"Goodrich, Clifford - The Underground Trail - Av 4910" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodrich Clifford)

Fred Fisher tracks extortion and murder through--


THE UNDERGROUND TRAIL
by Clifford Goodrich



FRED FISHER's lanky frame humped wearily as he climbed the creaking stairs of the old hotel. He
had no thought of danger, no thought of any kind, in fact, except the tired conviction that the man
he intended to see probably would refuse to talk.

Ordinarily, Fred Fisher was cheerful and optimistic; but the events of the last three weeks had
robbed him of all that.

And all because he could find no one who would talk.

Some cases are tough, others are tougher, Fred Fisher had been told when he'd joined the F. B.
I. The corners of Fisher's mouth drew down bitterly. The guy who'd told him that hadn't known the
half of it.

It was bad enough to work on a case when you actually knew that a crime had been committed. But
then you at least had something to work on. This time there wasn't even that much to go on. There
was nothing but rumors, vague and elusive, but still insistent enough that they couldn't be ignored.

Those rumors said extortion was being practiced on a large number of people, a particularly
dirty, vicious type of extortion. Sums running high into the thousands were reported to have been
paid. There had even been a name or so mentioned, names of a few who purportedly had been victims.

Fred Fishsr had cailed on those who had been named. He had learned exactly nothing. No one would
talk, no one wouid even admit there had heen any attempt to extort money. That might have ended
it--except for one thing. For Fisher knew they had been Iying!

Without. exception every man he had questioned: had shown fear, a blind, seemingly unreasoning
fear. A fear that had sealed lips as tightly as death.

The Federal agent swore softly. He reached the top of the stairs, turned down a dimly lighted
hallway. Perhaps this time it would be different. At least this man had volunteered information, had
written and asked that an F. B. I. agent call on him.

"But no one who lives in a dump like this could be a target for extortion," Fisher reflected
gloomily, "I'll bet he either knows nothing, or has changed his mind and won't talk."

A frown creased his high forehead. The letter received at F. B. I. headquarters had asked for an
agent to call at Room 402 at the Flannery Hotel, at 8 p. m. He was standing before Room 402; it was
8 p. m., but no light came from the old-fashioned transom over the door. There was no sound.

For just a moment a thin chill of premonition gripped Fred Fisher. Then he shrugged. If he was
getting to the part where he imagined things, it was time he quit the case and let someone else take