"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 036 - The Isle of Doubt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

was plunged into darkness. A soft swish announced the motion of an unseen being. Then, amid the weird
blackness came a shuddering tone that throbbed forth the sound of sardonic mirth.

The laugh of The Shadow! Rising in ghoulish mockery, that amazing cry cleaved its way through the solid
atmosphere. It broke into a chilling taunt, and died away, but in its wake came a myriad of wavering
echoes. A host of demonic throats seemed shrouded in those blackened walls; lingering reverberations
came back in waves that might have issued from the vaults of another world.

When the last reluctant echo had faded, deep silence pervaded the empty sanctum of The Shadow. The
master of darkness had gone. A phantom, he had glided forth upon the quest that would lead him to the
spot where men of crime were due.

The Shadow's plans were made. Tonight, his hand would strike. Before it fell, however, all participants in
crime would be enmeshed. Until Burbank's call would announce the final report from Harry Vincent, The
Shadow would remain unseen.

That would be the final word to The ShadowтАФthe signal that would loose the dread avenger's might!

CHAPTER II. THE THIRD MAN
FIVE minutes past eleven. Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, was seated in an easy-chair in his room
at the Hotel Slater. He, like Burbank, was wearing ear phones, but the instruments on Vincent's ears
served a most unusual purpose.

They were connected to dictograph wire which came from a room across the hallway. Hidden from
Harry's view, but brought within his range of hearing, Possum Quill and Lefty Hotz were discussing their
part in to-night's crime, as they prepared to leave on their appointed mission.

Harry had learned all the important details. He was still listening in, hoping to glean a few new items of
information. While he waited, The Shadow's agent visualized the scene in the other room. He could
picture Possum Quill, shrewd and cunning-faced, talking with Lefty Hotz, a hard-visaged gorilla.

Harry had seen both of the men upon whom he was spying. They, on the contrary, had never seen Harry
Vincent.

Hence, Possum and Lefty, as they chatted in their room, had no idea that their conversation was being
overheard by any one.

Possum Quill, sprawled in an easy-chair beside the window, was flicking cigarette ashes over the top of
the radiator. Those ashes were trickling past the microphone which The Shadow, himself, had planted
there during Possum's absence.

Lefty Hotz, big and lumbering, was leaning against the doorway that led into a smaller room. He lacked
Possum's calmness. His attitude showed that he was nothing more than a henchman of the crook by the
window.

тАЬGettin' close to eleven thirty,тАЭ growled Lefty, in an impatient tone.

тАЬTwenty minutes to wait,тАЭ retorted Possum, staring idly toward the city lights beyond the window. тАЬKeep
your shirt on, Lefty. We're in no kind of hurry.тАЭ