"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 059 - The Crime Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

mistaken in his statement of identity. This stocky strider who was marching through the fringe of New
York's underworld was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the Manhattan force.

The fact that he had been deceived by the innocuous appearance of the old storekeeper did not prove
Joe Cardona to be unobservant. On the contrary, the star sleuth was remarkably alert as he paced his
way along the narrow street.

Though he apparently stared straight ahead, Cardona kept his eyes in constant motion. Peering from right
to left, those optics noted much that an ordinary observer would not have seen.

The open door of a tawdry barber shop; two Italians gesticulating while one clutched a newspaper -
Cardona caught words in a Neapolitan dialect. He nodded grimly as he recognized the topic of
conversation.

The detective passed a corner. He went by the door of a pawn shop. Again, he caught snatches of talk -
these words in English. Cardona kept onward; his face more grim than before.

The bulk of an elevated structure loomed at the next corner. The detective stopped and struck a match
against a pillar beside the station steps. A train was rumbling overhead as Cardona lighted a cigarette. A
pale-faced, sweatered fellow shambled from beside a fruit peddler's wagon. He stooped to pick a cigar
stump from the gutter.

"What's doing, Squawky?"

Cardona emitted the growled question without looking toward the stooping man. Rising, the sweatered
fellow looked at the cigar stump; then flung it back into the gutter. His lips moved as though muttering to
himself. But his mouth framed low words.

"Nothin' doin'," mumbled Squawky. "Just talk - but nobody knows nothin'. I'm goin' to the Pink Rat."

"Call me at headquarters."

Puffing at his cigarette, the detective turned and ascended the elevated steps. "Squawky" slouched back
toward the fruit peddler's wagon; he dug a few pennies from his pocket and handed them to the peddler
in exchange for an apple. Chewing at his purchase, the sweatered man shuffled along the grimy avenue.

JOE CARDONA had reached the elevated platform. A train was coming into the station. The detective
stepped aboard. Standing within the end door, he eyed two passengers who were seated a dozen feet
away.

One was tapping the columns of an evening newspaper. The other was nodding in response to a
statement which Cardona could not hear because of the train's rumble. But the detective saw the scoffing
smiles which the two exchanged. Turning, Cardona eyed the tops of old East Side buildings past which
the train was speeding.

"Luck," he growled, half aloud. "Luck - and everybody knows it. If I could guess what's coming -"

The train reached Cardona's station. The detective alighted. He was away from the underworld now; his
footsteps quickened as he reached the street.
"Poiper, mister?" The question came from a newsboy who pattered along beside Cardona. "Police stop