Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938

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A gripping story of Washington, where the cost of living is the highest of any city in the nation, and the cost of dying is often at bargain rates.

All day long the money had been flowing into the old house on Mount Vernon Highway; piles upon piles of greasy currency that passed through Greg Cooper’s hands for counting and dropped like waste paper into boxes. With the money came a mood. Across the room from him, Cooper could see Senator Bradford Weller sitting smugly behind his desk, his pepper-and-salt colored wig looking more false than ever and his narrow, greedy face relaxed.

Greed! That was the thing that came into the house with the money. That was the mood. It was in the senator’s face and it was like something living and tangible in the house itself; driving out all of the things that had existed here before it, even hatred. Cooper mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a limp handkerchief, his young face tense.

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