"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 006 - The Death Tower" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Sorry about the delay, sir," he apologized to Chatham. "It's our orders, you know."

HORACE CHATHAM did not reply. As the door closed, he leaned against the wall of the elevator, and
fought to gain composure.

The smooth, rapid speed of the elevator seemed to restore his confidence. When the operator opened
the door at the fortieth floor, he was amazed at the change in Horace Chatham. The man stepped from
the elevator with a springy stride, his expression of worry completely gone.

The visitor stood in the anteroom of an apartment that occupied the entire fortieth floor of the building. A
single door faced the elevators. There was a bell beside the door. Chatham rang it, and the door opened,
released by some mechanical means.

Chatham stepped into a long, dimly-lighted hallway, and the door closed behind him. On the left, the
entire wall was fronted with massive bookcases, filled with rows of bound volumes. On the right were
several armchairs, and a writing table.

Evidently this was a library. But before Horace Chatham had time to make a minute study of his
surroundings, a door opened at the far end of the hallway, and the figure of a tall man stood outlined in
the brighter light of the room beyond.

Horace Chatham stepped forward eagerly. The man in the doorway was none other than his host,
Doctor Albert Palermo. The two men shook hands; then Palermo took his guest inside and motioned to a
comfortable armchair in the corner of the room.

Chatham mopped his forehead as he took his seat. Then he looked up to see Doctor Palermo studying
him with quizzical eyes.

THERE was something about Doctor Palermo that commanded instant attention. His face was smooth,
and sallow. His hair was short-cropped and slightly gray. His eyes, dark and piercing, seemed powerful,
and keenly observant.

It was impossible to estimate the man's age. Chatham knew that he must be past fortyтАФbut beyond that
he could venture no opinion.

Like his guest, Doctor Palermo was garbed in evening clothes. Except for their facial differences, one
might have passed for the other. Yet no one would ever have mistaken the haggard, careworn features of
Horace Chatham for the firm, well-molded countenance of Albert Palermo.

The two men faced each other without speaking.

The room was amazingly silent. None of the uproar of the city's streets reached that apartment, five
hundred feet above the sidewalks of Manhattan. Yet the silence was expressive.

Doctor Palermo seemed to be mentally questioning his visitor, and Horace Chatham seemed incapable of
speech.

Palermo finished his quizzical study. He went to a table, opened a door beneath it, and drew out a
decanter filled with a light-brown liquid. He poured out a small drink, and offered it to Horace Chatham.