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

head. A chance bounce sent it away from him. That missile was the last threat of death.

For a full five seconds, The Shadow lay motionless; black beneath the night, he showed no sign of life.
Then, slowly, he raised his head and shoulders. He inched forward away from the ruins.

A beam, supported by a chunk of frame, began to quiver. The Shadow could hear a warning rattle. He
eased cautiously; then gave a quick twist and rolled clear, to let a crushing flow of shattered masonry
come pouring upon the place where he had lain.

The Shadow arose weakly. He sagged; then managed to control himself with a limp. Capable of motion,
he knew that he could depart from the scene of the catastrophe, though his progress would be slow. He
had suffered no serious injury.

The murder car was gone. The Shadow had no chance to overtake it, even with a bullet. Triple death
had been delivered to James Dynoth, the killer who had failed to cover up his trail. A zero hour had been
set. Dynoth, forced to await it, had paid final penalty.

Dynoth had himself sought death by poison. Watchers, stationed outside to cover his departure, had
delivered machine gun bullets to make certain of Dynoth's doom. That matter; however, had already
been arranged by some other emissary of crime, who had come and gone beforehand. A huge
time-bomb had been planted in Dynoth's cellar, set for twenty minutes after eight.

Triple death had halted The Shadow's trail. Three courses had been devised to prevent Dynoth from
betraying the crooked master whom he had unquestionably served. Almost miraculously, The Shadow
had escaped from doom. During the final moments of Dynoth's life, The Shadow had gained an extension
of his trail.

The Shadow's quest was definite. He must find Ferris Krode, the man named by James Dynoth.

Krode could deliver the secret of the Yellow Door.

CHAPTER III. THE LAW ENTERS
IT was morning in Manhattan. A newspaper bore headlines that told of the explosion in Fanfield, New
Jersey. That newspaper was resting upon the glass top of a mahogany desk. Beyond, windows revealed
a panorama of New York's skyscrapers.

This office held one of the highest locations in lower Manhattan. It was on the fifty-eighth story of a
spirelike tower. It was the private office of Dudley Birklam, president of the World Wide Shipping
Corporation.

Birklam, in person, was seated behind the desk. A tall, bulky man, whose hair bore a grizzled touch, he
possessed features that were rugged and square-jawed. Birklam was in his late fifties; his vigor was that
of half his age. The pounds of his tight fist were emphatic when they reached the glass-topped desk.

Across from Birklam was a broad-shouldered, dark-visaged man, whose steady face was adorned with
a heavy mustache. He, also, was well-known in certain circles. He was Vic Marquette, head of the
Department of Justice operatives stationed in New York.

Birklam had finished a harangue. Marquette nodded that he understood.