"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 007 - The Silent Seven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"He does not answer, sir," said Oscar.

WILLIS went up the stairway, two steps at a time. The others followed and found the secretary listening
at the closed door of the room.

Willis knocked twice. There was no response.

"You're sure he's in there, Oscar?"

The serving man nodded.

"Something has happened, then. What shall we do?"

Doctor. Lukens settled the question.
"Break through the door," he ordered. Paget sprang to action. With surprising strength, he flung his body
against the door but it did not yield. Oscar hurried away and returned with a heavy hammer.

Paget seized the tool and directed a series of well-aimed blows upon the lock. He battered the metal with
no result. Then, changing his tactics, he drove the hammer through the wooden panel above the lock.
Reaching through the opening that he had made, Paget released the lock from the inside and the door
swung open.

Willis, unable to restrain himself, pushed the others aside as he dashed into the room.

Henry Marchand was seated in a chair before his desk. His head and shoulders rested on the top of the
desk. His left hand was outstretched, with widespread fingers. His right arm lay limp at his side.

A shallow drawer was opened in the desk, just beneath the top. In it lay a sealed envelope.

Doctor Lukens bent over the huddled form of Henry Marchand. The others stepped back.

Willis, with wild, staring eyes, gazed about the room, as though inspecting the heavily-shuttered windows.
Paget stood silently by, his cigarette holder in his hand.

The physician raised his head and turned to the waiting group. He scarcely seemed to see them or to
observe their apprehension. His lips quivered as though he wished to speak but could not utter words.

Then, suddenly, he regained his voice and spoke. Slowly uttered, his words carried the grief of a friend
mingled with the announcement of the professional physician.

"Henry Marchand is dead!"

CHAPTER II. THE HOLLOW NEEDLE
THE body of Henry Marchand had been removed, otherwise the room was the same. Its antiquated
lights still cast their ghoulish gleam upon the scene.

Beyond the door through which the four men had forced their way, a dim hall light revealed a short,
dark-visaged man who seemed to be awaiting some one. This was Detective Joe Cardona, of the New
York police.