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

Shadow when the detectives made their premature entrance.

Cardona suspected nothing. Only The Shadow knew that some great crime was brewing. Yet he had
gained only an inkling from Hawk Forster before circumstances had forced him to make a rapid exit.

Danger threatened Daniel Antrim, a lawyer who dealt with criminals. When that danger struck, it would
mark the beginning of rampant crime.

Vile plans were under way! With Hawk Forster dead, none but the schemers themselves knew what the
details were.

Only The Shadow could meet these enemies of the law. To do so, he must learn both source and nature
of the contemplated crime which Hawk Forster's sealed lips could never tell!
Could The Shadow uncover the plot, wherever it might be brewing?

CHAPTER II. MAN WITH A MISSION
THE trim yacht Vesta was plowing smoothly through the mild blue waters of the Gulf Stream. Upon the
rear deck, beneath a widespread canopy, sat four men, dressed in suits of cool pongee.

Glasses clinked in their hands. Often their conversation was broken with ribald laughter. The four
appeared a typical group of pleasure-seekers, with nothing more to do than enjoy to the fullest the
luxurious life of tropical seas.

There was a definite ease of equality about these men; each seemed to possess poise and leadership. In
action, manner, and deportment, they were much alike. Yet in facial appearance and physical
proportions, there were noticeable differences.

The difference became particularly evident during a peculiar ceremony which the men performed. They
were drinking to the health of each in turn - apparently a regular procedure. One man would keep to his
seat as the other three stood and lifted their glasses.

"To George Ellsworth," those drinking the toast first recited in unison, "the best of luck and health!"

They drank and sat down, plopping their empty glasses before the man whom they had toasted.

"Fill them up, Butcher. Fill them up!"

The one called George Ellsworth complied. His manner was characteristic of his nickname, "Butcher." He
was a big, bluff fellow, some forty odd years of age. His face was full, his lips jocular. His fat, beefy hand
gripped the bottle and filled the glasses.

Then Ellsworth rose, and two others got to their feet with him. The fourth of the group remained seated.

"To Howard Best," came the chant, "the best of luck and health!"

Down went the drinks; down plopped the glasses.

"Your turn to fill them, Deacon," said Butcher.

Solemn-faced and taciturn, Howard Best silently filled the glasses, his white, scrawny hands tense. He