"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 022 - The Creeping Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

made an inquiry of the clerk in charge.

"You have kept my room for me?" he asked. "Room 1414 as I requested when I left yesterday?"

The clerk hesitated a moment as he surveyed the man before him. Then he recognized the sober, quiet
face, with its keen eyes and short-clipped mustache.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Of course we have kept your room, Mr. Fitzroy. Here is the key."

"No messages?"

"I don't think so"тАФthe clerk turned to a stack of envelopesтАФ "FitzroyтАФ Fitzroy -"

"Jerry Fitzroy."

"No messages."

The man with the mustache turned toward the elevator. He walked with briskness and precision. Jerry
Fitzroy was square-shouldered, but slight in build. He carried himself with a challenging air across the
lobby.

THE brief conversation between Fitzroy and the clerk had carried very little information. It had revealed
the simple facts that Jerry Fitzroy had returned to the Metrolite Hotel after a short absence, and would be
quartered in his regular roomтАФNo. 1414. Yet that meager information was of great interest to one man
stationed in the lobby.

Hardly had Jerry Fitzroy disappeared; scarcely had the clerk turned to talk to another guest; before a
young man arose from a chair close to the desk and walked to the telephone booths in another part of
the lobby.

Entering a booth, this man called a number and waited thoughtfully until he heard a low, quiet voice on
the other end of the line. This voice announced itself with two words:

"Burbank speaking."

"This is Vincent," declared the man in the booth. "He is back. Same room."

"Report received. No further instructions."

The distant receiver clicked. The young man left the phone booth and strolled through the lobby out into
the street.

No one could possibly have suspected that this brief episode had taken place. Yet in that brief
conversation, Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow, had relayed to Burbank, another trusted agent, the
fact that Jerry Fitzroy had returned to the Metrolite Hotel.

UP in Room 1414, Jerry Fitzroy was removing his coat and vest. He placed these articles of apparel on
a chair, and sat down at a writing desk in the corner. He stared speculatively through the open French
window, past a little balcony outside. Then he arose and went to his coat.
For a moment his hand rested upon the side pocket of the garment; then, with a slight laugh, Fitzroy