"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 126 - Treasure Trail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

WESTON was rooted. Totally astonished, he made himself a perfect target. His white shirt front, his
tuxedoed shoulders were a plain sight against the green cedar trees that lined the wall of the Cobalt
Club.

As the cards stood at that moment, New York City was due to have a new police commissioner on the
morrow.

Fortunately, other eyes had seen the glistening gun muzzle. They were the hawkish eyes of Cranston,
whose gaze had followed the commissioner's dash. While Weston halted, while the murderer in the car
poised his gun hand for sure aim, The Shadow sprang to action.

Though he still wore the evening attire of Cranston, he showed the speed that characterized The Shadow.
With whippet speed, he took a diving lunge across the sidewalk, straight for Weston. The commissioner
was bulky; but Cranston's drive bowled him over like a pillow-load of feathers.

With low, hard shoulder lunge, The Shadow sent Weston headlong through the cedars that fronted the
Cobalt Club. Hitting the space beyond, Weston plumped flat behind the wooden, earth-filled boxes at
the bottom of the trees. The crash was a hard one; particularly for Weston's dignity, but it preserved him
for the office of police commissioner.

The revolver stabs that came from the cab window sent bullets whistling past the very spot where
Weston had stood.

Those slugs did not find the figure of Cranston. The well-clad rescuer was on hands and knees, below
the line of fire. The murderer saw him, dipped his gun to fire low. The aiming weapon veered a trifle.
Cranston was coming to his feet. The gunner expected to clip him as he took a forward step.

Instead the figure of Cranston bounded backward with a twist. Without a glance at the cab, The Shadow
had guessed what the murderer's move would be. The gun spat its deadly bullet. The shot was wide.

Swinging hastily to gain another shot, the marksman was belated. His last bullets sizzled above the
deserted sidewalk, as the figure of Cranston dived between cars that lined the curb.

Twice foiled, the man in the cab chose flight. His gun muzzle jabbed the cab driver's neck. The hackie did
not wait to question whether the revolver still held bullets. He had not counted the gun blasts. His only
thought was to obey any orders that came from the rear seat, and trust that he would be allowed to live.

Waiting only until a passing car rolled by, the cabby started his machine out into traffic. Some cars had
sped clear; others were veering to the curb, their drivers frightened by the gunfire. There were shouts
from the sidewalks; shrills of police whistles, but all were far away.

The avenue had opened into a zigzag path. The scene was set for the getaway of the cab that had
brought Skipper Cray to the Cobalt Club. A killer's thrusts had failed; but the man himself was on the
way to freedom.

CHAPTER II. CRIME'S VICTIM
COMMISSIONER WESTON, peering through the cedar branches, saw the cab begin its flight. His
jarring fall, the reverberations of the gunfire, had combined to jolt Weston from his dumfounded state.
Weston cursed the fact that he was powerless. He, commander of law in New York, with thousands of