"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 279 - The Freak Show Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

is worth exactly one million dollars!"
Dramatically Treft gestured toward the desk, turning as he did. At that
moment, Steve was stepping through the doorway, so his gaze naturally swung in
the same direction. But the sight that froze them both was not the envelope
that
Treft had just mentioned. In fact they didn't see the envelope at all.
What they did see was a leveled revolver, gripped in the fist of a man
whose singular costume jogged Steve's memory with a startling flash.
It was all in one piece, that costume, the attire of a harlequin, made up
of varicolored patchwork. Even the hand that held the gun was covered with a
glove that formed an extension of the costume's sleeve. As for the intruder's
face, it was completely hidden by a tight-fitting hood that came snugly below
the wearer's chin, with only eye-slits as gaps in its patchwork surface.
Through those slits peered eyes that reflected the light with stabs, but
they were but samples of the flashes that The Harlequin would deliver. Without
a
word, without a flicker of his ugly, villainous gaze, The Harlequin swung his
gun toward Milton Treft and fired twice, sending both bullets straight to the
victim's heart.


CHAPTER II

TO Steve Kilroy those two quick shots seemed widely spaced. The time
between them was only that required for a second trigger pull, but the horror
of
the interval gave it intensity. Besides, Steve was watching Treft.
With the first shot, Treft rocked backward; then began a forward topple.
The second bullet caught him before he could collapse and gave him another
spasmodic jerk. To Steve, those involuntary motions were tokens of life, not
death and the wild hope that this was all unreal produced in Steve's mind the
prolonged effect of a waking dream.
Reality struck home when Treft's body curled to the floor and flattened
in
a distorted sprawl that no living man could have duplicated. As motionless as
the bronze-dyed bust that he clutched in his already clammy hands, Steve stood
staring downward at the human evidence of murder, gradually ceasing to wonder
why Treft didn't rise and end the farce.
At least it seemed gradually, but the slow-motion was really the effect
of
Steve's sped-up brain. When he suddenly took Treft's death for granted, Steve
looked for The Harlequin and saw him behind the desk, the gun still smoking in
his hand. Odd, that gray wisp curling from the muzzle, for The Harlequin
hadn't
fired since that second shot which seemed so long ago.
Only it wasn't long ago.
With a surge, Steve's wit returned. All these happenings that were
spreading themselves into the events of hours, shriveled suddenly into brief
seconds. And with that return of reason Steve felt the impulse that if he
dealt