"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 053 - Tower of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

This was a hangout for gorillas. Here one could find the toughest thugs in all Manhattan. Desperadoes
who would kill for paltry prices convened at the Black Ship to while away the intervals between the
murders which they perpetrated.

The Black Ship was a bad place for stool pigeons. Squealers who worked for the police avoided the
dive. The regular customers were a keen lot, always on the lookout for spies of the law. Only mobsters
of recognized repute were admitted to the place.

Moreover, those gangsters who were wanted by the law made it a practice to keep away from this
hangout. The Black Ship was patronized only by those who enjoyed a clean bill of health.

Toughened gorillas wandered in and out of the dive. Apparently, the Black Ship was their resort. Yet
often, those who strolled forth were bound on crime. Whispered orders from messengers sent here by
gang leaders were frequently the cause for prompt departures.
Though the police suspected this condition, they were practically helpless. If detectives or stool pigeons
loitered in the Black Ship or its vicinity, they would be promptly spotted. The tip would pass about.
Gorillas would be wary. They would choose some other rendezvous.

Tonight, the Black Ship was buzzing with muffled conversation. Mobsters, gathered in small groups, were
talking affairs among themselves. Sometimes raucous laughter broke the mumbles. All was well at the
Black Ship.

AMONG the habitues of the dive was a firm-faced young man who sat at a table near one side of the
room. He was talking with an unshaven individual who sat opposite. Both of these men were well-known
at the Black Ship.

The one with the chiseled face was Cliff Marsland, recognized as a freelance mobster with an enviable
reputation. The unshaven fellow was тАЬLuggerтАЭ Gates, a dock-walloper who sometimes acted as
recruiting agent when new gorillas were needed for the crew that he represented.

Of all the patrons of the Black Ship, this pair stood highest by reputation. No one would have suspected
either one of being here under false colors.

So far as Lugger Gates was concerned, the man was exactly what he appeared to beтАФa dock-walloper.
But Cliff Marshland was one who relied upon pretense.

Cliff had served time in Sing Sing. He had bargained with big shots; he had handled crews of gangsters.
Yet he was not a man of crime. Actually, his reputation was the cover for his real activities.

Cliff Marsland was the underworld aid of The Shadow. Stationed in the badlands, welcomed in every
dive, this firm-faced young man served the mysterious fighter whom all gangdom feared.

Time and again, Cliff Marsland had notified The Shadow of impending crime. Always, Cliff had managed
to preserve his false reputation among crooks. The Shadow, when he matched his giant mind with
schemers of the underworld, moved Cliff like a knight upon the squares of a chessboard.

Of late, The Shadow had been smashing the plans of crooks and racketeers. Mallet Haverly had
admitted that fact to Speedy Tyron. Marauding bands, bound on errands of crime, had encountered The
Shadow instead of the helpless quarry whom they sought. The underworld was throbbing with nervous
awe.