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

man was dressed like a Harlequin.

He wore a shapeless, wide-sleeved smock of black satin with huge and ridiculously
ornamental white buttons. The trousers, too, were black satin, and so floppy and wide that it
was impossible to tell whether they covered the lean, muscular legs of a man or the more
shapely limbs of a woman.
His voice, too, was sexless. A timid man might have uttered those softly spoken words of
warning, or a woman with a smooth contralto voice.

But there was nothing feminine about the pale, yellowish face that seemed to shine faintly
with the glimmer of decay.

It was the face of a man long since dead! Roscoe, staring at it in frozen terror, could think
only of an Egyptian mummy. The thin lips were drawn away from skull-like teeth. The cheeks
were sunken and leathery. Dank black hair lay matted thinly on a baldish scalp the color of
old parchment.

A living corpse in the costume of a gay Harlequin! With a wide-muzzled gun. And a jeering
laugh that made the silence in the room crawl with menace.
Roscoe took a slow step backward. His voice was hoarse.
"What do you want?"

"Your death, Mr. Roscoe."
"You don't dare kill me! I know who you are! I've already made protective arrangements to -"
"So have I," Number One interrupted in his soft murmur. "But before I carry them out, I'd like
to hear you tell Miss Purdy what my real name is. I don't believe you know. But I'll give you
your chance to prove I'm wrong. Tell her, please."

Roscoe turned toward the girl, playing for time. Treacherous to the core, he saw a chance to
save his life at the expense of Jane. Instead of speaking, his hands jerked swiftly. One of
them seized Jane and tried to swing her in front of him like a shield. The other lifted with the
lightning glint of a gun.

His defense failed. Jane recoiled with a scream. Maddened by the knowledge that he was
sacrificing her life to save his own, the girl's desperate shove sent Roscoe staggering off
balance. Before he could fire a single shot, the trigger of Number One's gun squeezed
remorselessly.
There was no explosion. Instead of a bullet, a quick puff of brownish vapor spat in a tiny
cloud. For the fraction of a second it enveloped Roscoe's head, was drawn into his mouth
and nostrils. Then the brownish vapor was gone.

But already it had done its work.
Roscoe's pistol fell to the floor. His knees buckled. The powerful gas brought him tumbling to
the floor, unconscious.

JANE PURDY was still unharmed. She dropped to her knees and began to beg for her life.

"I didn't mean to betray you!. He forced me into it. Don't kill me! I'll be your slaveтАФI'll do
anything you ask -"
But Number One was unmoved by the plea. A gloved hand twisted in the girl's blond hair