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

gleaming eye on all who entered or left. For Dory was on the lookout for trouble; when it came, he was
capable of handling it. Sleeves of his tattered shirt rolled to his elbows, neck bared, Dory looked
formidable. Tattooed arms and chest were brawny; and Dory's love for a fight made him forget his
wooden leg when action started.

Joe Cardona had stretched no point in stating that a raid would not cause surprise at Dory Halbit's. The
one-legged dive owner had many doubtful acquaintances. His place had come under frequent police
surveillance. It was Dory's caginess that had caused the law to desist. If the man happened to be working
in cahoots with dope smugglers, it was a sure bet that he would be able to cover up in a pinch.

It was conceded that when - if ever - the law did raid the dive, Dory would enjoy a good laugh the
morning after. Tonight, Cardona was ready for the thrust that would prove fruitless in incriminating the
proprietor. But in his drive, the detective would perhaps gain results of a different sort.

Through a general round-up of the dive's habitue's, Cardona might capture men who would give him
information. Joe wanted facts concerning Rigger Luxley; and if Sailor Martz failed to talk, others might
know something. Good reasoning; for these fellows at Dory Halbit's would not mind spilling whatever
they might know about a landlubber mobleader.

QUIET prevailed at Dory Halbit's. Quiet, according to the proprietor's view. Unshaven seamen were
swapping coarse jests; rowdies who had cash were growling for drinks; raucous greetings were being
exchanged between newcomers.

Such commotion, to Dory, was more pleasing than silence. So long as the customers were engaged in
trivial conversation, no brawls would begin. Much though he liked a fight, Dory did not want to see one
start. Fights meant cops; and Dory veered clear of trouble with the police.

Wisps of fog were creeping through broken windowpanes of Dory's dive. The place was below street
level; moisture-laden atmosphere picked it as a settling spot. Encroaching mists were driven back,
however, by the clouds of smoke that issued from the mouths of customers.

Medleys of tobacco were always common at Dory's. Dutch sailors were puffing at big pipes;
gesticulating Spaniards and Italians were consuming cigarettes of many foreign blends; squatty
Malaysians were smoking rank-odored cheroots. The haze of tobacco smoke was tinged with curls of
yellow and blue, and through that shifting cloud, Dory kept constant watch on all newcomers.

There were three doorways that led into this dankish, stone-walled retreat. One came directly from the
broad street that ran beside the piers; the second was from a side alleyway. The third was an interior
door, used only by chosen customers. It led into an adjoining house.

There were strangers here tonight. That was not unusual; but Dory always sized up strangers as soon as
they entered. He knew that feuds of shipboard often found their culmination on the waterfront. Dory kept
tabs on usual customers and knew when some required watching. Strangers, however, were always a
doubtful quantity. Dory checked all of them for future reference.

Ribald oaths sounded at the main door as three rough fellows entered. All were garbed in oilskins. Dory
recognized the trio as crew members of a coastwise barge flotilla. He watched the three men take a
corner table and pound riotously to summon a greasy-aproned waiter. Then Dory's watchful eyes shot
back to the door. Another man was entering, quietly. Beefy-faced and evil-eyed, the newcomer stared
about the room, a coarse smile on his lips. Dory knew the fellow, he was an ex-seaman whose friends