Few men ever looked less like a master criminal than Hugo Hedin. He was a tall, stooped man with a mournful, bloodhound face and a shambling walk. He wore nondescript clothes, and had no friends. He talked hesitantly, with a Swedish accent. His lungs were weak and so was his stomach; he had a hypochondriac's love of pills. He spent a great deal of time in honest toil—he was a carpenter, a bricklayer, a plasterer, an upholsterer and a camera mechanic. He was also very poor.
But Old Hugo had a rare talent—he could make wonderful $5 bills. Said Secret...
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