"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 162 - Chicago Crime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CHICAGO CRIME
by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," November 15, 1938.

Once again The Hand reaches forth in bloody crime - but the clutch of The
Shadow is stronger!


CHAPTER I

CRIME'S HEAD MAN

THERE were two men in the long-built coupe that parked in front of the
Southlake Hotel, Chicago's most fashionable lakeside resort.
One, the driver, was chunky-built and square-faced, with eyes that had a
hardness that he was trying to suppress. His lips, too, were the sort that
required control, for they had a habit of curling downwards, bringing an
overwise expression to his rough face.
The other man was young. His doubled knees showed him to be tall, his
broad shoulders marked him as rangy. But his features had much of the dreamer.
His clear eyes had a far-away look as they stared toward the waters of Lake
Michigan, purple-dyed by the late sunset.
The chunky man clapped a friendly hand upon the dreamer's broad
shoulders.
"Wake up, Herb!" The tone was gruff, but not unpleasant. "We're here!"
Herb Waylon jerked himself from his reverie, gave a startled look at Chet
Soville. Sight of the rough face, displaying a well-faked grin, made Herb
realize where he was.
"All right, Chet," said Herb, sheepishly. "Let's go in and meet the chap
you told me about."
Chunky Chet led his meditative companion into the spacious lobby of the
pretentious hotel. At the desk, Chet announced that he wanted to see Mr. J. M.
Cruke. Soon, the visitors were riding an elevator to the twelfth floor.
As Chet knocked at the door of an east-wing apartment, he undertoned to
Herb:
"This fellow Cruke is regular, like I told you. But don't stare at him
like you noticed he was crippled. He's trying all the while to forget it."
They found Cruke seated in an invalid's chair, gazing through an open
window across a balcony that fronted toward the lake. He made a huddled
figure,
wrapped in blankets; for though the day was warn, he seemed to fear the chill
of
the slight lake breeze.
Cruke turned his head to greet the visitors. His face was pallid, weary;
one that bore traces of great pain, as did the smile of welcome that he
managed
to twist upon his lips.
They shook hands. Cruke's grip was flabby. Leaning back, he stretched his
hand toward the window, showing great effort merely in raising his arm.