"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 063 - Murder Marsh" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

well-kept; at present, it showed signs of disrepair. Despite the shading of night, its tall front revealed
cracks and patches of crumbling corner bricks.

The muffled man was not interested in a survey of the building. His suspicious eyes noted the sign that
hung above the entrance to the place:


HOTEL SPARTAN
Satisfied, the arrival edged close to the building and peered through a grimy plate-glass window. Inside,
he saw a dingy lobby, where half a dozen men were slouched about in battered chairs. He observed a
hard-faced clerk standing behind a cracked desk of imitation marble. The observer grunted.

This was the place that he sought. The way was clear. For his inspection had satisfied himself that none of
the slouchers in the lobby were stool pigeons or detectives. The Hotel Spartan was noted as a
rendezvous for mobsters who were in the money and who were not at odds with the law. Those whom
the muffled man had seen, appeared to be natural habitues of the place.

Dropping his slouch, the muffled man entered the hotel. He walked boldly across the lobby, staring
straight ahead as he approached the desk. His hand, however, still held his coat collar closed. Reaching
his objective, the newcomer growled a few words to the clerk, who nodded and pointed toward the
stairs.

"He's waiting for you," informed the clerk. "Go on up. Room 306."

The muffled man needed no further statement. He stalked quickly toward the stairs and tramped upward
on the frayed carpeting. A few of the loungers glanced curiously at his departing figure. Then his arrival
seemed to be forgotten.

Yet among the nondescript group assembled in the lobby of the Hotel Spartan, there was one who had
closely watched the muffled man. This fellow had a firm, square face that marked him as different from
the usual gangster type. His features lacked the coarseness so prevalent in the underworld.

It was his air of self-assurance that enabled this individual to frequent such places as the Hotel Spartan.
As he arose and strolled through the lobby, his eyes showed a steely glint as they turned toward staring
mobsmen. That firm gaze was sufficient. No one would have thought of challenging its steady-faced
owner.

Moreover, the loungers in the lobby recognized the man. He was Cliff Marsland, known in the
underworld as a mobster de luxe. He was no ordinary gorilla. He was capable enough to head a mob of
his own; but Cliff was noted because he preferred to work as lieutenant to big-shots. His presence in the
Hotel Spartan was not unusual. This was a natural place for a man of his ilk to form contact with those
who might need his valued services.

Cliff Marsland had another callingтАФone that he kept secret. Leaving the Hotel Spartan, he strolled a few
blocks and entered an old drug store. In a phone booth, he made a call. A quiet voice responded:

"Burbank speaking."
"Marsland," informed Cliff. "Report on Luke Zoman. Man answering his description came into the Hotel
Spartan. Clerk sent him up to 306. Room occupied by Squeezer Dyson."