"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 117 - Vengeance Is Mine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

ALL that flashed instantly to The Shadow's mind, together with the
knowledge that the hidden foeman was taking deliberate aim. All that stayed
the
hand of the murderer was The Shadow's own slow motion. The killer at the inner
door did not suspect that his presence was known.
One false move would have been fatal to The Shadow. Time was too short to
draw a gun, then wheel and open fire. That murderer would blaze away,
protected
by the bulk of the door. The Shadow's fire would be futile. He was in a
lighted
room; it was a dozen feet to the wall switch by the outer door.
Steadily, The Shadow's eyes remained fixed upon the mirror, watching the
slow motion of the leveled gun. His right hand ceased its motion toward the
telephone; it came slowly upward, like his left, it gripped the humidor stand.
In one brief second, The Shadow had devised a daring course that would
put
him on equal terms with the enemy who sought his life. Muscles taut, The
Shadow
was ready to deliver a surprise that would nullify the sure aim of the hidden
marksman.
This apartment had again become a murderer's snare; but The Shadow had
found a way to break the trap.


CHAPTER IV

BURSTS IN THE DARK

LEVELED, the gun muzzle gave a slight downward tilt, as its owner took
perfect sight along the barrel. It was the instant that The Shadow wanted; the
moment when the marksman, fully confident, would expect no move from his
black-cloaked target.
The Shadow wheeled away from the mirror. His twist was a speedy spin,
straight toward the door from which death threatened. There was reason for the
power that The Shadow put into that whirl. With him, his gripping hands were
bringing a needed object.
The Shadow had wrested the humidor stand from beside the wall. His long
arms swung it like a bludgeon; his hands released it. A flying barrier, the
blocky stand scaled on a dead level toward the fire exit door.
The hurling move was a split-second ahead of the killer's trigger
squeeze.
The gun spoke while the humidor was traveling the direct path between the
pistol
muzzle and The Shadow. The marksman never wavered; his barking gun tongued a
straight bullet that splintered the woodwork of the humidor cabinet. Had that
flying bulwark been wood alone, the slug would have traveled through to reach
The Shadow.
The copper lining was the real shield upon which The Shadow counted. The
metal did its part. Deflected by one layer, the bullet failed to cleave the
second. Nor could the flying chunk of lead stop the impetus of The Shadow's