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

The cab's passenger was Lamont Cranston. The driver was Moe Shrevnitz, the speediest hackie in
Manhattan. Shrevvy knew how to overtake wayward cars like Laverock's. It was part of his business,
because he was working for The Shadow.
And it happened that Lamont Cranston was The Shadow.

Cranston demonstrated that point as the chase was getting under way. Reaching beneath the rear seat, he
drew out a hidden drawer. From it he whisked a slouch hat and a black cloak, garments which seemed
to slide on his head and over his shoulders of their own accord. His hands slipped into thin black gloves,
and with the same sweep one hand tightened in a fist that brought an automatic from a hidden holster.

Aiming the .45 from the window, The Shadow was prepared to halt Laverock's car the moment Moe
overhauled it, which promised to be at the next corner. Already a strange, weird laugh was phrasing itself
upon The Shadow's hidden lips. Suddenly The Shadow halted that mirth, rather than laugh too soon.

More things happened at the corner.

A CAR, starting from a side street, made a wide veer to avoid Laverock's flying coupe. The veering car
crossed the path of a truck, which promptly skewed across the avenue. Moe slung his cab about,
sideswiped another car that heaved in from somewhere. The cab took a jounce across the curb, heading
the wrong way on a one-way street.

Someone, lurking in a parked car, either saw The Shadow or guessed that his cab was pursuing
Laverock's car, for shots rang out and bullets clanged the car. There were more shots from another
direction, and The Shadow returned the fire.

He was gripping the handle of the cab door, ready to spring out and fade into darkness, from which he
could deal with those lurkers who favored Laverock's getaway, when the chase came roaring up.

Shouts from the drivers of stalled cars, bellows from truckmen were accompanied by pointing gestures,
all toward The Shadow's cab. These people, who hadn't seen Orvill's death, nor recognized Laverock's
flight, were taking it for granted that the police were after the cab from which the gunshots spurted.

In their turn, the new pursuers assumed that Laverock had left his red car and transferred to the cab. A
police car, spouting gunfire, became the spearhead of a drive for the cab, with other cars wheeling in to
flank the hapless vehicle and its occupants.

Dropping low, The Shadow spoke a word to Moe. Crouched behind the wheel, the cabby let ride. He
was zimming down the side street like an arrow, zigzagging from one side to the other, using the curbs as
buffers, as he weaved his way through traffic coming the opposite direction.

Looking back, The Shadow saw the police car threading its way through stalling cars. It was losing
ground in the pursuit, and once Moe reached the next avenue he could begin a twisting course that would
eventually shake all followers off the trail. On that account, The Shadow laughed.

Nevertheless, his mirth was grim.

The Shadow was thinking of Dana Orvill, who had kept a date with death. He was also considering
James Laverock, the man who had escaped. Though The Shadow, at present, was busy shaking
mistaken pursuers from his trail, he was thinking of another trail that he personally intended to follow.