Ghosts of Manhattan by George Mann Read Free Book Online

skyscraper, its rocket booster fading to a dull glow as the propellers engaged. A moment later, the sky was clear once more.

    Donovan shook his head. The world was changing. Already, the airships of his youth were becoming outmoded, archaic, a thing of the past. They still used them, of course. They were faster than steamships, and the new airplanes were only reliable over short distances. But he knew it wouldn't be long before something else came along to replace them. The Cold War would see to that. With the British to spy on, technology was being driven forward at an incredible rate.
    Still, for all this technology, the criminals remained the same. They never changed. They were always after power and money. No matter what tools they had at their disposal, what new schemes they cooked up, a crook was a crook, plain and simple. The Roman was the same. Just another guy who thought the world owed him an existence, and who'd decided to take it regardless, no matter how many people put themselves in his way.
    The Ghost ... He was different, although Donovan had yet to put his finger on the guy's motivation. What was it that inspired someone to don a black suit and head out into the night to stop a bank job? He could see why it made the Commissioner nervous. It showed the police force up for what it really was: a bureaucratic bunch of peacekeepers who didn't truly have the power or the means to put a stop to the organized crime that was infecting the city. He needed to find out who this "Ghost" character was. Then he'd have to decide whether to shake him by the hand or lock him in a cell and throw away the key. If only he co-
    Donovan pulled up short, his previous thought dissolving as he stared, fascinated, at the strange sight before him. There, on the sidewalk, were three dead birds. They were pigeons, he thought, although he couldn't be certain in this light, as their bodies were so contorted and mangled. They could have been rooks. This was the third time he'd encountered a similar sight in different locations around the city, and he looked up inquisitively, trying to ascertain whether they had fallen from the sky this way, or whether they had been caught by some sort of predator and then later abandoned. There was no way of telling.
    Donovan grimaced. His cigarette was burning low, wreathing him in pale blue smoke. He was feeling edgy. He needed to get home.
    He turned to see a long, sleek-looking car purr up to the sidewalk a few feet from where he was standing. It was a new, expensive model; black and pristine, its headlamps gleamed in the darkness and steam curled from the tall exhaust funnels at the rear. The windows were black and glassy, and he couldn't see anyone inside. He eyed it warily, unsure of the significance of its appearance.

    Presently, just as Donovan was considering heading on his way, the front passenger window rolled down and a fat, porcine face peered out. The man was wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a black jacket. He looked at Donovan with a haughty amusement. "Hey, Donovan. There's a man here who'd like to speak with you." He nodded at someone unseen in the back seat and the rear door nearest the curb clicked open, swinging out toward him.
    Donovan peered inside the vehicle, but all he could see was shadows. He cleared his throat. "I'm busy." He flicked his cigarette butt at the wall and started slowly on his way. He knew it was dangerous to turn his back on these people-he might easily end up with a bullet in it-but he knew also that getting inside that car would be an even more reckless pursuit. The police did not parley with the mob.
    Keeping his head down, Donovan picked up his pace. He did not look back at the car. He made it about fifty yards before he became aware of the slow hissing sound of the vehicle as it reversed along the curb, and a moment later it pulled alongside him, creeping slowly so as to keep pace with him as he walked.
    Donovan glanced over. The rear door was still hanging