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

prosecution brought out the fact that he had been gambling for several years, losing much more
oftener than he won. Rayburn, on the stand, had expressed a belief that Trent was innocent. The
jury decided otherwise. Trent was scheduled to burn at midnight tonight for murder. It was
around nine o'clock now.

Moran's frown deepened.

The letter could be a bright stunt that Wilma Trent was pulling to delay her brother's
execution. The someone trying to enter her apartment, presumably after the letter, and the
dead telephone could be parts of that plan.

But if the letter was on the level and there was a Charlie Ricker, Ricker was in real
danger. Wilma Trent herself was in danger. The person or persons who had tried to enter her
apartment could be waiting for the girl to leave, waiting to kill her and get the letter. If
Moran could get the girl out of the apartment without being seen, get her to the Eagle Hotel
and talk to Charlie Ricker--

"Where's the fire escape?" Moran's eyes were glistening.

"At the end of the hall." Wilma Trent came to her feet, pointing with her left hand. Her
eyes went to the telephone receiver, which Moran hadn't bothered to replace. The color drained
from her small, oval face, leaving islands of rouge. Her eyes seemed to become larger. "You
don't mean they cut--"

The sharp whisper of a key being slid into the lock of the apartment door made Moran spin
away from the telephone table! The realization that Wilma Trent was not playing a studied role
drove him into rapid action.

Two long, quick strides took him to the girl. A thrust of his left hand pushed her, squeal-

ing in fright, in between the overstuffed chair and the davenport.

"Get down on the floor behind the chair and stay there!" he snapped. and at the same instant
leaped away from the girl, toward the other side of the room. As he moved, his right hand flip-
ped the heavy service gun from its holster under his left arm.

Even as he came around to face the apartment door, it flung wide open and he saw two men in
the opening.

The two men were of about the same size, slightly built. Both wore smartly cut blue suits
and gray snapbrims. Moran had never seen either of them before. They stood shoulder to shoulder
in the doorway, both holding heavy blued automatics. Moran saw the two guns come up and swing
toward him. Above the two weapons, the eyes of the two men were hard and bright and merciless
--the eyes of killers!

Moran fired deliberately at the nearest man, and the gun roar blasted deafeningly in the
apartment! Flame licked out from the doorway as the second man fired. The slug flicked Moran's
black hat from his head. Through the haze, he saw the first man drop his gun and clutch at his
chest with both hands. There was red on his thin fingers. His legs started folding beneath his
slight body.