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

"The fire escape is just in back of this building," he explained. "The kitchen is one window to the right.
You'll get my signal if I need you -"

"Sh-h!" came a warning whisper from the rear seat. "Wait a minute, Mitts."

THE man in back was peering from the side of the sedan. Two who sat beside him craned their necks in
the same direction. Tough fists tightened on the handles of revolvers. Strained silence added to suspense.
At last, the warner spoke again.

"Guess I was goofy, Mitts," he remarked. "Thought I saw somebody, but I was wrong."

"Whereabouts?" quizzed "Mitts."

"Out by the front corner of the building," responded the man in back. "I didn't see nobody - but I sorta
saw somethin' blot out that light across the street. It wasn't nothin' important, though. I've been lookin'
close since then."

"There's nobody out there," growled another fellow in the rear.

"Keep your eyes open, anyway," ordered Mitts. "Remember what I told you. One window to the right of
the fire escape -"

"Which floor, Mitts?"

"The third."

With his final statement, the man beside the driver alighted from the sedan and moved off through the
darkness. Those in the car remained silent. Toughened, experienced mobsters, the four were waiting until
their chief had left the vicinity. Later, they would watch for the signal from behind the house.

The departing leader did not appear in view until he had reached the street. There, he went up the front
steps of the building, and entered an open door. He stood in the dim light of an apartment-house lobby
which had once been the vestibule of a home.

Picking from the name cards beside a row of push buttons, the gang leader pressed. The name on the
card was Ralph Lorskin. This was the name to which the visitor referred when he heard a voice through
the old-fashioned telephone receiver which hung from the wall.

"Mr. Lorskin?" he questioned.

"Yes," came the cautious reply. "Who is calling?"

"Hello, Sparkles," growled the visitor, with a low laugh. "This is Mitts Cordy."

"Come up," was the prompt order that came through the wall phone.

Mitts Cordy turned toward the outer door. He was a big man, with an iron jaw, and hard, close-lidded
eyes. He glanced keenly toward the street to make sure that no outsider was watching him. Then, as the
buzz came from the door, he swung quickly and entered the decadent inner hall.