"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 040 - The Death Triangle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

where a battle had been waged. Heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement. Uniformed men crowded
into the parking space where an empty sedan was backed against the wall.

There had been an interval between the final shots and the arrival of the officers. During that interim, Cliff
Marsland, agent of The Shadow, had made a hurried departure. But The Shadow still remained, up in the
apartment where the police were due to converge.

The open portfolio lay upon the galaxy of gems. Long, firm hands drew forth a mass of black cloth. The
material developed into a shroud as it dropped over the white wig and false beard which The Shadow
wore. The shroud became a cloak. The Shadow's left hand, with its sparkling girasol glimmering brightly,
brought a slouch hat from the portfolio.

The hands slid the hat upward. As it reached The Shadow's head, the hat replaced the wig and beard.
The white-haired mask dropped from The Shadow's face, which was now invisible beneath the
projecting brim of the broad slouch hat. The hands bundled beard and wig into the portfolio; the pliable
bag folded and went beneath The Shadow's cloak.

Whistles from the fire escape. Shouts from below stairs. The Shadow laughed as his burning eyes once
again noted that Sparkles Lorskin, the only person present, lay oblivious to all that was transpiring.

The table again glittered with its array of jewels; a train of shining stones lay upon the floor between the
table and Sparkles Lorskin's resting place. The crook's hurtling body had swept these gems in his wake.

Swiftness, alone, could enable The Shadow to make his departure before the police arrived. Both ways
were blocked. Yet The Shadow, as he delivered his uncanny laugh, showed no haste. His hands were
drawing on black gloves. A spectral creature clad in somber garments, The Shadow scorned the need of
flight.

There was a telephone in the corner. The Shadow lifted it. He dialed a number. A response came. In
smooth, easy tones, The Shadow asked to be connected with Doctor Johan Arberg.

Sparkles Lorskin stirred. Groggy, the crook could hear the tones of The Shadow's voice. They seemed
strangely familiar to Sparkles Lorskin. There was a very definite reason. The Shadow was talking in a
perfect imitation of Sparkles Lorskin's own voice!

"Hello!" The Shadow's accents were dim in Lorskin's ears. "Doctor Johan Arberg?... This is Lorskin
calling... I am glad that I had time to call you before you left the hotel... No, a visit here will be useless...
The gems? I have disposed of them... Yes, the entire collection is gone... I was persuaded to part with
every gem that I possessed... Good-by, sir."

SPARKLES LORSKIN was rising to hands and knees. Like a man in a trance, he had heard his own
voice speak and cancel the appointment with Doctor Johan Arberg. All was a dream to Sparkles. He
vaguely remembered Arberg arriving here; then a whirl through air that had ended in temporary oblivion.

A whistle sounded from the kitchen window. The shrill noise startled Sparkles and brought him to his
senses. He saw the body of Mitts Cordy, a revolver lying beside the dead gang leader's form. Wildly,
Sparkles clutched the weapon.

Instinctively, the crook turned toward the telephone, to the spot where he had heard his own voice
carrying on a conversation. There was no one at that spot. Then came pounding at the outer door. Rising