"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 046 - The Wealth Seeker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

within hearing distance of the patrolling policemen. The men in uniform could not learn such details.
Marked as men of the law, they were handicapped.

Spies, alone, could gain the secrets of the underworld. Yet even detectives who appeared within this area
were easily spotted by shrewd-eyed watchers. Stool pigeons served as secret workers for the law; they,
too, were insufficient, for they were outcasts who feared mob rule.

Indeed, the denizens of gangland were contemptuous of the law. So far as the police were concerned,
they feared no interference with their plans. There had been a time when plotting gangsters moved
abroad with very little effort to cover up their actions. Yet on this night—as on many more before it—the
stealthiness of those who skulked was evidence of some hidden foment beneath a surface that seemed
more than usually calm.

ON one narrow street where passers-by hastened on their way and every doorway seemed to shelter
prying eyes, a man was strolling alone. There was both caution and challenge in his attitude. His step,
though regular, was not quick. His course, though favoring the shelter of darkness near the buildings, was
not furtive.

A patrolling policeman eyed this passer as the man came within the dim glare of a street lamp. The officer
saw a firm, square face that denoted self-assurance. The features were not of the usual gangster type;
they lacked the uncouth coarseness so prevalent in the underworld. Nevertheless, the man's confidence
marked him as one who was familiar with this district.

The policeman sauntered on. When he paused to look over his shoulder, he noted that the man had
disappeared. He supposed that the walker had increased his pace to reach the next corner.

He was wrong. The man with the firm face had made a quick turn into a side alley and was now moving
easily toward a sunken doorway some distance from the street that he had left.

Arrived at his destination, this individual descended the short steps to the door and rapped for entrance.
As soon as the portal opened, he shouldered his way into a stone-walled room. He nodded curtly to a
brawny, red-haired fellow who stood behind a rough wood counter at one end of the room. He took his
seat at a table; the proprietor brought him a bottle and a glass.

There were more than a dozen men seated about this stone-walled room. They were a hard lot, these
rowdies of the underworld. Their conversation seemed to lull as they paused to throw sidelong glances at
the man who had entered. Then the subdued buzz was resumed. Evidently the face of the arrival had
gained recognition.

Such was the case. This hang-out was known as "Red Mike's," in honor of its ruddy-faced proprietor.
Only the most capable of gunmen were allowed within the place. Admission here was a mark of
gangland's approval.

The man who had entered was known to most of the patrons at Red Mike's. Conceded to be one of the
most dangerous characters in the bad lands, he was welcome. Thick, bloated lips announced his identity
in an undertone.

The arrival was Cliff Marsland, one of the coolest handlers of a gat that the underworld had known.
CLIFF MARSLAND, steady-faced and firm-eyed, knew that his appearance here had caused a buzz of
comment. Yet there was nothing in his action that indicated any notice of those about him. Cliff was a