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

bought from him was too sure a bet not to come through. The only answer is that Gern is holding back on
the profits."

Griff gave a knowing grunt.

"Twenty-five grand is a lot of potatoes," he said. "Plenty of guys have lammed for that much dough."

"I'm counting on you to see that Gern stays in town," reminded Ted. "But I'll give him the week he says
he needs."

"And then put the heap on him?"

Ted nodded. There was a merciless expression on his lips, the sort of smile that Griff liked to see. In
Griff's opinion, Ted had the making of a big shot in the realm of crime. He was willing, too, to bet that
Ted Lycombe would acquire such a reputation on very little provocation.

All he needed was the first step; with that red-hot disposition of his, Ted would go a long way. Griff was
counting on it, for he could foresee great profits to himself, through his acquaintance with Ted, should the
society man desert the stuffed-shirt class and wear the brand of a public enemy.

Such a decision wasn't likely with a man like Ted, if he had a lot to lose. But matters were shaping
definitely in the direction that Griff wanted.

"I've got to have money," insisted Ted, abruptly, "to pay off Frank Barstead. There's a chap who would
take a blue ribbon at a rat show! I've found out why he loaned me the five thousand that I needed to
carry me over."

"On account of the dame?" inquired Griff.

"That's it," nodded Ted. "As soon as he had my signed note, he let me know that he was interested in
Marian Farris."

"Why didn't you clip him one? That's your specialty, ain't it?"

"Barstead is due for a haymaker, all right. But I'd rather give it to him after I pay up. Unless -"

A sharp glint came to Ted's eyes; his lips showed more than contempt for Barstead. Then, in his blunt
manner, he spoke an order to Griff.

"Let me out of here at the corner. I'll walk over to Barstead's place. You drive to the bookie's and find
out how we did on the fifth race at Santa Anita. I'll call you there."

"You want me to case Gern's joint?"

"Yes. But not until after dark. He never leaves his place before then."

WALKING a few twisted blocks, Ted Lycombe came to an old house that had been converted into an
apartment building. It was a relic of Manhattan common to this section of Greenwich Village.

High steps ran above the entrance to a tea room. The steps ended in a vestibule, where four push buttons