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

see. A black finger pressed slowly against the trigger of the automatic.

"I'll tell -blurted were Rowdy's words-"tell all I know! All I know! It was Velvet Laffrey! He-he started
the game!"

A pause; Rowdy's voice became a pleading moan.

"I-I haven't seen Velvet." The big shot was insistent. "He-he told me I wouldn't see him. The dough
comes in-I get it to pay Terry Rukes. I keep my cut-"

The racketeer was trembling from head to foot. He knew the menace of The Shadow; knew that in
betraying others, he was confessing his own guilt. That was the explanation of his terror.

Rowdy Kirshing, here in gang land's most formidable stronghold, was a big shot no longer. He had
become a pitiful crook, squealing on others and blabbing his own story while cowering racketeers
crouched as listeners.

"I keep my cut!" Rowdy's voice rose to a tremolo. "It isn't my game, though. Honest-it was Velvet. It
wasn't my game to start-"

The racketeer's eyes were bulging; his hands were faltering as they clutched the bills. His lips, however,
had momentarily lost their quivering. The odd beginning of a smile had come instinctively upon Rowdy's
face.

The big shot could keep an unflinching face in a poker game. In this situation, however, he was unable to
keep from betraying the fact that luck had come his way. Rowdy's rising voice had been well timed. His
eyes had sighted a motion of the door beyond The Shadow's form.

But the lips, with their unwarranted smile, explained the reason for Rowdy's louder words. The Shadow,
although he could not hear the slight sound behind him, knew that danger lay in the direction toward
which Rowdy stared.

THE black cloak swished. Its whirling folds revealed a crimson lining as The Shadow pirouetted toward
the door. The barrier had opened. A hard-faced man, gun in hand, was peering into the room. There
were others behind him. They had heard the sound of Rowdy Kirshing's voice.

The man with the gun caught his first view of the room just as The Shadow whirled. Responding quickly,
the hard-faced fellow thrust his hand forward, with his finger against the revolver trigger.

Had The Shadow paused a split second, the rescuer would have gained the drop. But The Shadow, in
his swift about-face, had taken it for granted that an enemy was at the door. The big automatic roared as
The Shadow's rigid fist stayed with his line of vision.

The bullet found its mark. The man at the door sank back. His companions flung themselves away from
the doorway.

The Shadow could have beaded one or more of them, but The Shadow had more important game. His
swift whirl did not stop. It continued with a definite design; back to the spot which The Shadow had left.

The Shadow had foreseen Rowdy Kirshing's action. The instant that The Shadow had begun his whirl,