"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 009 - Mobsmen on the Spot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Like a flash, Ernie's hand came from beneath his coat. His arm shot forward, and the muzzle of his
automatic was buried against Waldron's body. There were two muffled reports. The storage racketeer
sprawled forward upon the desk.

Ernie Shires laughed sullenly. He thrust his automatic into his pocket. Then, as an afterthought, he
withdrew the weapon, wiped the handle, and dropped it on the table beside Waldron's body.

"So you've got your gorillas!" he said, in a low, sarcastic tone, addressing the inert form of the racketeer.
"That's why there were some new mugs in the lobby to-night!

"You're up here alone, waiting for a tough guy, Cliff Marsland, who's been spotted by your gang! Well,
let him come! See what happens to him!"

Ernie Shires turned on his heel and left the room. Only the body of Tim Waldron remained. From the
vest-clad form, blood oozed forth and formed a crimson pool upon the stationery that bore the title:
"Storage Warehouse Security Association."

Tim Waldron's racketтАФwhich only he could controlтАФwas now no more than a name, and even that
name was now being literally blotted out with blood!

There was silence in the room of death. Silence that was undisturbed except for a slight rattling at the
window, which might easily have been caused by the rumbling of an elevated train at the other side of the
shaky old building.
The pool of blood spread over the top of the desk, while the room of death awaited its new arrival.

CHAPTER III. A STRANGE MEETING
THE clock on the table in the outer room of Tim Waldron's little suite had ticked off ten minutes since the
departure of Ernie Shires. The door from the hallway opened, and a man walked into the apartment.

He closed the door carefully behind him. He turned to view his surroundings. Seeing no one, he quietly
seated himself and lighted a cigarette.

The appearance of this new visitor was distinctly different from that of the usual mobster who came to
Tim Waldron's headquarters.

He was neither roughly dressed nor flashily attired. He represented neither of the extremes. He could not
have been classed as a tough gorilla nor as a smooth racketeer.

His face, too, was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. His features were firm and
well-molded. His eyes were blue in color, and his hair was light. He seemed more the athlete than the
gangster.

Yet there was a threat in his square jaw, and his immobile expression carried a certain forcefulness.

It had been nearly eight years since he had been identified with New York's underworld. Eight years is a
long time in gangdom. Yet the name of Cliff Marsland was not forgotten!

As the minutes went by, Marsland retained his expression of immobility. He was a man who seemed
accustomed to waiting. He lighted a second cigarette in a mechanical fashion; then a third.