"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 250 - Death About Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

confession needed was the signature, to render it complete.

Laverock's voice came sharply:

"Sign!"

The Shadow's hand swerved from the paper, dropping the pen beside it, both within Laverock's easy
reach. There was a trace of mockery in The Shadow's response.

"I have done my part, Laverock," he said. "It is your turn. There is the pen."

For answer, Laverock seized the pen with his free hand and thrust it The Shadow's way. To emphasize
his action, he jabbed his antique gun toward the cloaked figure. Laverock wasn't ready to shoot; he
wanted the confession signed. But it was policy for The Shadow to recoil from the gun thrust, and he
did.

He went back from the desk, his hands dropping to its edge, as though to halt their tremble. Laverock let
his own hands thrust farther, which was what The Shadow wanted.

Like a missile unleashed from a catapult, The Shadow drove forward, sending the desk ahead of him. His
hands began to drive, but his knees supplied the follow-through. Half across the desk, Laverock was on
a balance point, and the swift shove caught him totally unawares.

His feet flipping from under him, Laverock took an involuntary lunge across the desk, making a grab for
the far edge, only to find it gone before he reached it. The desk was under him, and gone; Laverock was
clawing air, in his headlong trip to the floor beyond. All that saved him from a hard landing was the hand
of The Shadow.

That hand took Laverock's wrist with a viselike twist that doubled it. Laverock's arm and body followed,
spinning in midair, to be stopped by The Shadow's upthrust knee. Rolling sideward as The Shadow
released him, Laverock reached the floor. His fall was broken, but his head took something of a thump
as it fell back against the filing cabinet. No wonder Laverock was dazed. His whirl had included a
somersault, which left him staring back at the desk across which he had come. Badly muddled, Laverock
couldn't even locate The Shadow when he looked for him; further, when Laverock raised his gun hand,
hoping, at least, to have a weapon ready, he found himself staring at empty fingers.

The Shadow's wrench had numbed Laverock's hand along with his brain. Somewhere during the spin,
the gun had dropped from nerveless fingers. Where it had landed, Laverock learned when he heard a
strange, sinister laugh off to his right. Looking, Laverock saw The Shadow holding the four-barreled
Sharps on the palm of a gloved hand.

Having neatly plucked the gun as Laverock dropped it, The Shadow was examining it as a curio. He laid
it on the desk, and as he did, he drew a .45 automatic, compared to which the Sharps looked like a toy.
Then, with the big gun as a persuader, The Shadow stooped and hauled Laverock up to a chair, where
the man stared, stupefied, wondering what was coming next.

Producing the unsigned confession, The Shadow extended it to Laverock, along with the pen. His wits
returning, Laverock folded his arms and stared grimly, shaking his head. He wasn't going to sign that
confession, not even under The Shadow's competent persuasion.