"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 173 - Death's Harlequin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

my desk at the office. Why don't we stop off there, pick up the reports, and have something
concrete to talk about over our highballs at my apartment?"

It suited Cranston, and it was so decided.
Fifteen minutes later, Whelan halted his big sedan in front of the darkened department of
interior building. A sleepy night operator rode the two men aloft to an upper floor. The
corridor was dark except for the ground glass panel of one door, behind which a bright light
was burning.
Whelan grinned. "My secretary's working tonight on some rush stuff."

He kept chattering cheerfully in his talkative way until he turned the knob of his office door.
Then he uttered a quick gasp.
"That's queer!"

"What do you mean?" Cranston asked.
"The door's locked! It shouldn't be. Not while my secretary is working. She never locks it until
she leaves."
He raised his voice.

"Miss Daley! Are you in there? Are you all right?"
There was no reply. Cranston, listening keenly, heard a faint scraping sound followed by
complete silence. Then the ground-glass panel of the door went black as someone inside
turned out the light.
"Quick!" Cranston ordered. "Unlock that door, Jim!"

Whelan fumbled for his key ring, turned the lock swiftly. Cranston shoved him aside and flung
the door open. In the darkness, a furtive figure was racing toward the rear exit from the
office.

Cranston was unarmed, but he didn't hesitate. He darted at the escaping intruder. He
couldn't see his foe, but he was conscious at once that he was at grips with a powerful and
desperate man. His outthrust hand clawed at the fellow's shoulder and chest. Something
ripped loose in his grip, then he was hurled violently backward against the edge of a desk.
Before he could recover, the butt of a gun swung viciously against his skull. The darkness
was all that saved The Shadow from a smashed head. The blow, awkwardly delivered,
skidded against The Shadow's hunched shoulder.

As he struggled to his feet, he could hear the echoing footfalls of the fleeing intruder and the
shrill, frightened oath of Whelan as he fumbled hastily to find the light switch.
The lights came on just as The Shadow gained his feet. One glance at the open rear
doorway of the office and The Shadow flung himself flat to the floor, knocking Whelan
headlong beside him with a sweep of his arm. He had seen the glint of a gun barrel, held in
a white-gloved hand, at the edge of the door casing.

Flame spat inward with a thin, scarlet streak. A bullet whizzed above the two friends on the
floor and thudded into a desk.

Then the murderous intruder was gone.
The Shadow pursued, risking instant death for a chance to get a glimpse of the burglar's
face. He failed. All he saw was the bright stab of pistol flame and the roar of shots echoing