"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 059 - The Crime Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

who might need them. Meanwhile, they were clever enough to evade the law. So far, the police had
never been able to hang sure evidence upon Trigger Maddock.

Trigger's presence in the Pink Rat was not unusual. This place was one of his favored hangouts. Others
of his type had their own chosen spots. They, like Trigger, made it a practice to meet their henchmen at
appointed places in the badlands.

Squawky Sugler became watchful. His furtive glances returned at regular intervals toward Trigger
Maddock. Anxious to gain some information, the stool pigeon was looking for any sign that might
indicate coming action on the gangleader's part. Yet no such sign came.

HALF an hour passed. Squawky shifted in his chair. He began to feel uncomfortable - afraid that some
one might be noting the watch that he was keeping on Trigger. Squawky's eyes roved about the room.
They came to a sudden stop.

In watching Trigger, Squawky had been looking toward the left. For the first time, he observed a person
on the right. Seated at a table not more than a dozen feet away was a lone gangster whose eyes met
Squawky's as the stoolie stared in his direction.

Squawky did not recognize the mobster. But he crouched uneasily as he studied the stranger's visage.
Squawky saw an immobile face - a countenance as fixed as a statue's. A hawklike nose, from its sides a
pair of piercing eyes that held the compelling stare of a hypnotist.

The focused gaze seemed to burn through the startled stool pigeon. Squawky's clawing hands scratched
at the table beside the bottle. Squawky feared that this strange watcher had spotted him as a police
informant.

The stranger was wearing a turtle-neck sweater, black in color. Its heavy folds gave him an impressive
bulk; though seated, it was apparent that he must be at least six feet tall. Sinking in his chair, Squawky
managed to wrest his gaze from those weird, blazing eyes. Slowly, the stool pigeon looked toward the
floor beside the other table.

There he saw a streak of blackness. It might have been a continuation of the bulky sweater. It loomed
wide upon the floor; and Squawky, staring as he blinked, observed that it ended in a striking silhouette -
a profile of the hawklike visage that lay as motionless as though it were etched upon the floor.

Squawky shuddered. He reached for the bottle. His hand shook as he poured himself a drink. Drops
trickled from the lip of the glass; the liquid dabbed Squawky's hand. More spattered on the stool
pigeon's chin as Squawky raised the glass to his lips.

There was reason for Squawky's terror. That silhouette, as formidable as the form above it, brought
grotesque thoughts to the stool pigeon's fevered brain. It reminded Squawky of a dread being whose
name he had heard whispered through the underworld - The Shadow!

Big shots had quailed through fear of The Shadow. For The Shadow was known as a superfighter, a lone
wolf who roved the underworld, preying upon all who dealt in crime. A phantom of darkness, a living
being who could travel unseen, The Shadow was the mighty foe of crookdom.

Dying gangsters had gasped The Shadow's name. Others, who had gained respite through flight, had told
of seeing him. A figure clad entirely in black; his eyes like living coals beneath the brim of a slouch hat; his