"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 083 - Man from Scotland Yard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Side thoroughfare. Shambling across the street. Hawkeye headed northward until he reached a drug
store that looked like a palace of luxury on the fringe of this decadent district.

Entering, Hawkeye found a telephone booth. After glancing warily to note that he was unobserved, the
spotter dialed a number. A quiet voice responded:
"Burbank speaking."

In a half whisper, Hawkeye poured out his news. He was talking to a man whom he had never seen, the
contact agent who received the reports of active workers and passed them along to the chief. Hawkeye
had spoken to Burbank only by telephone; he regarded the contact man somewhat as he did The
Shadow.

For Burbank seemed on the fringe of that mysterious blackness that surrounded the master sleuth. A
quiet voice, always responding, ever ready with instructions. Such was Burbank, as Hawkeye knew him.

"Off duty."

Burbank's quiet tone was a command to Hawkeye. The little agent hung up the receiver and slouched
from the drug store. He had given his report. His task was done. Though Burbank had given no
commendation, Hawkeye knew that his successful work would not go unforgotten.

Hawkeye had gained an inkling that The Shadow, too, was out to trail "Rigger" Luxley's missing band.
That outfit was a dangerous crowd that had been missing from New York until recently. Rigger and
company had bobbed into view ten days ago; then had gone suddenly to cover.

The law was after Rigger. So was The Shadow. Sailor Martz, apparently, was the one man through
whom Rigger could be reached. Who would corner Sailor first: the law or The Shadow? Hawkeye
grinned as the question struck him while he shambled through the darkness.

Hawkeye knew the answer.

The Shadow.

CHAPTER II. ON THE WATERFRONT
FOG was relentless along the waterfront. Moving in from the sea, it had tightened its grip upon the land.
Thicker than ever, it clung most heavily to the spot of its first choice: where water met with shore.

There was nothing of comfort in the heavy-throated blares of whistles that came from the river. Those
blasts were ghoulish at close range. They were like the voice of the fog itself. Yet to those who
frequented these sodden spaces, the tones were commonplace.

Dory Halbit's dive was not a place for particular patrons. It attracted the riffraff with its cheap grog.
Hard-visaged huskies, rat-faced roustabouts, suspicious-eyed loungers - these were the customers who
slouched about at battered tables, undisturbed by those long-echoing blares from the river.

Dory Halbit was present in person. He always was. An ex-seaman, Dory had retired after being crippled
in a storm. The possessor of a wooden leg, he found land navigation troublesome and seldom left the
grog shop.

Tonight, as on all nights, the proprietor was leaning against the bar in the corner of the dive, keeping a