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

"Walter, you're mad! He'd find out and kill us without mercy!"

"He can't find out. I know too much about him. More, perhaps, than you think."

"Impossible!" she gasped. "I work for him. I carry his messages. I've seen him face to face.
And yet I know nothin'!"
Her voice was tremulous.

"As far as I can tell, Number One employs only women. Five of them, including myself. None
of us have the slightest idea of his identity. I don't even know the other four women when they
stand beside me at Number One's headquarters. I tell you, it's hopeless to trick him," Jane
said.

"Not if his real identity is known," Walter Roscoe replied.
"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. I know who Number One is! I haven't been idle since you first told me the
nature of the racket you were in. If you don't believe me, I can tell you where the swimming
pool isтАФand what's under it!"
JANE'S face was still as white as chalk, but there was a new expression dawning in her
hard, lovely eyes. Greed was beginning to replace fear. She knew her lover was an
experienced blackmailer. A half share in a million dollars was a powerful lure.

"Who is Number One?" she whispered.
"If I told you his name, you'd think I was crazy! He's the last person in Washington you'd
suspect. I know exactly what he's after. If I get hold of it, he'll be forced to buy it backтАФat my
price. And there'll be no danger of his harming us, because I can turn him over to the police
any time I choose."
Roscoe's arms tightened about Jane Purdy. He kissed her. His voice deepened
persuasively.

"Report to him tonight as usual. Leave the rest to me. Darling, will you do it?"

Her voice was barely audible. "Yes."
Walter Roscoe uttered a laugh of delight.

"Good girl! I knew I could depend on you. We've won, darlingтАФ we've won!"
"On the contrary," a soft voice said, very gently, "I'm afraid you've lost!"
 CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE FACES
WITH an oath, Walter Roscoe whirled. His hand snatched at a concealed gun. But he didn't
draw it. He stood frozen, staring empty-handed at the dreadful figure that had emerged from
a shadowy corner of the dimly lighted room.

The muzzle of a rather queer weapon pointed steadily at the frightened blackmailer. It
looked like a tear-gas pistol. It was held in a hand that was gloved in shiny black satin
Jane Purdy's mouth hung wide open in the paralysis of terror. She seemed unable to
breathe as she stared at the soft-spoken figure that she knew only as Number One.

His figure suggested a deliberate and ghastly mockery. It was like death jeering at life. From
the white starched ruff at his throat to the white pompons at the tips of his black slippers, the