"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 094 - Castle of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

With one hard jolt of his shoulder, The Shadow propelled Harry toward the curb, clearing his agent from
the midst of battle. He wanted none but enemies about him; and his flaying fist sent ruffians scudding.
Harry, stumbling as he reached the curb, managed to turn about in time to see this outcome.

The Shadow had met the heaving mass of fighters and had actually pitched the tribe back to the steps
from which the lunge had begun. Then, with his plucking, swinging method, he had sent ruffians rolling
everywhere.

One wild battler alone had gripped The Shadow. Upon the lowermost step, they formed a tableau. The
Shadow's free hand held the ruffian's wrist, to withhold the knife stroke. In turn, the foeman was clutching
at The Shadow's gun hand.

With a twist, the pair whirled away. Harry, coming in to aid, saw them clear his path. Rogues, coming to
their feet, were ready to again wield knives; but they had no opportunity. The Shadow's .45 began to
blast.

He was firing despite the man who clutched him, speeding bullets during the mad whirl. Like a turning
turret, he swung from left to right, jabbing shots toward scattered thugs.

One rogue spat an outcry as a bullet clipped him. Another shouted a mad warning as a slug singed past
his ear. Then, abandoning the foolhardy ruffian who was wrestling with The Shadow, the rogues took to
their heels. They wanted the safety of the Whitechapel fog.

All this had happened in quick, amazing seconds. Harry Vincent, rallying, had first tried to aid The
Shadow; then had gone toward free attackers only to see them scud like rats. He made a turn to come
back toward The Shadow. His chief and the tenacious thug had already reeled beyond the steps.

To reach them, Harry's best course was to clamber over the steps themselves. He wheeled to do so;
then stopped short. Before him, blocking his view of The Shadow's struggle, was a new adversary whom
he had not seen until this very moment.

A DARK-FACED man was crouched upon the steps. He had been in the midst of that murderous
group, obscured at the moment when Harry had driven into the fray. He was rising from his position and
his glare was fixed upon Harry.

This last challenger looked like a Hindu, though not attired in Oriental garb. Harry had mistaken him for
one of the Whitechapel ruffians, for he had not seen the man's dark face until this instant. Nor had he
guessed at the man's titanic size. The fighter on the steps was rising; he loomed like a giant, towering
above.

It was Amakar, the Afghan, huge and menacing; the very sight brought a gasp from Harry's lips. But with
Amakar's rise came another view. The Afghan, rearing up from his half-seated posture had revealed
another figure on the steps. There, sprawled face upward, lay Geoffrey Chiswold.

To Harry's staring eyes came the answer that explained the bloodstained knives. Geoffrey, lengthwise on
the steps, was lifeless. His shirt front was dyed red. Projecting from above his heart was the handle of a
dirk. One deep-thrusting assassin had left his knife in the victim's body.

Amakar, in rising, had pressed his upper hand upon the stone step by Geoffrey's motionless shoulder.