"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 105 - The Yellow Door" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

minutes. Dynoth had promised to be gone from these premises by twenty minutes after eight.

"Speak!" hissed The Shadow. His gun muzzle pressed close to Dynoth's eyes. "Tell of the Yellow
Door!"

Dynoth was cowering away, his hands pressed to his stomach. He gasped protesting words:

"I - I can't speak! I don't know the truth about the Yellow Door! If you ask -"

He gulped. He had almost betrayed a name. Quick to gain the advantage, The Shadow pressed that
point.
"Name the man," he ordered - "the man who will tell."

"Krode," panted Dynoth. "Ferris Krode -"

"State where he lives -"

"At the Barwick Apartments, in New York. Except -"

"Except when -"

"Except when he is in Cleveland. That's all I know."

A moment's pause. Dynoth was twisted in agony. The poison had almost accomplished its result.
Gasping for air, the murderer hoped to reach the open window. The Shadow stayed him with a repeated
demand.

"Speak for yourself!" hissed the cloaked avenger. "Announce the secret of the Yellow Door!"

Dynoth sagged by the window sill. One hand gripped the ledge. With glassy gaze, the contorted killer
met The Shadow's inflexible gaze. Even with death to save him, Dynoth could not resist The Shadow's
pressure.

"The Yellow Door!" he shrieked, hoarsely. "The Yellow Door! It exists! It means -"

A TERRIFIC pang seized Dynoth. He choked; he could not complete the sentence. His hand tightened
on the window sill. His body raised rigid; held its position momentarily; then wavered, about to topple.
The murderer's eyes were sightless. The poison had riveted him in death.

It was exactly twenty minutes after eight.

To The Shadow, that point of time had no significance. It was something else that made him act with
suddenness. A soft, purring noise had sounded beyond the window, where The Shadow stood almost
eye to eye with the stricken form of Dynoth. The purr was from a halting automobile. The Shadow
sensed a danger.

Instantly, he whirled away from the window, across the room toward the open door. From outside came
a ripping clatter, the drill of a machine gun. Dynoth's body jolted straight upward; it came sprawling
headlong to the floor, downed by a stream of bullets. Assassins of the night had come to make sure of
the murderer's departure. They had seen Dynoth framed in the window. They had known that he had