.

"Good news," Swade replied.

He was a lean man who looked thinner than he actually was. Everything about him seemed to run to points. His mustache, the corners of his eyes, his thin eyebrows, his elbows - all contributed to an appearance of undernourishment that was far from the truth. Swade was a well-fed business expert who knew which side his bread was b.u.t.tered on.

He laid a large briefcase on Kilby's desk. "I'm a man of my word," he said. "You gave me five thousand dollars to invest confidentially. I promised you more than to double your money. I've brought you the return on your investment. Suppose you count it."

Swade opened the bulging briefcase, began tossing packets of currency to the desk. At sight of those packets, Kilby's eyes widened. Swade kept tossing them on the desk until there were ten in all.

Elated, Kilby picked one up. A glance at the denomination of the topmost bank note and a quick estimate of the number of bills made him gasp.

"But... Swade... good heavens! There are five thousand dollars in just this single packet!"

"That's right."

"But there are ten packets. That makes... fifty thousand dollars!"

"I told you I'd do better than double your money."

Swade was entirely calm. But the glint in his sandy eyes deepened. He was like a fox considering a very silly rabbit. He waited for Kilby to make some comment about the odd fact that the money was in currency, rather than in the more convenient form of a check.

But Anthony Kilby was too dazed to notice.

"Good heavens! I didn't know it was possible to turn so handsome a profit so quickly in the stock market. I know that you are a financial wizard, Mr. Swade. But even so -"

"I didn't invest it in the stock market," Swade murmured. "I took a little flyer in some real estate"

Kilby hardly listened.

"Now I can go ahead with the memorial project. Naturally, I'll need more money later. But this is a splendid start! Since the city has agreed to a.s.semble a plot provided that I pay for the equipment of the playground, it looks as if I can go right ahead."

Simon Swade didn't reply. The cold spark in his shrewd eyes made a more noticeable gleam now. Kilby became aware of it. He thought he knew what it meant. Flushing, he tried to stammer his thanks.

"I want to show my appreciation, Swade. You've undoubtedly gone to some trouble to do me this favor.

You must have incurred some expense. I insist that you allow me to turn over - say - ten percent of this money to you."

"No!"

Simon Swade was no longer so friendly. A change had come over him. His voice was crisp, cold.

"Keep your money, Kilby. I want something more than a lousy ten percent from you, my friend. I want complete obedience!"

"Look here, Swade; what kind of talk -"

"Shut up! Listen! It's time you learned where that fifty thousand dollars of yours came from."

"Didn't it come from a stock-market deal?" "I said nothing of the kind. If you were listening you'd have heard what I said a moment ago. The money came from a little flyer in real estate."

"I don't understand."

"No?" Swade's sneer grew. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret that I've known all along. There is no need for you to finance the play ground memorial. The city decided to appropriate money for the whole project - including both the land and the equipment. In other words, that fifty-thousand-dollar bundle of yours is going to make things look bad for you. In fact, criminal!"

"CRIMINAL?" Kilby faltered.

Swade's laughter was harsh.

"The deal which netted you your profit was the sale of the playground land to the city! How do you think that would sound if it were made public? Marcus Kilby's crooked son profits fraudulently from the sale of overvalued land to the city to be used as a memorial to his own saintly father! Can't you see the black headlines?"

"d.a.m.n you, Swade, you can't prove it! I acted innocently on your advice. I didn't invest the money. You did!"

Swade's mouth twisted in a grin.

"That won't save you, my friend. I didn't handle the deal. It was all done - and done very smartly, too - by a dummy purchaser who did exactly what I told him to. The dummy, a smart lad named Quinn, bought cheap tenement land at a fraction of its value. He resold it to the city for many times what it was worth. That money on your desk, Kilby, is only a small part of the total profits. But it's enough to put you in prison stripes - if you refuse my demands."

"Blackmail, eh?" Kilby flashed. His face was pale. "You want my answer? It is no!"

"Think it over," Swade said. "Just remember a couple of things. You gave me your five thousand by check. At my suggestion, you drew your check to cash. It was endorsed by you. It was also endorsed by my dummy. All investigation for fraud will lead directly where I planned - to you!"

His voice was jeering as he continued: "Well? Do you want me to squeal to the newspapers? My dummy can afford to get into hiding indefinitely. Can you?"

There was sweat on Kilby's face.

"You dirty rat! What do you want?"

"The confidential case histories of every wealthy patient of your late father," Swade said.

"Why?"

Young Kilby knew why, but he croaked out the word in the hope of gaining time. Swade tapped a bony finger on the desk.

"Do you need a diagram? Blackmail, my friend! Against the easiest type of victim. All of them are rotten with money. They won't dare to go to the police, or even to a private detective. Some of them aren't even aware of the hidden secrets they disclosed. "Your father used hypnosis as part of his mental cures. I happen to know that you have those case histories in your office safe. They were transported here in a van, together with other effects from your father's estate."

Swade's thin eyebrows drew together.

"Don't look so shocked. I am prepared to be generous. I am inviting you to come in on the blackmail deal. In fact, I'll be frank enough to admit that I shall need your help. We'll split the profits fifty-fifty.

O.K.?".

There was sweat on Kilby's face.

"I like money," he said, "but not that kind. I'd rather rot in jail for the rest of my life than betray the professional secrets of my dead father. You can't have those records, Swade! Do your d.a.m.nedest! My father brought me up to be decent. I intend to stay that way!"

"I thought you'd say that," Swade sneered. "Now that you've gotten it off your chest, let me show you something else."

He took a sheaf of doc.u.ments from his briefcase, handed them coolly to the young doctor.

"Look these over, sucker! If that portrait on the wall of your old man could laugh, he'd be cackling right now with unholy glee. You think he was so d.a.m.ned honest, eh? I worked for him for years as his confidential business agent. There never was a foxier crook born than the same hypocritical Marcus Kilby!"

Young Kilby sprang to his feet, his fists clenched. But the impulse to lash out at Swede was only a brief one. The doc.u.ments Swade had tossed on the desk looked d.a.m.ning.

Swade had played a criminal ace.

"Photostats," he told Kilby. "The originals are in a safe place. What do you think of your old man now? Is he worth rotting in jail for? Or would you rather play ball with me - and keep the old faker's reputation for saintliness unsmirched?"

"So my father profiteered on real-estate deals," Kilby whispered. "He did exactly what you have just done. He pulled fraudulent land deals with the city in connection with his charitable playground bequests."

"Correct," Swade arrived. "He was a smart old faker! He turned back enough dough to establish his reputation as a great humanitarian. Why not? For every buck Marcus Kilby spent on free milk for babies, he pocketed ten bucks of fraudulent profit."

Young Kilby's face was bleak. He got up jerkily and paced the room. Swade sat very still.

"It's hard to take," Kilby gasped.

"It's easy - if you've got brains and guts," Swade tempted.

"What's the use of trying to be honest?" Kilby said. "What's... the... use? My own father, stealing under the guise of saintliness! Profiteering on slum babies and unfortunate tenement mothers! Just a crooked big shot!"

"Not a big shot," Swade whispered. "A piker! He stuck to real estate. He didn't have sense enough totackle a gold mine. That's what we're going to dig into - the gold mine of those confidential case histories in your office safe."

Kilby sagged into his chair again. For a while, he couldn't speak. When he did, his voice was like that of another man. There was an ugly rasp in it.

"All right, Swade. It's a deal!"

"Smart," Swade breathed. "Ve-ry smart."

"I'll turn over the records to you," Kilby continued harshly. "We'll work the racket together on half shares."

"Swell!" Swade agreed. "We'll get together later. We'll sort out the victims and decide who will be the first wealthy and neurotic sap we put the lug on."

"Tonight?" Kilby asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Early."

Kilby nodded. He shook hands briskly with his new a.s.sociate in crime. Then he rang for the butler with a steady gesture.

Oliphant escorted Swade to the door.

Within the quiet consulting room, Anthony Kilby's face was still drawn into bleak lines. He glanced at the painting of his dead father, mouthed an almost inaudible whisper.

"So you were a crook, eh? In league with a rat like Simon Swade. O.K.! Here's to crime! And here's to me! We'll find out who the biggest crook is going to be - Swade or myself!"

He laughed a little.