"All that can be desired," declared the lawyer. "The television work is actually done. Something new may develop in it — but it has already exceeded our expectation. The energy device will require more time to get it to the point we want. It is a sure proposition, however. A little trouble with the air inventions. That will be ironed out."
Doctor Savette stood up. His face gleamed; he laughed harshly. Silently, he began to display the articles that he had stolen from Cranston. Checkbooks, with balances marked in them. Account books, carefully prepared in detail. Each item brought a grunt of satisfaction from Glade Tremont.
"I know that lawyer, Bartram," he said. "A soft egg, if ever there was one. He looks like a human jellyfish. There will be easy ways to work this, Gerald.
"Suppose an unknown inventor shows up in New York — a man with an idea in television, for instance. Taking up work that another dropped — through death. Bartram is then instructed to give this chap money—"
"A good tie-up," interjected Savette, as the lawyer paused. "That will all come later. It is just a case of playing a perfect game. The cards are in our hands. Everything has been smooth here. It will continue to be—"
There was a thump at the door. Savette dropped the loose articles back into the portmanteau. He nodded to Tremont.
"Come in," called the lawyer.
Biff Towley entered. The gang leader was hardly recognizable. A broad strip of adhesive plaster was across the bridge of his nose. His forehead and his cheeks were puffed and blackish.
Towley's physiognomy was not a handsome one at best. When The Shadow had bashed it with the revolver he had changed the contour of the vile countenance. Biff Towley had good reason to remember that gunfight on the Long Island swimming pier.
Savette stared curiously at the gang leader. He had known of Towley's plight, and it would be his work to remake the shattered features after Biff's face had mended somewhat.