"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 290 - Death has Grey Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CERTAINLY no one going down in the elevator would have guessed that the
square-jawed young man with the wavy hair who looked so at home in his tuxedo,
was Dick Whitlock, former bombardier.
There was a tall, calm-faced man in the elevator whose immaculate evening
attire was a far cry from the cloaked garb worn by a dangling figure that had
navigated a cable crossing a chasm on the Swiss border. Dick wouldn't have
believed that the two were the same, even if he'd recalled the incident
itself.
Right now, Dick was mixing all such stuff with childhood recollections of
Coney
Island.
As for the man in evening clothes, he didn't have to guess who Dick
Whitlock was; he knew.
That was why this gentleman, who called himself Lamont Cranston, had done
an about face upon arrival at the Starview Roof. He'd come there to find Dick
Whitlock and meeting him going out, Cranston had followed along.
There was a side street exit on the ground floor and Dick used it, since
the one-way thoroughfare promised a cab going his direction. To get a cab at
this hour, you walked to a lighted spot, waved your arm and whistled at every
vehicle that came along.
Only Dick didn't reach the lighted portion of the curb.
Slinking suddenly from a darkened doorway, two men with upturned collars
flanked Dick on either side and prodded his ribs with knife points. So sharp
were the points that a thrust could have proved fatal.
For a few surprised moments, Dick thought he was back in the outskirts of
a German village under the threat of Nazi bayonets; then, remembering that
this
was New York, he gave a hard, short laugh.
These must he some of the "muggers" he had heard about, human dregs who
came into circulation when demands of war had siphoned off the best of
Manhattan's manpower. Dick thought the mugger question had been dealt with,
but
apparently there had been a carry-over. Something of a privilege, Dick
decided,
to do some settling of that question on his own.
Fists tightening, Dick didn't mind the twinge in his right arm as the
ugly
pair veered him toward their doorway. One knife was lifting, obviously for
Dick's throat. This was the time to swing hard.
Half-poised, Dick saw the nearest knife.
It wasn't a mere jack-knife, whetted to a needle point. The thing was a
regular dirk with a full-fledged blade. Its owner wasn't lifting the knife for
a stab, he was bringing it to position for a cross-slash. The face with it,
sallow and mustached, had eyes with a snake's glitter that said without words,
that they intended murder, not robbery.
A half-step backward and Dick was under the threat of a duplicate dirk
which came up with scintillating speed. A pasty-face with dark-streaked
cheeks,
showed the same venomous purpose that the other had displayed. Two snarls