"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 123 - Washington Crime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Your information is invaluable! The government's course is plain.
Knowing
Bryland to be the thief, he can be watched; then trapped, the moment that he
tries to sell the code. At the same time, I see another possibility."
The pale man paused; for the first time, his lips formed an actual smile.
Cannily, he suggested:
"Suppose that this information should reach Hugo Creelon. He would move
to
contact Frederick Bryland. Would the risk be too great?"
"Not for the government," replied The Shadow. "It would be too great for
Creelon, however."
"You do not quite understand me. Suppose Creelon had the facts, without
the secret service knowing them? Suppose no one moved to stop Creelon? What
would his risk be then?"
"None at all."
"Exactly!" The pale man's smile broadened. "That is why I intend that
Creelon shall know these facts. It is why I planned that he should obtain
them.
In fact, he has already gained your information and knows its value!"
 Lips formed a demonish twist as the pale man added:
"I am Hugo Creelon!"


THE SHADOW was on his feet before the final statement came. His right
hand
was speeding beneath his coat, ready to whip out an automatic and cover the
pretender who had called himself Agent F-3.
Creelon, his face livid in the firelight, had the leer of a triumphant
satan. He did not make a move from his position. It was unnecessary.
Creelon's rising tone, the crackle of the fire logs, had drowned other
sounds. Men had crept to the curtains that draped three doorways; they were
piling through, swinging revolvers as they came.
The Shadow spun away, as he sought to aim for Creelon. He had met these
odds before. One bullet for Creelon - the rest for the spy's followers. With
quick shots, The Shadow could scatter the formidable horde. All that he wanted
was a moment's opportunity - that he did not gain.
In his twist, The Shadow needed three feet more. The cramped space of the
old parlor did not afford it. Wheeling from between two sets of driving men,
he
hoped to get Creelon before the rest arrived from the hallway door. That
three-foot difference served the attackers.
Three huskies met The Shadow in one mutual surge; they pitched him
forward, sprawling toward Creelon. The Shadow's aim was gone. Before he could
whip his gun upward, six more fighters were upon him, three from each side.
Lost beneath a pile of gripping foemen, The Shadow could see Creelon
leering from above. One hand over his head, The Shadow sledged hard with the
other, trying to batter into the clear. His efforts ended when a slugging
revolver glanced from his protecting wrist and clipped the side of his head.
Half dazed, The Shadow sagged. Hands clutched his arms; gripped his throat.
Three seconds later, The Shadow was spread-eagled on the floor, sliding