"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 081 - The Fate Joss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Blackness enshrouded in blackness. Such was the weird figure that moved along the gloomy sidewalk of
a side street. Bound toward Chinatown, this weird figure clung close to the darkened fronts of houses
that were seemingly deserted. If there were eyes above, they did not see this being of blackness.

That stalking form was the cloaked figure of The Shadow.

Chinatown was one of The Shadow's habitats. He knew its ways; its people; he had friends amid the
dwellers in that district. The rumors that irked Mongol minds had reached The Shadow's ears. Because
of those reports, he had chosen to keep his visit secret.

The Shadow's course was swift despite his caution. His gliding pace slackened, however, as he reached
a turn in the narrow street. As he passed that point, The Shadow could see the glow of the central
district. He was almost within sight of the corner of Mott and PellтАФ the Times Square of Chinatown.

Pausing, The Shadow gazed keenly along the street ahead. He watched strolling figures pass from view.
He eyed windows above; satisfied that they were unoccupied, he glided into momentary view, moving
straight toward a row of lighted shops that lined the intervening stretch between this point and the lighted
district. Almost at the first shop, The Shadow turned suddenly. His cloaked form blended with the
blackness of an alleyway.

There was a single shop just off the street; an obscure store that seemed to have been crowded into the
alleyway through lack of a better location. It was a place that could hardly hope for business; for its
display windows were but dimly lighted and the shop's lone door looked uninviting.

The Shadow could easily have passed that one store unobserved. Instead, he turned and entered the
shop itself.

A LONE Celestial was seated at a table in the corner. He was occupied with an account book and his
form was almost out of sight behind a counter laden with Oriental curies. The Chinaman did not hear The
Shadow's entry; nor did the visitor seek to make him aware of it. Instead, The Shadow glided past the
counter and stopped before a paneled wall near the rear of the shop.

He pressed a hidden spring. The panel opened. The cloaked figure joined the blackness beyond the
opening and the wall slid shut. The watchdog at the desk had failed to detect The Shadow's arrival.

Mazelike passages formed a labyrinth ahead. The Shadow followed corridors down steps and up; he
was guided by dim ceiling lights that shone at intervals. At times, he paused to listen to the rhythmic tramp
of guards; when those had faded he went onward.

There were various passages to be chosen; there were metal barriers that blocked the way. The Shadow
knew which paths to choose; he also understood the secrets of the doorways. Panels opened at his
pressure; when he had passed the final one, The Shadow stood in a square room, where paneled walls
were visible amid soft light.

Instantly, a panel arose at the rear of the room. A voice spoke melodiously. The Shadow heard the
welcome and entered an inner chamber. There, amid Oriental surroundings, sat a placid-faced Chinaman,
clad in maroon robes so dark in hue that they were almost as The Shadow's black.

The panel dropped immediately after The Shadow's entrance. The visitor from the night was in the