"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 260 - The Money Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"I'll play a hunch, then," added Hawkeye. "I'll say this outfit is finished for the night. Our job is to send
word to the chief, so he can drop in while they're still around." The two moved away to the next corner.
There, Hawkeye kept routine watch for any newcomers, while Cliff entered a poolroom in the next block
and made a call to Burbank. He was just finishing, when he felt an excited tug at his sleeve. Turning, Cliff
stared at a wizened countenance close to his shoulder. It was Hawkeye.

"They've started out again!" informed the spotter in a hoarse whisper. "Tell Burbank, quick! I heard them
say they were going to meet the big-shot over on Fourth Avenue. I don't know what the job is, but The
Shadow can get there almost as soon as they do."

Cliff relayed the news. Beckoning Hawkeye out of the poolroom, he hurried to a parked car. However
soon The Shadow found crime's rendezvous, his agents wouldn't be far behind. Unless crooks finished
their work within mere minutes, they would meet disaster from The Shadow.

Crime was getting breaks this night.

A cab was speeding down Fourth Avenue, with another car, a coupe, coming just behind it. In the cab
was Gregg Emmart, with his suitcase packed with a million dollars and a broken cash box lying on the
seat beside him. The coupe was driven by a hard-faced driver, whose features were but a feeble
imitation of the stony-faced man beside him.

Few men of crime could match the pose of Shep Ficklin, the stony-faced passenger. His face was blunt,
its features rigid. His eyes held the cold glint of mineral rock. Even Shep's lips gave a carved impression,
for they were always open. When he spoke, he grated words through his teeth.

"Here it is," Shep told the driver. "Cut over."

The coupe swooped past the cab and slashed to the right. Amid the shriek of brakes, the cab skidded to
the curb. As it halted, with the coupe nosing past it, Gregg Emmart gave a mad leap to the sidewalk, a
proper action under the circumstances, since it put him out of range of the coupe, which he felt certain
was on his trail.

What Emmart didn't figure was that this spot was designed. The patch of sidewalk where the detective
landed, carrying the suitcase, might just as well have been labeled with a huge X. Hardly did Emmart's
feet hit the cement before gunfire flayed him.

Six men gave it, from doorways all about. They were the murder crew that started out so unexpectedly.
They'd come here by car, outracing Cliff and Hawkeye. Their work was the slaughter of Gregg Emmart,
and they accomplished it in about five seconds flat.

It was Shep Ficklin who did the rest. Bounding from the coupe, he pounced on the suitcase while it was
still sliding along the sidewalk. Scooping up the bag and its precious contents, Shep leaped into the
coupe, beckoning for his men to get to their own car and follow. As they did, they aimed back at the cab
driver, who was coming from his door to stare at Emmart's bullet-riddled body.
All that saved the cabby was the burst of another gun, accompanied by a challenging laugh. Both issued
from another cab that was wheeling into the avenue. Crooks gave up their plan of taking a second victim.
At least, the driver of their car did it for them. He recognized The Shadow's laugh and whipped his sedan
around the corner, taking the entire gun crew along the route where Shep's coupe had gone.

CLUTTERING traffic made it impossible for The Shadow to follow. Again crooks were away, leaving