Dictator of Crime by Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson

Author:Maxwell Grant & Walter Gibson [Grant, Maxwell & Gibson, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Espionage, Fiction, Thrillers
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1941-10-18T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII. THE COURSE AHEAD

FRIENDS of The Shadow!

Such, by rights, should be the dwellers in this mansion; instead, they were proving the deadliest of foes. Only a Spanish girl's rigid adherence to custom was prolonging The Shadow's slim opportunity to live.

The senorita preferred that the servants should give death to the cloaked intruder, since it was their appointed task. Her stern gaze assured The Shadow that no ten-second argument could save him.

Perhaps the girl expected a voluble plea in Spanish; she was certainly steeled to ignore it. Nevertheless, The Shadow spoke.

His words were in English. That made no difference. A plea in any language would be useless. However, The Shadow did not plead.

"Good evening, Senorita Peridor," he said. "I mistook your servants for Castenago's men. I bring a message from a certain friend."

The Shadow took just ten seconds for that speech, and his emphasis upon the word "friend" carried just the needed touch. The widening of the girl's eyes, the slight parting of her lips, told that her gun hand had relaxed.

Already, the servants were beginning a new lunge; there wasn't time for time girl to call to them, even had she chosen. It was The Shadow who supplied the needed action.

He jabbed his left hand for the girl's gun, caught it, hand and all, finishing with a twist as he lurched her through the curtains. The revolver clattered away and The Shadow's speeding grip slid to the senorita's wrist, whirling her full about.

The Shadow had her safety in mind, along with his own, for in turning her as a human shield, he carried her beyond the reach of the driving machetes.

The servants tried to flank The Shadow - too late, for he was through the doorway, where they couldn't reach him except by tearing the girl from his grasp. They never went through with such a plan, for by then, their attack was fully balked. The Shadow's right hand had pulled a gun from beneath his cloak.

He hadn't actually drawn the automatic; he'd done something even swifter. The holstered gun was pointed toward the hallway at the time of his grab, and he wheeled his body away from it.

Practically where it was, the .45 was pointing across the shoulder of the dark-eyed senorita, whose efforts to break from The Shadow's grasp were nudging the weapon from left to right, so that it confronted each of the servants in successive turn!

"From a certain friend," repeated The Shadow, in the girl's ear, "named Colin Nayre."

"You've seen Colin?"

"Yes. He is still alive -"

As The Shadow paused, his eyes still on the servants, he had to move the gun of his own accord. The girl's struggle had become a tremble, which ended only when The Shadow added:

"And safe."

The girl's happy sigh was drowned by the clash of machetes against the tile. The servants had recognized the futility of further struggle against The Shadow.

Relaxing his hold upon the girl, The Shadow let her turn to speak to them. They bowed when she used the term "amigo" to define The Shadow as being a friend.

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