"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 027 - The Silent Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Even now, The Shadow was circling to deliver a return shot. Brooks, dropping toward the floor with
Hunnefield's body, again tried to fire through the perfect loophole formed by the secretary's arm and
body.

The Shadow's task seemed impossible. Brooks showed the revolver muzzle as the only target. To shoot
that tiny spot would surely cause injury to the one brave man who had tried to foil the invaders.
Hunnefield, still unconscious, was under The Shadow's protection.

The revolver muzzle turned. As it spat flame, The Shadow's tall form hurtled to the floor. Brooks cried
out in exultation. In his excitement, the false butler did not realize that The Shadow's drop had begun
before the shot was fired. It was a ruseтАФnot a sign of good aim by Brooks.

As the butler instinctively shifted, believing that he had wounded his opponent, The Shadow's right band
fired from the floor. The bullet from the .45 struck the first portion of the butler's body that was
uncoveredтАФhis left shoulder.

Brooks, anxious to put a sure end to The Shadow, was aiming his revolver just as the bullet from the
automatic clipped his shoulder. With a frenzied cry, the man toppled sidewise and struck upon his right
elbow. Hunnefield's body flattened in front of him.

Though wounded, Brooks was not through. Had he desisted then, the false butler might have received no
further token of The Shadow's power. But Brooks was determined to fight to the end.

Flopping forward upon Hunnefield's form, he dropped his right fist upon the secretary's chest and, with
glowering eyes directly above the sights of his revolver, aimed to kill the one who menaced him from the
floor.

Glowering, Duster Brooks was staring straight into the burning eyes that shone from beneath the hat brim.
Like The Shadow, he was facing a gun muzzle, for the menacing automatic had turned to cover him.
Brooks had a life-sized targetтАФthe entire figure of the black-garbed fighter.

The Shadow, in opposition, had only one mark at which to aim. The butler's revolver muzzle was the
center point, with the human face behind it. It was a race for the first shot.

If Brooks won, woe to The Shadow! If The Shadow won, his aim would have to be perfect, for if he
missed the slender opportunity, Brooks would fire a shot that would wound, even though it failed to kill.

Fingers pressed upon triggers. The shots barked almost with simultaneous sound.

But The Shadow's missile was delivered a split second before Brooks sent his shot. No time watch could
have calculated that fractional difference. It could be measured only by the space of time required for the
bullet to leave The Shadow's automatic and reach its mark. The leaden messenger struck just as Brooks
was firing. Planted squarely between the false butler's eyes, its powerful impact swung the gangster's
head backward with jarring force. The revolver hand moved upward with the jar. The bullet from the
butler's gun swished the top of The Shadow's slouch hat and crashed into the wall beyond.

THE SHADOW rose from the floor. The duel of death was ended. By a margin so narrow that it
seemed incredible, the black-garbed rescuer had gained the victory over his stubborn foeman. Duster
Brooks, hardened fighter from the bad lands, had fired his last shot.