"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 100 - The Man From Shanghai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

A tall, moon-faced man had stepped into the sumptuous room. With pussyfoot tread, the arrival had
advanced four steps; then waited. Despite the man's silent approach, Malfort had instantly detected the
entry. Without a turn of his head, Malfort purred a question: "What is it, Wardlock?"

"Spark Ganza is here, sir," replied the moon-faced man, in a solemn monotone. "He arrived by the rear
entrance."

"Tell him to come up."

"Very well, Mr. Malfort."

"Then bring the newspapers, Wardlock. After that, see to the prompt posting of these letters."

Wardlock bowed. In his sneaky stride, he went from the room.

MALFORT arose, placed the table and its letters to one side; then resumed his easy-chair. Side to the
fire, he was facing an empty chair several feet away.

There was a click as the door opened. Malfort's face was expressionless as he turned his gaze toward
the door. A brawny, thick-set ruffian stepped into view; this was "Spark" Ganza. Hard-faced,
sharp-eyed, the fellow had the pudgy nose of a second-rate pugilist and the underslung jaw of a bulldog.

"Hello, Mr. Malfort," gruffed Spark, showing an ugly grin as he approached. "I got your message and
hot-footed it over here -"

"Sit down, Spark." Malfort waved to the chair. Then, still eyeing his visitor, he added in louder tone: "Let
me have those newspapers, Wardlock. Take the letters with you."

Spark gaped as he looked toward the door. He had not heard Wardlock reenter; he thought that the
moon-faced secretary had stayed downstairs. Yet there, sure enough, was Wardlock, with a stack of
newspapers in his hands. The secretary approached and laid the journals on the table at Malfort's side.
Gathering up the letters, Wardlock pussyfooted from the room.

Malfort and Spark were alone.

"Yesterday," announced Malfort, choosing a newspaper from the stack, "you did a good job, Spark. I
was pleased with the murder of Jerome Blessingdale."

"It was a cinch," returned Spark. "We hopped aboard the Southeastern Limited when it pulled into
Baltimore. Blessingdale was asleep in his compartment. I tapped him on the konk and took the swag.
Nobody saw us drop off the rattler at Philly."

"Quite true," nodded Malfort. "I have read the Philadelphia newspapers, Spark. They say very little; the
general opinion is that the crime investigation belongs to the New York police, since Blessingdale's death
was not uncovered until after the train arrived here."

"Everybody knows, though, that Blessingdale was rubbed out."
"Of course. However, Blessingdale, as a mining promoter, had made enemies. It was quite all right to let
his death pass as murder."