"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 128 - The Shadow's Rival" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

THE SHADOW'S RIVAL
by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," June 15, 1937.


CHAPTER I

ZERO HOUR

A CLUSTER of hard-faced men was spread about a large, square room. The
place was well-furnished with cushioned chairs and tables; its windows were
heavily curtained. Those windows were all at one end of the room; the other
three walls had doors.
The doors differed. One was a sliding barrier that marked the entrance to
an elevator shaft. Opposite it was a metal door that led to an upward
stairway,
for it was one step above the floor level. The third door was straight across
the room from the windows. It was open; and a passage beyond led to the
bedrooms of the sumptuous apartment.
Among the hard-faced men was one who sat glum and sullen, watching his
companions as they helped themselves to a buffet supper. On the table beside
the sullen man lay outspread newspapers. From every front page glowered a
photograph of his own ugly face.
The captions with those photographs named the sullen man as "Chink"
Rethlo, New York's own Public Enemy.
Nickname and title were both appropriate.
Chink's narrow-slitted eyes and yellowish complexion gave him a Mongolian
appearance, as did his straight black hair. His face was one that could be
easily recognized; as it had been, during his recent career of crime.
Staging three bank holdups at one-week intervals, Chink had openly bagged
nearly a million dollars in boodle. His final raid, perpetrated four days ago,
had been the most desperate.
It had produced a fray in which two bank guards and a uniformed policeman
had been shot dead by Chink's squad of killers.
When Chink brooded, his pals felt uneasy. They were wise enough to keep
their thoughts to themselves; but their leader had a faculty for guessing what
was in their minds. He showed that ability as he rose from his chair with a
sudden snarl.
"You're wondering what's eating me, huh?"
Chink grated the query; then pointed to the newspapers. He gave his own
answer.
"It's these news sheets! My mug staring offa every front page! The bulls
saying nothing! That may sound good to you lugs, but it's sour to me! When the
bulls have got nothing, they promise a lot!"
Chink looked away from his silent followers, to eye the doorways and
windows with suspicion.
"It looks like a swell hide-away, this joint," he added. "A regular
castle, on the twelfth floor of an old loft building that everybody's
forgotten. With our own elevator shaft, tucked in a corner, running straight