"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 095 - Death Rides the Skyway" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Report."

The voice of The Shadow! An eerie tone that had caused grim men to falter; a whisper that was sinister,
even though it spoke but a single word. Miles Crofton's features tightened, then relaxed with an
expression of relief.

"Cruisers still near Hylap's," reported Crofton. "Tam Soak's watchers in the offing. No change since last
report."

"Report received," came The Shadow's whisper. "Instructions to follow."

Crofton listened to the intonation that resumed. Steady words hissed through the receiver. Finally, The
Shadow's orders ended with a pause. Crofton acknowledged.

"Instructions received."

Hanging up the receiver, the young man strode from the telephone booth. He headed for the door, gave a
last look at the lobby and continued on to the street. There he started briskly along the sidewalk, for the
distance of half a block. He slowed his pace, coming at last to a standstill in front of a darkened opening
between two buildings.

Glancing back, Miles Crofton noted the marquee of the hotel that he had just left. Above the projecting
roof was an electric sign that flashed the name "Hotel Aldebaran." Crofton grinned. He had not registered
at the Aldebaran; no one had followed him, from the lobby.

Raw, dank mist swept shroudlike about Crofton's shoulders. That fog was in from the Pacific; for this
was San Francisco. The open spot where Crofton stood held the ruined foundations of a building that
had never been rebuilt since the great fire. But off beyond, hazy through the swirl of sea fog, was the
persistent orange glow from the lights of the modern metropolis.

From one spot, only a few blocks distant, came a lower glare. That was Chinatown; and Miles Crofton's
view of those fog-sifted lights was a reminder that time had come for action. For Miles Crofton, here in
San Francisco as an agent of The Shadow, had held important dealings with certain men who dwelt in the
quaint Oriental district of the West Coast metropolis.

A TAXICAB was coming down the street. Its lights blinked from the fog; its tires sloshed along the
moistened thoroughfare. Miles Crofton stepped to the curb and delivered a hearty hail. The driver pulled
up; the young man stepped aboard.

"Where to?" queried the cabby.

"Cut over past Chinatown," returned Crofton, gruffly, "then head for Telegraph Hill. I'll tell you where to
stop."

The cab started. Miles Crofton settled back in the rear seat. Crofton had come to the city, weeks ago, at
The Shadow's order. He had been delegated to remain in San Francisco as the appointed agent of a
mysterious chief. The Shadow, ever vigilant against crime, had needed a trusted man to serve in such
capacity.
Soon after his arrival, Crofton had visited Tam Sook. This meeting had given him an important contact,