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

form concealed by an inky, flowing cloak; his gloved hands gripping a pair of deadly automatics - such
was The Shadow.

The Shadow, it was rumored, was a master of disguise. The Shadow, it had been proven, knew much, if
not all, concerning activities in the underworld. He gave no quarter to those who dealt in crime. None
were immune once The Shadow had marked them for destruction.

THIS was why Squawky feared. The unknown gangster; the black sweater; the silhouette upon the floor
- these brought beads of perspiration to the stool pigeon's forehead.

The Shadow was independent of the police. Squawky, as a stool pigeon, could gain no immunity should
he incur The Shadow's wrath. The presence of this mysterious stranger kept Squawky in a tremble. Until
he found proof that The Shadow was watching some one other than himself, Squawky was afraid to
move.
Wresting his gaze from the floor, Squawky blinked at the bottle as he helped himself to another drink. He
did not dare to gaze to the right. His furtive, timorous glances were all brief ones, toward Trigger
Maddock, at the left. Even these were few. Squawky still feared that The Shadow's eyes were upon
him.

Two men entered the Pink Rat. They looked like small-fry mobsters. One came slouching over toward
Trigger's table. He clapped the gangleader on the back and mouthed a friendly greeting. Trigger,
apparently annoyed by the fellow's approach, snarled in reply. The newcomer grinned in apologetic
fashion. He began to sidle away. Trigger arose and followed him a few paces.

For a moment, the pair stood jaw to jaw. Trigger shoved the other man's shoulder. Still snarling, the
gangleader went back to his table. The small-fry crook rejoined his companion.

Squawky had seen the brief altercation. His eyes naturally followed the man whom Trigger had rebuked.
But there were eyes that followed Trigger instead. Those watching eyes were the optics of the sweatered
stranger whose gaze Squawky Sugler feared.

The sweatered watcher had seen a shift of hands. He saw Trigger, as he moved away, thrust his fist into
his inside pocket. The small-fry crook had delivered something to Trigger Maddock.

Neither of Trigger's gorillas had detected the move. Like Squawky, they had taken the affair only as an
unpleasant meeting that had not been to Trigger's liking. But the sweatered watcher was ready for the
aftermath which came.

Trigger Maddock swallowed a drink. He spoke to his companions. They nodded. Rising, the gangleader
strolled toward the door. Squawky, gripping his bottle, began to pour a third drink.

There was a motion at Squawky's right. The sweatered mobster arose. His trousers, like his sweater,
were black. He strolled toward another exit. No one was concerned with his departure.

When Squawky Sugler had gulped his drink, he gazed unthinkingly toward the floor beside the table on
the right. The silhouette was gone. Squawky looked up; he blinked when he saw that the table had been
vacated.

With a sigh of relief, the stool settled back in his chair. Concerned no more with Trigger Maddock,
relieved of the fear which he had felt toward the stranger whom he had suspected to be The Shadow, the