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

DURLEW pondered. Spark pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it while he watched Durlew's
expression. The druggist winced under Spark's scrutiny.

"The facts still remain, Spark," whined Durlew. "I provided you with the planted bottle and the poison,
too. I thought they were for a gang feud, to cover something that the police would soon forget. Actually, I
had no proof that you intended murder at all."

"There's your alibi, Durlew."

Durlew shook his head, despite Spark's reassurance. He licked his lips, blinked owlishly. Swinging away
from his desk, he pointed to the newspaper under Spark's arm.

"Tell me, Spark," pleaded the druggist, "is there really a link between Hessup's death and that of
Blessingdale, who was murdered yesterday?"

Momentarily, Spark's facial muscles tightened in ugly fashion. Quickly, the crook relaxed. His growl
lessened as he replied:
"Sure! We bumped Blessingdale yesterday. That job was a cinch! Hessup was just as easy."

Durlew's troubled expression changed to a look of shrewdness. Spark saw it; instead of betraying anger,
he pretended, greater confidence. Leaning over the edge of the rolltop desk, he announced:

"There'll be another job to-night. Sweeter than either of those two! Ever hear of George Furbish?"
Durlew shook his head.

"Furbish is a Wall Street guy," informed Spark. "Out of town right now; but he's due back, maybe
tonight. He's coming to a new apartment; one of those big-dough joints that you've got to buy, because
they won't just rent them. It's a ritzy place, called the Royal Arms.

"Blessingdale and Hessup went the route. So will Furbish. This is a real racket, Durlew; I'm working for a
big-shot, a guy who put a bank roll into the game. The fact that we're knocking off blokes like
Blessingdale, Hessup and Furbish ought to show you that we're out to grab real potatoes.

"Get over the jitters." Spark clapped a brawny hand on Durlew's frail shoulder. "If you're worried, close
up this joint and take it on the lam. I'll see the big-shot to-night; and I'll slip you a fistful of mazuma
to-morrow. Well pay your freight wherever you want to go."

Durlew raised his head with a pleased smile. He nodded, as if eager to accept Spark's suggestion. Spark
grinned, dunked his cigarette in an ash tray and strolled to the door. He gave a wave of his hand as he
departed.

DURLEW listened intently to Spark's fading footsteps. The crook was going out by a rear passage that
led to a back alley. Durlew heard a door slam. It signified Spark's final departure, for the rear door had
an automatic latch.

Quickly, Durlew reached into a pigeonhole of the desk. He produced a long-pointed pencil and a small
prescription pad.

Hurriedly, Durlew wrote the same of George Furbish; after it, the next victim's address: the Royal Arms.