"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 192 - Voice of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

jaw. But Lycombe simply pocketed the change, turned on his heel and strode from the store.

"Nice fellow," observed another customer, to the clerk. "Does he get that way often?"

The clerk nodded. Leaning across the counter, he said in a confidential tone:

"Ever hear of Ted Lycombe? The big-time polo player? That's him. You wouldn't think he was a society
guy, though. The way he's been acting lately" - the clerk shook his head - "you'd think he was out to
murder somebody!"

Outside the store, Ted Lycombe had cooled a bit. It wasn't that his angry mood had changed; he was
merely taking pains to suppress the visible signs. This street was close to the financial district, where Ted
had many friends. He was deciding that it would be good policy to behave affably, should he meet up
with acquaintances.

Ted wasn't anxious for such meetings, however. Pausing to light a cigarette, he glanced in both directions,
to make sure that no one noticed him when he stepped into a parked coupe. Once in the car, Ted
sidelonged a look at the driver and said:

"All right, Griff. Let's go."

There was a contrast between Ted and the driver; yet, in a sense, they matched each other. Griff was
sallow, crafty of eye, straight of lip. He had a smooth surface quite the opposite of Ted's irked
expression. But in actual hardness, Griff was Ted's equal. As fighters, they were two of a kind, from
opposite walks of life.

Ted Lycombe was known for his two-fisted tactics among society's upper crust. Griff Conlad bore a
similar reputation in the underworld. Where Ted had gained fame by throwing punches against
aristocratic jaws, Griff was noted for his skill at tossing slugs from a .38 revolver at persons who lacked
refinement.

Just how much each admired the other's tactics was a question that only time would prove. It was
apparent, however, that in their brief acquaintance the two had come to see many things from a very
similar viewpoint.

IT was Griff who opened conversation, as he piloted the coupe into traffic and chose an uptown
direction.

"How did you make out with Gern?" queried Griff. "Did he hand you the same stall?"

"Just about," growled Ted. "Except that he promises the money within a week."

"Did you tell him" - Griff's tone was hardening - "that it would be too late, then?"

"No. I'm going to talk to Barstead first."

Griff noted that Ted's tone had eased. But a side glance showed that his companion's chiseled face had
lost none of its firmness.

"In my opinion," affirmed Ted, bluntly, "Sherwood Gern is a first-rate swindler. The mining stock that I