"Shadow - 360215 - Back Pages - Grace Culver - Hit The Baby" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Roswell)

Undiffused, it hit the gay canvas of the backdrop. And against the canvas, arms
above heads, the "Love Locked Out" company huddled like sheep.
The direct glare from above, pointed full into their eyes, blinded them. Staring
into it, with various expressions of fear or baffled rage, Grace could, glimpse
Ziegler, Lulu Dore, Big Tim, Jerry, Eisman. And it was hands up high for every
one. Tyson's masterly surprise, depending only on blanked lights and fiendish
speed, had caught them all!
From the utter darkness behind the light, a deep, cold voice-the scarred killer's
voice-was speaking:
"All right, Miss Dore. Off with the emeralds. All of 'em! Hold them in front of
you at arm's length. Now walk forward, toward my voice. You can't see me. I
won't shoot unless-"
Grace ducked. An inch or so to her left, where the brief flash of light had
shown as she whipped through the door, something whizzed past with the silken
sigh a hurled knife makes, Butch Pember's shout followed it.
"Boss! Somebody just came through the door-"
Up snapped the automatic in Grace's cold fingers. The trigger kicked daintily
at her expert touch, and a little orange eye of flame winked once. It didn't wink in
Pember's direction, though.
There was a tinkle of shattering glass. The girl from Noonan's whirled back
against the roller door and dropped to "" knees, as the bullet-riddled spotlight
sputtered out.
Instant lead, pumped from two angles at once, snarled in the place where she
had stood a split-second before.
Somebody shouted: "Cops!"
Feet thudded across the stage, running frantically. Women screamed. Tim's
warning yell split the tumult: "It might be Redsie, Jerry! Don't shoot unless-" The
hammer of racing feet drew nearer, nearer, nearer-
Still crouching, Grace swung to face the spot where the small hinged door
would offer the crooks their only out. Nothing to do but wait. Her jaw was set.
Suddenly, light appeared. A square of garish high noon showed, against which
three backs in seething, crowded motion were outlined sharply. They had closed
in on the exit together. Now Tyson was shoving back Butch Pember. Waxy Lubin
was crowding into Tyson.
"Stop! Right there!"
They didn't stop. Butch bellowed frantically. Waxy went down on one knee,
flung backward by Tyson's shoulder. Grace clipped a single shot above their
heads.
"You get the next ones! I mean that!"
She did, and they knew she did. The fact that she was there at their backs,
instead of locked in a burning closet, argued coldly for her feeling about them. Up
crept their arms. Rage, impotent hatred, showed in the set of their backs; but not
one of them tried out that move they had been warned against.
Grace lifted her voice.
"Lights, please! There are your zombies, Mr. Eisman; and you'll find the real
curse in a camera over at the watchman's bungalow. Let's have a look at 'em.
There's plenty of arcs and what-not for somebody to turn on around the place,
even if one of my slugs did have to-er-hit the baby!"