"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 320 - Reign of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

vise was not particularly hard. He could imagine what one more turn would do.
"Fifty clams!" the man said. "The doc's some kidder, ain't he Larry? A comic. You should be on the
radio, doc."

The other man said, "Yare, and less comedy out of you, Barrels. Cut the barbering and get to work."

"Okay. Look, doc, we'll take the fifty for now. But we'll be back tomorrow night. That'll be Wednesday.
We'll come for our weekly two hundred. You can afford that... you could lay down even more, but we're
nice kids and we dowanna put you out of business. As a matter of fact, you could look at it like you just
got some new partners. We want for you to make lots of dough. Cause then we make lots of dough, get
it?"

"You want two hundred dollars a week?" The doctor thought fast. He would promise the money,
promise to pay off weekly and then, tomorrow night, have the police in hiding, and...

The man with the gun grinned. He said, "Look, I'm a mind reader! You know what Dr. Quack is
thinking, don't you? He's thinking of having a reception committee ready for us tomorrow night."

The other said, "Yeah. They all think of that. Show him your clippings."

A hand went into an inner pocket and came out filled with newspaper items clipped from the papers. The
clippings fell with a soft plop on the center of the doctor's desk.

The doctor forced his unwilling eyes downward. He saw, "Acid Ruins Doctor's Hands." That was the
headline on one item. Another was slugged, "Strange Series of Accidents Dogs Doctors." He ran his eyes
down the finer print and read about three doctors who had been singularly luckless. One had been in an
auto accident and had his arm smashed. Another even more unfortunate had caught his hand in a window
and had all his fingers mashed flat. The third had lost a thumb in an odd accident that had been brought
about by his slipping on some icy pavement.

The doctor looked up from the clippings. There were more, many more of the newspaper items but he
had no desire to read them. He said, and his voice was dull, "I see what you mean. If I call the police you
will know about it and will not be here."

"He's a smart kid, this doc." The man grinned. "He catches on fast. Sure, if you call for help we don't
show... not when the cops are here, anyhow. But we come back for a visit. Don't worry about that, we
come back..."

"I'll have the money for you," the doctor said.

The vise flipped open. His thumb was released. The man who'd been operating the device said, "Don't
think that this won't go back on just as easy as it came off!"

They left then. The two men went out through the door and it closed softly behind them. The doctor was
alone. If it hadn't been for the pressure marks on his thumb, tiny dimples left by the inside of the vise, he
might have doubted his sanity. But as it was, he sat that way for a long time looking at his digit.

Sure, he could afford the money. This time. But for how long? Ten thousand dollars a year it worked out
to. Ten thousand four hundred dollars. But it was either that or... he looked at his thumb again.