"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 017 - The Five Chameleons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Hawk Forster was pouncing forward. The Shadow saw the reason. In front of one of the men who was
clambering from the flattened door lay a gleaming revolver.

The rising man was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force. His gun had shot from his grasp
when he plunged in with the door.

That revolver meant salvation for Hawk Forster. The inrush of the police had ended The Shadow's
opportunity to hear what Hawk knew. Now the menacing figure had departed, and Hawk saw his
chance to thwart the men who sought to capture him.

Hawk's clawing fingers closed upon the revolver. Up came the weapon, before Cardona could reach it
with a futile clutch. The second detective was raising his gun, too late. Hawk's finger was on the trigger of
the revolver. The gangster's puffy lips were snarling their triumph.

As Hawk's finger moved, a shot resounded. It did not come from the gun that the murderer had grabbed.
Instead, the report issued from the balcony outside the window.

The Shadow's automatic had spoken! Hawk's last chance was gone! The revolver dropped from his
hand as The Shadow's bullet shattered his wrist. For a split second, the men on the floor formed an
unmoving tableau.

Hawk Forster was staring at his useless hand. Joe Cardona was sprawled forward, at the end of a
hopeless effort to seize the gangster's arm. The second detective was stupefied as he rested on one knee.
None noticed the curl of smoke that weaved inward from the opened window.

Hawk was the first to act, despite his bewilderment. He shot out his left hand to seize the gun. Cardona
was wriggling sidewise to gain the weapon. The other detective had his opportunity, and used it. He fired
twice over Cardona's back.

Hawk's mad spring ended in a twisting slump. The rat-faced gangster fell sidelong, and rolled upon his
back. His bulging eyes must have fancied that they again saw the black clad figure of The Shadow, for
terror came over Hawk's face as he coughed out inarticulate words.

Cardona heard the utterances, but could not understand them. He did not know that the dying man was
trying to complete an interrupted statement; that Hawk Forster, on the rim of the beyond, was squealing.
Then the eyes closed. The rat-faced gunman was dead.

Joe Cardona, his revolver regained, scrambled to his feet and looked about the room. His companion
sprang forward to look at the dead man.

"Where did that shot come from?" growled Cardona. "Somebody clipped him right when we needed it
most. Wasn't any of us -"

He paused as his gaze took in the opened window. Cardona motioned his companion back toward the
doorway, while he himself slipped along the wall and approached the blackened casement.

True, the single shot had saved Cardona's life; but had the man who fired it intended to aid the detective
or hinder him? Cardona had seen shots like that go astray through strange twists of luck.