|Title||:||murder makes music|
|Plot||:||+ The Fat Man put the telephone slowly back in its cradle and doubted what he’d heard. Jay Sherman, would he please see Mr Sherman at 2 o’clock, that’s what the secretarial voice had said. His memory went back to 1929 and the Wall Street crash and through it all the name J. Sherman stood out like a beacon on a stormy night. Sherman had been smart, while others’ fortunes had been swept away he’d built one. While the mob was selling he was buying…|
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