"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 047 - The Black Falcon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Rowdy Kirshing, however, did not turn in the direction of the barroom. He went straight ahead, crossing
the deserted lounge room until he reached one of three doors that were set in a row. He opened the
barrier and grinned as he poked his head into the room.
Four men, seated at a heavy card table, looked up as Rowdy arrived. With one accord, they beckoned
to the big shot. Rowdy entered and closed the door behind him. One of the players, rising, invited the
racketeer to join the game. Rowdy accepted.

These men were spenders. Hardened figures of the underworld, who gained their revenue through
racketeering, they used this unnamed club as their meeting place. The size of their poker game was
apparent when Rowdy Kirshing counted off five thousand dollars from the roll in his pocket and received
fifty chips in return.

THE deal began. The game proceeded. Amid clouding cigar smoke, the five players kept up terse
snatches of conversation as hundred-dollar chips changed hands as lightly as if they had been worthless
disks of cardboard.

"Seen Velvet Laffrey lately?"

Rowdy Kirshing, squeezing five cards in his left hand, peered from the corner of his eye as he heard one
player address the question to another.

"No," came the reply. "Maybe he's scrammed from town."

"They say the bulls are looking for him." The speaker paused; when no return comment came, he added:
"Maybe they think he was the guy who hooked Hubert Apprison."

Silence followed, broken only by the clicking of chips. The speaker's reference had been to the
disappearance of a prominent banker. Newspaper reports were to the effect that Hubert Apprison had
been kidnapped.

The man who had brought up the subject said no more. Direct references to individual crime activities
were taboo at this protected club. Rowdy Kirshing, his poker face inflexible, dropped four chips on the
center of the table to raise a bet.

The game continued. Rowdy's stack of chips was dwindling. Some one commented on the fact. The big
shot laughed. "Guess I'll be buying some more," he asserted. "It always takes a few grand to get started."

"What's a few grand to you, Rowdy?" laughed one of the players. "Not much," decided Rowdy. "I go in
for big dough. And it's as big as ever."

With this retort, the big shot arose from the table. He reached in his right coat pocket and counted off the
remainder of his roll, a matter of four thousand dollars. He pulled a revolver from his pocket and planked
it carelessly upon the table, while he fished in his pocket for loose bills.

Grinning as he found none, Rowdy reached into his left pocket. He drew out a fat bundle of crisp notes.
The stack was encircled with a broad strip of paper. The eyes of the players bulged as they saw the high
denominations on the bills when Rowdy Kirshing riffled the ends.

Holding the stack in his left hand, the big shot tried to pull a group of bills free from the others. He
wanted to do this without breaking the encircling paper band. The speculative players wondered why,