Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 166 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

CHAPTER XI

THE CORSAIR CREW

IT was fortunate for Harry Vincent, that he had lost his recent concern regarding The Shadow's safety. Confident that his chief was in back of recent moves, Harry was nerved for anything. He needed to be.

Harry's ratty guide urged him through the door at the back of the Maritime

Cafe. Coming through himself, the fellow closed it and shoved a bolt. That put them in a tiny room, completely dark. A good place for a knife thrust in the ribs, if the wharf rat chose.

The man groped past Harry, found a door in the opposite wall. He knocked, at the same time clutching Harry's arm and shoving him forward. The door was yanked inward from the other side, bringing a jabber of raucous voices along with a vast cloud of cigarette smoke.

Harry was shoved into the light, to meet the none-too-pleasant eyes of a dozen men who occupied the hidden rendezvous. Conversation stopped abruptly, as

Harry's conductor stepped in beside him.

In all his encounters with thugs, Harry had never met such an ugly-looking

mob. Each member of that outfit looked capable of murder; everyone had a hard glare that carried malice along with suspicion. They were like a pack of wolves; let one start a yelp, the lot would leap upon their prey.

For fangs, they had weapons, as assorted as themselves. Harry saw pockets that had the bulge of guns; knife hilts poking out from belts. One thug was slapping a blackjack against his open palm as though testing it, in case he had

to use it on Harry's skull.

The wharf rat gave a nudge of his thumb toward Harry.

"This guy," he said, "is Vincent."

"H'ar'ya!" gruffed Harry to the mob. Then, picking an empty chair by the wall, he sat down in it. Once settled, he took a slow look around the group.

Tilting his chair back, he let the handle of a .45 shift over from his hip.

The tough in the next chair pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Harry a smoke.

It wasn't until his eyes became accustomed to smoke-hazy atmosphere, that Harry saw a face he knew. He had missed the man at first glance, because the fellow was placed inconspicuously in a corner. But when Harry happened to look

his way, the man thrust a pair of hunched shoulders forward and poked a crafty,

wizened face into sight.

That man was Hawkeye, another of The Shadow's underworld agents.

Hawkeye, it seemed, wasn't supposed to know Harry; which meant that they must have been recruited separately. The most likely man behind that little job

would be Cliff Marsland.

A big-shouldered hoodlum, who answered to the name of Pike, was busy checking noses. Pike had a squint-eyed manner that might have been caused by the cigarette smoke; but Harry vaguely remembered having seen him somewhere before. Finding that the whole mob was assembled, Pike started the procession out through a rear door.

It was dusk along the waterfront, but the thugs were careful not to cross the street in a crowd. They went singly, or in pairs; Harry chose the latter arrangement.

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