"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 036 - The Isle of Doubt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

“Yeah,” said the big gangster, “but we don't want to take no chances on missin' Punch Baxton when he
gallops up with the swag.”

“I figured it all out, Lefty,” returned Possum, in a weary tone. “What do you want me to do—draw a
diagram? We'll be out of here by the time Punch is working on the job. We'll get to the end of that alley
before he shows up. There's no use hanging around the place before we're needed.”

“Punch is countin' on you—”
“Don't I know it? I'll be there—and you with me. Say—you might think we were in on the dough, the
way you're talking.”

“Aren't we in on it?”

“Sure!” Possum's snort was contemptuous. “We're in it for a lousy grand—while Punch is grabbing off
the gravy.”

“It's a soft way to pick up a grand, Possum—just by bein' around so a guy like Punch can scram from
one gas buggy to another through an alleyway.”

“Is that the way you figure it, Lefty? Well, let me give you a real idea of values. A thousand dollars is
small change for the work we're doing—and I'm a sucker to be bothering with it. Say—it's a
twenty-to-one shot that some one will spot that car of Punch Baxton's after he makes the get-away. He's
got to transfer to be safe—and he needs a guy that knows how to drive. That's me.”

“I guess you're right, Possum—”

Lefty Hotz did not complete the sentence. Possum Quill, indifferent to his companion's remarks, had
picked up a tabloid newspaper, and was looking at the pictures on the front page.

Lefty grunted. Possum Quill was a cool one, sure enough. To-night's work did not perturb him in the
least. Lefty knew what would follow. Possum would pay no attention to the passing of the minutes. He
would leave it to Lefty—always anxious—to notify him when eleven thirty had arrived.

ORDINARILY, Possum would have read his newspaper in total obliviousness of Lefty's presence. The
shrewd-faced crook regarded his husky companion as a huge watchdog. It was Lefty's business to obey
Possum's instructions, to battle for him when occasion demanded. As an underling, Lefty was formidable.

To-night, however, Possum Quill spied a photograph that he considered to be within Lefty's sphere of
interest. He turned the green-sheeted newspaper toward the big gangster's eyes, and pointed to a picture
of a high-walled building.

“There's where the boys made the jail break, Lefty,” informed Possum. “Neat job, eh? Getting over that
wall was no cinch.”

“The big house out in the Middle West?” queried Lefty.

“That's it,” said Possum.

“Say”—Lefty's voice was reminiscent—“that old buddy of yours was in the crowd, wasn't he? What was
his name? You told me once—”