"deaddonttalk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Blackmon Robert C)

If the little man in the ditch had been one of the fake-fight men, there was a chance
that Weir would contact the other tonight! Having killed the first man, he would have to
try for the second before the death of the first became publicly known! If Benton could
catch Weir and the second man together--

They rolled into East City, Benton's roadster about three blocks behind the coupe. Weir
moved slower along the city streets, and Benton cut his lead down to a block. Weir pulled
in to the curb before an old, dark brick apartment building, well out of the business dis-
trict. He left his coupe, crossed the sidewalk with long, purposeful strides and went into
the building.

Quickly, Benton parked his roadster behind the coupe and went after Weir, every nerve
in his lanky body tingling.

A narrow, thinly carpeted stairway thrust up from the building entrance to the second
floor. Benton went up the flight, moving as fast and as quietly as he could. Far above, he
could hear Weir mounting the next flight.

Reaching the second floor, he heard Weir on the stairway above, going to the third floor.
Then Weir was walking along a hallway. He made about twenty steps, a door opened and closed,
and Weir's footsteps were gone.

Benton's lips were flattened against his teeth as he went on to the third floor. The
hallway extended but a few feet to the left, so Weir had walked to the right along the dimly
lighted passage. Four doors opened into the hallway on that side.

Benton left the stairhead. Carefully, he eased to the first door, held his wet hat in
his right hand, and pressed his ear to the scarred panels. He held his breath for a few
moments, listening.

No sound came from the room beyond the door.

Benton tried the next door, grinned tightly as he again heard nothing, and moved on to
the third door. Wet hat in his right hand, he pressed an ear against the door panels, and his
lanky body stiffened as he heard the restaurant owner's harsh, nasal voice. Weir was saying:

"--already settled with Frank Anders for his share, Joe. We should clean this thing up
before the kid gets his in court next week. I'm ready to--"

Another, shrill voice cut in.

"We ought to wait until the heat's off, Morris. That was smart figuring, that fight;
but you're figuring too smart, now. Maybe you're figuring Frank and I will sell out cheap
while we're still nervous about the cops hunting us. Maybe you figure to give us less, that
way. Me--maybe I ought to hang onto the stuff I have until the market goes up, eh, Morris?
I ought to get more for it later, eh?"

There was a short, shrill laugh.