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

Worry dominated the druggist's owlish face. At last, Durlew drew a tense breath. He picked up a
telephone book, found a number; he lifted a telephone that stood upon the revolving bookcase. Raising
the receiver, Durlew dialed a number.

The druggist was calling detective headquarters.

From the moment that he had connected the deaths of Blessingdale and Hessup, Durlew had been
hoping for a way to square himself with the law. The link between Blessingdale and Hessup was
insufficient to amend Durlew's deed of supplying Spark Ganza with poison. Durlew had wanted
something that would better fortify his position. He had gained it, thanks to Spark.

The crook had named a coming victim: George Furbish. Durlew could tell the law facts that would
forestall crime. That would establish his sincerity. The police would believe him if he claimed to be an
unwitting tool in the matter of Hessup's death.

Durlew's shaky finger delivered the final twist to the dial. The druggist was holding the receiver clamped
against his left ear. Suddenly, a hand planked itself upon his left. A snarl sounded, as the hand wrenched
away the receiver and banged it down upon the hook.

Gasping, Durlew revolved in his swivel chair. His bespectacled eye blinked into the muzzle of a leveled
revolver. Back of the weapon were the ugly eyes of Spark Ganza.
The crook had faked his departure. He had sneaked in through the passage, to learn if Durlew had
decided to use the information that had been fed to him.

Spark saw the telltale pad on Durlew's desk. With his left hand, he ripped away the top sheet that bore
the scrawled name of Furbish. Wadding the paper, Spark thrust it in his pocket. All the while, his gun
was straight between Durlew's eyes.

"Spark! IтАФI wasn'tтАФIтАФdon't kill me, Spark! IтАФI -"

Durlew's incoherent protest ended as the revolver shoved forward. Spark pressed the trigger. From a
two-inch range, a bullet boomed into Durlew's brain. Spark watched the victim's head tilt back. The
swivel chair spun crazily; Durlew's form slumped toward the desk. His mutilated forehead thudded the
woodwork.

There was a tremble of the building. An elevated train was rumbling along the tracks that ran in front.
Spark knew that the rear alley was deserted. No one could have heard the revolver's blast. Pocketing his
gun, Spark strode from the tiny office. This time, his departure was unfaked.

THE muffled slam of the rear door was the last sound, except for the loud ticking of an alarm clock that
stood upon a windowsill, in front of a drawn blind. Minutes passed slowly, solemnly, in this room of
death. Seven had gone before a new motion occurred.

Something stirred the frayed green windowshade behind the clock. An edge moved slightly, to a distance
no greater than the width of a human eye. Motion stilled; then gloved fingers appeared uncannily beneath
the windowshade. They were black, those fingers; they acted like detached creatures.

The windowshade lifted. Solid blackness loomed inward. Eerily, it became a living shape. When the
shade had dropped to its former level, it formed the background for a weird figure. A being cloaked in