"Goodrich, Clifford - The Underground Trail - Av 4910" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodrich Clifford)

over.

More as a matter of habit than anything else, he reached out, tried the doorknob. It turned
silently in his hand and the door moved open.

Fred Fisher's eyes narrowed. The premonition of a moment before returned to raise the hair on
the nape of his neck. For long seconds he stood motionless, ears strained.

Dimiy, so faintly that he thought it might be his imagination, came a sonud like that of a man
breathing, Fred Fisher's hand flashed under his coat, came out with a .38 held firmly in his fist.
His other hand crept around the edge of the door, fumbled for the light switch, found it.

For an instant more he hesitated, long legs tensed for a spring. Then he pressed the switch
down.

The blast came immediately!


FRED FISHER was conscious only of a gigantic rush of air. His tall, lanky frame was picked up
and hurled back across the hallway to crash hard into the opposite side. He went down, stunned, his
ears ringing. Plaster and other debris fell about him. The entire building seemed to be shaking.

When he could get to his feet, he pulled out a flashlight and plunged into the wrecked room.
After one glance he wished he hadn't been so hasty.

Parts of a human body were splattered all over the place.

The hotel had heen quiet. It wasn't quiet now. Women were screaming and men were shouting. From
a distance came the sound of a police-car siren.

Fred Fisher tried not to be sick, and went on with his investigation. He was still pawing
through the crimson-splattered debris when the police arrived. Reporters and photographers were not
far behind tbem.

Detective Sergeant Burns, head of the homicide squad, looked inquiringly at Fisher, raising,
thick eyebrows. "Give!" he said shortly.

Fisher's shoulders shrugged. "His name was Herman Grean, aged about fifty," he said calmly.

Burns' scowl deepened. "That's not what I want to know," he growled.

Fisher's expression did not change. "He was gagged and tied to a chair in the bathroom. Dynamite
was placed under the chair and wired to go off when the light switch was turned on. He couldn't yell
a warning; so he got blown all to hell."

A slow flush crept up Burns' heavy face. Rumbling sounds came from his throat. "You Federal
agents! Smart guys! Try to keep information from the cops--make their job harder. I suppose you were
just walking by, happened to see this particular door, opened it and blew Grean up. You know what I
want. What were you doing here ? What was it you were after that caused somebody to make a human
bomb outta this punk?"