"William G Bogart - Killer 'Round The Bend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bogart William G)

Shane was as tall as any man present in the smelling barroom. But hardly as thickset or as
solid. But what he lacked in weight, he made up in whirlwind speed.

He whirled on the bristly-jawed individual holding him, broke the grip on his arm and brought
up a sizzling right. The sharp crack of the lanky detective's fist against the fellow's jaw
made a blunt sound in the crowded, still room. The man staggered backward into the arms of
some of his partners.

Immediately, Bill Shane swung on another stocky man who blocked his path. He straight-armed
the fellow aside, jerkod his left elbow sidewise and caught the riverman in the midriff.
Shane clipped out.

At that moment, from the back of the barroom, there was muffled commotion as the little,
pale-faced man was hustled out of the room and a door slammed.

Half a dozen burly forms piled upon Bill Shane.

Shane backed quickly off, got his fists up and started cracking jaws. He moved lithely,
with precise machine-fast motion. Someone shoved him from behind, at the same time sticking
out a foot and trying to trip him up. Another caught Shane with a blow behind the neck.

But the tall detective managed to keep his balance. His fists moved like pistons. His body
weaved with blurred movement. He sent three-men down and swiftly slid to one side as two
others jumped for him.

His assailants were big, slow-moving. Bill Shane had the advantage of a trigger-fast brain
and experience in rough-and-tumble fighting. He hadn't been a cop on a New York beat for five
years for notbing. And now that he was a private shamus, that traning came to his aid.


FINALLY, uith one smashing drive, Bill Shane hammered the last of his opponents out of his way,
broke free of the melee and made a fast plunge for that rear door. He slammed through and found
himself in a dark, cobblestoned alley. Ahead somewheres in the gloom he heard the somewhat
indistinct pattern of running feet. He followed.

The dark alley emerged on a side street leading back to Front Street. Coming out on the side
street, Bill Shane could no longer hear the sound of hurrying steps. But he had a hunch!

Rivermen were the ones who had rushed iittie Benny Smith out of the saloon. And steamboat
men had only one home: the river packets tied up against the shore.

Bill Shane headed that way.

He crossed wide Front Street, choosing a spot away from the meager light cast by street lamps
in the gathering mist. There were no docks here; rather a slanting quay that led right down to
the muddy water's edge. Ahead, vaguely, loomed the rectangular hulks of the packets. Three were
tied up here at present.

Between himself and the paddle-wheelers, Shane thought he saw shadowy figures moving. He