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

"My next price will be one million two hundred thousand dollars. I
consider that the danger of keeping the NEC should be worth the difference."


CREELON remained immobile. Through the mirror, The Shadow watched the spy
intently. Creelon looked almost ready to accept the million dollar terms. If
he
did, the NEC might change hands before The Shadow's eyes.
That would force the issue. The Shadow had steadied; he had already
determined to undertake battle, if necessary, even against odds. The present
seemed to offer The Shadow the sole opportunity that remained to him. He knew
that he could reach the reception room, enter there and cover both Creelon and
Bryland while they still stood together, their transaction uncompleted.
One against two. Small odds for The Shadow. He was weak, though; and
these
adversaries were men of the most dangerous sort. Balancing that, however, was
a
factor that could serve The Shadow. He could attack by surprise, startling
both
crooks by the sight of an enemy whom they believed already dead.
The Shadow drew back slowly from the plate glass; then paused. It was
neither weariness nor uncertainty that halted him. His eyes fixed themselves
first upon Creelon, then on Bryland. In each face, The Shadow saw something
that enlightened him; yet which neither of the trading crooks noted in the
other.
The lips of Hugo Creelon were beginning the insidious smile that could
transform the spy's face into that of a Mephistopheles. The square-jawed
features of Frederick Bryland had taken on a firmness that meant more than
mere
stubbornness.
For some reason, both were confident that the other would come to terms.
Through The Shadow's brain flashed the double answer. He foresaw exactly what
was due; he could tell the sort of trump cards that these crooks would play.
That was why The Shadow made no farther move. He remained in his position
behind the Argus mirror.
Creelon's features showed their satanic contour more plainly. Bryland
noted it; saw the spy's hand move toward the wall. Still gripping his inside
pocket with his left hand, Bryland shot his right toward his side pocket. His
move was hopelessly late.
Creelon had buzzed a signal with a hidden button beside the fireplace.
Purple curtains ripped from the walls of the reception room. In surged
Creelon's crew of huskies.


Bryland had no chance against the inrush. He was unable to twist away as
The Shadow had done, the night before. Attackers struck him in a solid mass;
snatched his revolver from his fist before it was half from his pocket. They
rolled him to the floor; pinned his arms behind him and hoisted him upright
for
Creelon to see.