"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 001 - The Living Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

opened the door on the right and Vincent saw a man's head and shoulders jutting up.

"Stick 'em up!" came a rough voice. Vincent raised his hands as he saw the glint of a revolver barrel. It
was a holdup - a daring crime on this side street of Manhattan!
Then something emerged from the darkened corner of the limousine. It spread like a huge monster of the
night, a black shape that swept forward and enveloped the gangster in its folds. There was a muffled cry,
then a pistol shot, and the car suddenly darted forward.

The door closed with a crash. Through the rear window of the limousine, Vincent saw a man sprawled in
the street. Evidently it was the fellow who had attempted the holdup.

Then the car burst into the glare of the lights on Fifth Avenue. Vincent turned quickly to the corner where
his strange companion sat. Now he would see his mysterious companion face to face!

But, except for himself, the car was empty. He was alone in the limousine. A dark splotch showed on the
inside of the door; he touched it and found blood on his hand.

Who had been wounded - the shadowy stranger or the assailant who had tried to enter the limousine?
Vincent could not guess; he only knew that in the brief struggle the man who had found him on the bridge
had left the automobile - unseen and unheard - and the door had closed behind him.

The mysterious stranger had vanished - like a shadow!

CHAPTER II. THE FIRST MESSAGE
HARRY VINCENT was annoyed as the big limousine sped along Fifth Avenue. The promise he had
made to the stranger was still uppermost in his mind, and he intended fully to keep his word. But his mind
was busy ferreting out the strange things that had happened since the episode on the bridge.

Alone, now, with thoughts of suicide gone, he began to wonder what coincidence had brought the
stranger out of the night, and by what strange trick he had managed to disappear so completely.

He found the light switch in the automobile and turned it on to examine the rich upholstery, which bore
the stain of blood. The car was an imported Supra; that, at least, was tangible evidence. It would not be
difficult to learn the name of the man who owned it.

The car turned from Fifth Avenue and pulled up in front of the Metrolite, one of New York's newest
hotels. The attendant opened the door and Vincent stepped to the sidewalk. Then he opened the front
door of the limousine and accosted the Negro chauffeur.

"Was this where you were told to bring me?" he asked.

"Yes, suh," replied the chauffeur. "Whah's de uddah man?"

"He left the car when the taxi nearly bumped us."

The chauffeur's eyes opened widely.

"Lawdy, sah, Ah didn't even stop at dat time."

Vincent looked at the man intently. He could see that the chauffeur was actually astonished. He put