"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 027 - The Silent Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"You can tell him that I am here?"

"No, I am afraid not. He is going over papers at present; and he will notify us as soon as he is free."

Hat in hand, but with coat still on his shoulders, the tall visitor had moved easily across the room. He was
facing the door that barred the way to Sartain's studio.

As he turned, his keen eyes spotted the bell against the wall. They also saw the telephone. Then they
were turned toward the secretary.

In one sweeping glance, this person had noted the facts that so greatly concerned Brooks; but the false
butler had not fully realized its keenness.

"I must wait, then," remarked the visitor, with a placid smile. "Very well, I shall do so. Admirable place
that Mr. Sartain has here. Excellent view."
He was strolling across the room as he spoke. He stopped by a pair of French doors that led out to a
veranda. With an easy, natural gesture, he turned the knob and glanced out into the night, toward the
twinkling lights of Manhattan.

"Quite all right?" he questioned.

"To step outside?" responded Hunnefield. "Certainly, Mr. Broderick. I shall call you when we hear from
Mr. Sartain, unless you come in before that."

"A delightful breeze," observed the tall man quietly. "Thank you for your courtesy."

He stepped to the veranda as he finished the sentence, leaving the door half opened behind him.
Hunnefield dropped back into his chair. Brooks smiled and went about trivial duties. The presence of the
visitor had made the false butler feel ill at ease. He was just as glad that Broderick had stepped out upon
the veranda.

The glance of the keen eyes toward the telephone and the bellтАФit still disturbed Brooks. But with
Broderick temporarily out of sight, the butler was glad that the visitor had come. He remained just within
the French window, occasionally speaking to Hunnefield. Broderick would prove useful, perhaps, later
this evening. He, like the secretary, would be a good witness to the unfortunate accident that was
destined to befall Alfred Sartain.

But Brooks did not actually step out to the veranda himself. He merely took it for granted that Howard
Broderick was still there. Hence he did not see the strange metamorphosis that occurred beyond the
French window.

THE man who had introduced himself as Howard Broderick had carried his brief case, absent-mindedly
tucked beneath his arm. Alone, in the darkness, he became suddenly busy with the compact satchel.
Stooping, he opened it by the rail of the veranda. Out came objects, invisible in the gloom.

The gray hat dropped from the head that wore it. The light overcoat dropped from arms and shoulders.
Other garments took their place. A long black cloak, a dark, broad-brimmed slouch hatтАФthese formed
Howard Broderick's new attire. The other garments went quickly into the brief case, which deft hands
deposited against the wall of the penthouse.