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

wire circled a bulgy ornamental post at the corner of the parapet, on the roof
that Herk guarded. The wire returned at a downward angle, to a steel strut
beneath the water tank.
The double track, affording both access and departure, had been put there
as the result of a clever boomerang throw while Dave was on lookout duty. The
boomerang had carried a thin cord around the post and back to its sender. The
string had been used to draw the wire into its present fast position.
The present motion at the top of the water tank was caused by a figure
that detached itself from darkness. A weirdly cloaked shape swung out into
space. Gloved hands gripped a tiny, wheeled trolley. The little car slid
smoothly, swiftly along the taut wire, carrying its tall passenger through the
air beneath it.
Herk heard the sing of the wire. He halted where he was; tightened his
grip upon a revolver. The sound was evasive. It ended while Herk stared about.
All that the lookout heard was the final fade of an echo that toned like a
tuning fork. Herk looked in the right direction at last; but he saw no one.
The black-cloaked figure had blended with the darkness at the corner
post.
He was across the rail, crouched on the roof itself. He was waiting for Herk's
next move.
If the crook turned away, he would spell his own finish. If he approached
the corner post, he would accomplish the same result. The situation was a
toss-up, with Herk due to lose in either case.


AS it happened, Herk decided to approach the rail. He was positive that
the sound had come from beyond the roof edge. He wanted to take a look below.
He chose the corner, because it promised two easy views, each in a different
direction. Herk gained neither.
The crook's lookout duty ended six feet from the corner. Blackness rose
like a living thing. Before Herk could aim, long arms shot forward. Gloved
fists clamped Herk's neck, choked the words that came from the thug's throat.
Only Herk's soundless lips phrased the name of the attacker whom the crook had
recognized:
"The Shadow!"
Soon, Herk lay face downward in the corner. He was silenced by a tight
gag. His legs were bent up in back of him. A crisscrossed leather thong held
his wrists and ankles, almost in a bunch. That mode of binding was both quick
and efficient. On his face, Herk was as helpless as a beetle on its back.
The night glow of Manhattan showed the figure that stalked toward the
trapdoor. Tall, lithe; The Shadow was clad in his familiar cloak. His head was
topped by a slouch hat. The down-turned brim hid all features except his
burning eyes.
In one fist, The Shadow held a massive automatic. Beneath his cloak, a
second .45 was in readiness for an instant draw.
Lone-handed, The Shadow was faring downward to settle scores with Chink
Rethlo and the murderer's tribe of killers.
At the bottom of the steps, The Shadow found the closed door. In
darkness,
he turned the knob, so imperceptibly that no one on the other side could